《The Empty Mirror》 Chapter 1: Heretic The Empty Mirror Emptying History - Kenosis Chapter 1: Heretic I am plunged into the unfathomable depths of the infernal abyss, trapped in a maelstrom of indescribable despair and terror. This initial statement, though vague in nature, is the only conclusion I have been able to arrive at after an arduous process of introspection and analysis. Allow me, therefore, to go into greater skill and detail in describing this grotesque and disturbing situation. In this gloomy and macabre enclosure, time fades into an uncertain haze, distorting my perception to unsuspected limits. It may be that only a handful of minutes have passed since my unfortunate arrival in this abyss, or perhaps centuries, millennia or eons have passed without my mind being able to fully grasp it. I would even dare to consider the terrifying possibility that I have always been trapped in this twisted and repulsive dimension, though such a thought challenges the very foundations of sanity and shakes even the darkest corners of my being. I vehemently reject such a notion as soon as it arises in my mind, for it contradicts the very laws of the universe and threatens to drag me into an even deeper abyss of madness. My senses, in this nightmarish abode, are plunged into an unprecedented spiral of uncertainty and unease. My eyes, emissaries of vision, seem to have been robbed of their power of contemplation, plunging into an impenetrable blackness where neither a glimmer of light nor a shadow in form manages to manifest itself. But it may also be that there is nothing in this sinister realm worth seeing, where unspeakable horrors lurk in the deepest shadows, waiting for the right moment to unleash their malevolence. Or is the absence of sound the only truth that prevails in this dimension, where voices are silenced and echoes fade into the void, leaving only the faint incessant murmur of my own breathing and the anguished beating of my heart? The sense of smell, that fragrant compass that guides us through the world, has been cruelly torn from me. There is no trace of scent in the foul air I inhale, but is it that there is truly nothing to be smelled in this corner of perdition, or is it that the smells themselves are corrupted into putrid and repugnant essences that hide from my senses, emerging only to assault my consciousness with their perverse vileness? There seems to be nothing in this existence that I can taste, as if the lack of flavour has invaded every corner of my being. My sense of touch feels disorientated and abnormal, provoking strange and unfamiliar sensations. Perception of reality varies from person to person, and often the search for truth seems unattainable for each of us. My own reflection escapes me, I can only glimpse it in my mind, creating a mental image of myself. I feel trapped, bound hand and foot, vulnerable and naked, with heavy chains that oppress my body. A veil covers my eyes and much of my face, plunging me into oppressive darkness. The only certainty I have is that I am exhausted and disoriented, lost in a maze of confusion. A change has occurred, an alteration in my existence, and now something else has infiltrated my reality. My body experiences an absolute coldness, but even that description falls short. I am gripped by an icy cold, as if I have been buried under a deep, penetrating layer of ice that squeezes my ribs, causing slow, painful agony. My skin tears with extreme ease, and I can feel my blood flowing from the wounds, but even before it has time to flow, it freezes, solidifying in an instant. I don''t know if I really hear it or if it is just a manifestation of my own imagination, but a howl echoes in my ears, a pitiful wail, as if many are sobbing simultaneously. A lump forms in my throat, but the suffering I experience does not allow me to care about others, I can only focus on my own agony. Suddenly, a current of air so violent that it cuts pieces of my own flesh bursts into space. It is as if some kind of inhuman and sinister ripple has come to life, unleashing a piercing wind that hurts everything in its path. And with that, the unsuspected abyss of perpetual cold disappears completely, fading into nothingness. Now, it lingers only in my memories, a memory that terrifies and torments me in equal measure. I wonder if that icy abyss was in fact an eternally frozen existence, but I lack clear answers. I can only draw conclusions based on the sensations I have experienced. What disturbs me the most, however, is the thought of the entity that could have caused that ominous and terrifying swaying. What unfathomable and unknown being possessed enough power to break the icy embrace in an instant? But I should not allow such thoughts to consume me, for they only lead to a spiral of dread and madness that threatens to devour my sanity completely... In an instant, once again my surroundings underwent an abrupt transformation that shook my body to its core. The feeling of being in an empty place, devoid of any hint of life, or in an icy hell, vanished. Instead, I was swept along by a powerful current that pushed me mercilessly into the abyssal depths. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. It was as if a vast ocean had taken hold of me, imprisoning me in its viscous, sticky embrace. My senses, altered and confused, struggled to understand the nature of the substance enveloping me. Although reasoning dictated that it was clear water, its properties were unsettling, a mixture of adhesive and jelly. I was unable to define it exactly, but in some macabre way, it gave me a strange comfort. As I descended into the unfathomable depths of that fictitious sea, my skin tore with devastating ferocity. It was as if every cell of my body became as fragile as a sheet of paper fading in the wind. The source of this grotesque damage remained in the dark, hidden from my eyes, though I suspected that my body was bleeding profusely, plunging me into incomprehensible agony. Totally immersed in the viscous substance that enveloped me completely, I felt it greedily pushing itself into my mouth, my nose and even my ears. Its unrelenting pressure was wreaking excruciating havoc on my throat and internal organs. Every desperate attempt to breathe resulted in more liquid pouring in, mercilessly. I was drowning in my own despair, suffocated by the malevolent substance. The pain, an unbearable torture, penetrated to the innermost recesses of my being. It was as if innumerable needles were constantly being driven into my body from the inside. My muscles twisted and trembled, unable to withstand the suffocating pressure of the liquid surrounding them. My attempts to free myself from this nightmare became more and more frantic, but my efforts were in vain. I was trapped in this torment, condemned to an existence of indescribable agony and suffering. Every beat of my heart became a lash of torment, announcing my approaching death. At this point, any semblance of rationality and sanity had completely vanished. I was in a borderline state, on the verge of total annihilation. My being, reduced to a violent, formless chaos, was crumbling into hopeless darkness. In a fleeting, grim instant, the seams of my reality were mercilessly torn apart, opening me into a nightmarish abyss. The agonising clamour of multiple tortured voices and macabre laughter echoed in my ears, a hellish chorus repeating relentlessly, devouring my sanity and becoming the only discernible symphony on that dreadful stage. My cries of anguish and my desperate contortions were useless, mere desperate gestures of a puppet in the hands of the unknown. The oppressive silence devoured my so-called words, depriving me of any form of communication. Even if I could have screamed, there was no one present to hear my wrenching agony. The scene unfolding before my eyes was a dreadful and grotesque sight, an abomination that defied all human logic and plunged my soul into an abyss of horror. I would have preferred death a thousand times over to endure this endless suffering, but the dark designs denied me such a release. The sins I had committed in life had condemned me to this curse, a cruel and deserved punishment. The very notion of justice became a twisted enigma in my mind. Was this what I deserved? I was immersed in cyclical torment and doubted whether this was the true reflection of justice. Again and again, pain seized me, an inscrutable substance seeping through my nostrils, ears and mouth, tearing my throat and shredding my internal organs. The suffocating oppression and the sensation of suffocation coiled around me like a slippery, agonising embrace, inflicting inhuman, excruciating pain. It was as if a tiny tidal wave of suckers were penetrating every nook and cranny of my being, unleashing an intense onslaught that reached deep into my innermost intrinsic realm, into my innermost entity and reverberating in every fibre of my soul. My muscles twisted and trembled under the pressure of this unknown substance, while my mind was assaulted by the screams and laughter of a diabolical chorus, multiple twisted souls rejoicing in my torment. In vain I struggled to escape this abysmal nightmare. But again and again, my attempts faded, throwing me back onto the dark path I had set out on. How was it possible to be trapped in this eternal cycle of suffering? Death seemed a sweet promise in comparison to this perpetual existence of pain. Yet final rest was denied me, for my existence had been condemned to immortality. And in a flash of lucidity, I remembered the curse that afflicted me. My life stretched beyond known limits, a soul perpetually trapped in the icy embrace of this indescribable nightmare. A heart-rending sigh escaped my lips, a mixture of despair and longing. Perplexity grips me as I contemplate the disturbing reality unfolding before my eyes. How is it possible that this whirlwind of atrocities has taken shape? I should have succumbed before completing such a macabre process. Yet here I am, trapped in an abominable cycle that repeats itself endlessly. My mind is tormented with unanswered questions. Death, as elusive as a spectre, seems to mock my existence. Why don''t I die? What is the purpose of this eternal repetition? Is there some hidden meaning in this cruel game of fate? My memories, shrouded in a veil of darkness, begin to surface again. I am aware of my immortality, a curse that condemns me to endless agony. Each time the process comes to an end, my body regenerates at an astonishing speed, far surpassing any attempt at destruction. This regenerative capacity, while allowing me to withstand pain and continue to exist, becomes a condemnation. A torment both physical and mental grips me, eating away at my sanity and feeding the despair that consumes me. I am a vampire, a creature thirsty for human blood. I am immersed in a scarlet ocean that emanates a foul and nauseating odour. Bits of flesh and bones float around me, some still throbbing as if trying to escape their ghastly prison. The air is saturated with death and decay, as scavenging insects buzz frantically, enjoying the grotesque festivity. Consciousness fades, submerged in the depths of this endless nightmare. However, the cycle of horrors comes to an end. The sea of blood recedes without a trace, leaving me on a slick, smooth surface. At last, I can touch something tangible, though its susceptibility reminds me that it could all collapse at any moment. I settle into this uneven support, seeking a pause to mentally recover from the atrocities I have just witnessed. The stillness is fleeting, and I know that horror lurks in the shadows, waiting for its chance to envelop me once again in its macabre embrace. But for now, I give myself permission to breathe, to try to recompose my battered sanity in this brief respite. Existence unfolds like an endless labyrinth, full of unfathomable terrors and indescribable suffering. I anxiously await the next chapter of my torment, aware that I am doomed to wander in eternal darkness, dragging the weight of my immortality and paying too high a price for the eternal life I never desired. The physical transfiguration, the result of my sinister vampiric regeneration, has been consummated in all its grotesque magnitude. A body reconstituted at the expense of my humanity, but condemned to inhabit an existence deprived of visual perception and the ability to communicate. The terrified cries and laughter that once haunted my mind have ceased, as my sanity struggles to settle into the rubble of my consciousness. Yet utter blackness continues to envelop me, denying me any glimmer of light or hope. Chapter 2: Bread, cheese and wine The Empty Mirror Chapter 2: Bread, cheese and wine After a diffuse and disturbing period, which I can barely quantify, a disturbing disturbance manifests itself. A subtle whisper, a fleeting echo, seeps into the abyss of silence. A female voice, barely audible, emerges from the folds of darkness, intoning unintelligible words. Suddenly, the voice transforms into a cry, a lamentation that wavers between melancholy and haunting charm. My instincts sharpen and I rise hastily, thirsty to discover the source of this singular sobbing. It seems to emanate from afar, shrouded in a haze of unfathomable mystery. The veil that hitherto obscured my vision seems to vanish, though before my eyes catch the slightest glimpse, I am confronted with the cruel reality of my empty sockets. Eyes, once witnesses to the world, have been snatched away by the voracity of eternal night. My fingers, in a state of bewilderment, explore my face, only to find a viscous, metallic liquid evaporating rapidly. Blood, silent witness to my desolation. The abyss where my eyes used to dwell lies. Anguish takes hold of me. Although my vampiric regeneration is supposed to be more impetuous and efficient, it is unable to restore what has been lost. An unbearable pain, piercing and constant, spreads through my surrounding muscles and bones. I feel the crushing pressure in the place that once housed my eyes. Disorientation and vulnerability take over, dragging me into the abyss of despair. Suddenly, the same voice that has accompanied me is present once more, whispering clearly in a low tone: "You have been saved". Its pronunciation seems to change subtly. Saved? Me? A whirlwind of questions assails my mind, but before I can articulate an answer, the creak of an ancient wooden door slowly opening breaks the silence. A dazzling light slips through the shadows, defying my lack of eyes... Finally, I have awoken from my long, deep sleep. Oppressive darkness envelops the room as my mind struggles to adapt to the reality around meˇ­ I awoke from a deep slumber, emerging from the hooves of a sleep that seemed to have imprisoned me for centuries. And let me be clear at the outset: when I say that upon opening my eyes, my spirit emerged from lethargy with the delicacy of those who have savoured a prolonged and opulent repose, I am not expressing a fraudulent rhetorical meaning. The darkness that enveloped me had been as real as the beating of my own heart, but now I was faced with the disturbing doubt as to whether I was still a living entity. As my mind clung to reality, the nagging pain that had accompanied me from the slumber became even more entrenched in my consciousness. It was a pain so tangible, so visceral, that it was impossible to deny its existence. The echoes of those dark torments resonated in every fibre of my being, reminding me that my existence was a twisted tangle of mysteries and horrors. I must admit, without hesitation, that I am a vampire. My condition, with all its sinister and supernatural implications, is undeniably real. I am a creature of the night, a being condemned to eternity and nourished by the existence of the living. But my memory, that fragile thread that connects my present to a distant past, fades into the deepest shadows. Memories of my life before I was cast into this castle of doom fade like morning mists, leaving me in the gloom of uncertainty. It is said that this castle was once the home of an old aristocrat, a man who abandoned his domain in the face of the relentless changes of time and the evolution of society. The vagaries of progress left him behind, a faded echo in the dusty corridors of history. But what happened to the man, whether he met his final fate or simply faded into the shadows, is a mystery that remains unanswered. The castle now lies silent, its grey, crumbling walls concealing secrets that only the whispering of the night wind can glimpse. It is amazing how time and isolation have woven their web around this place. The inhabitants of the nearby villages, shrouded in the veil of collective amnesia, have completely forgotten the existence of this sinister bastion. The castle is far from any vestige of civilisation, lost in a forgotten wasteland. Its modest size and remote location suggest that it may have been conceived for a darker and more sinister purpose, destined to disappear from the memory of those who dared to know it. I, a prisoner in this cursed castle, find myself trapped in a sinister dance of intertwined destinies. Over endless centuries, I have succumbed to the insatiable need to spill human blood for nourishment. My existence has been haunted by those who have sought to end my life, but in their desperate quest they have only sealed their fate and left their loved ones abandoned to their fate. I cannot blame them, their fight was about protecting their own and gaining a victory that, in the end, seemed to be only a pipe dream. Even I do not know the way to my own annihilation. I have tried every method imaginable, or at least almost every method. The vampiric power that consumes me is immutable and seems indestructible. However, there are vulnerabilities that can inflict harm or weaken me, such as contact with silver or other variables in particular. I have even experimented with abstinence, forgoing the ingestion of blood in the hope of succumbing to starvation, but I have only managed to weaken myself slightly, without achieving the desired end result. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. It is not that I need to feed, but that my nature is subject to an indomitable compulsion unknown to me. Though I have exhausted all possibilities to end my existence, the vampiric dominance remains inexorable and dominant. I find no satisfaction in animal blood, for it lacks what it demands and its taste resembles dung on my palate. For a long time, I have indulged in the vileness of cutting down human lives and satiating my hunger with their blood and flesh. I do not care for the life of any other creature, not even that of animals. I admit without pride that I have even annihilated entire herds in my insatiable voracity. My actions have been the direct and indirect cause of the death of thousands, for by depriving them of supplies and means of subsistence, I have condemned them to an agonising death by starvation. Fruits, vegetables and other foods are tasteless to me, tasting only of decay, and I can only satisfy my appetite with human beings. Human blood has become an exquisite delicacy, and for eons I have wandered through different nations, killing and devouring people, and regardless of whether they were alive or dead I ate them without disdain. While I can feed on corpses, they must be incredibly fresh, and yet their taste is nowhere near that of a living human. On countless occasions, I have consumed them while they were still alive and conscious, tearing them apart with my limbs and abusing my superiority in abominable ways. There is no cause for pride in this. My tally of victims is in the thousands, including soldiers who tried to hunt me down, but to no avail, falling to their own doom. During a life filled with the suffering of others, there came a false self-reproach, that moment when an insignificant event triggered a radical metamorphosis. It is amazing how something so small can completely alter our existence and force us to reflect on our past actions. But in reality, the event was not as insignificant as it appeared. The final impact needed to shatter an already tarnished glass, to unleash a maelstrom of madness and desolation disguised as a tiny execution with the command to unleash the whole. But before reaching that point, a series of events took place, the magnitude and details of which do not matter. Each of them carries a different weight on our shoulders. For me, however, that notion has faded. It has lost its primordial essence. Now, I am immersed in a perpetual state of rambling, where words flow aimlessly, swept along by the whirlwind of my mind. Sanity has left its abode and I have become a spectre without common sense. I wonder to what extent it is required to be mentally unbalanced and whether common sense is truly beneficial. In this castle, my eternal prison, I occasionally engage in conversation with its owner, a proud and reserved man who exudes an overwhelming presence without needing to be physically imposing or possess a stern voice. Such are the aristocrats, a social class that masters the dark secrets of its circles, even if they are kept hidden among its members. The lord of the castle has two small children who wander and play in its vast corridors, its rooms and, of course, its garden. It is almost inevitable to come across them if one ventures into the grounds. These little ones are being trained by their older brother, a man approaching adulthood. In the castle, they call him the big brother. He teaches them the duties and responsibilities of belonging to the high aristocracy. I do not know what these duties are, as I have never been part of the aristocracy nor have I ever been associated with it. Nor have I witnessed the obligations to which they are subjected. I watch them from afar, a mere lonely spectator on the fringes of their world, as the veil of darkness slowly spreads over my being. Despite the constant reprimands, there is undeniably an implicit courage in their words. Like the child of an implacable father, he is caught up in the need to keep his distance and comply exhaustively with the expectations of his parent, his family and, of course, society at large. His self-reinforcing demands are evident. I have also heard whispers of an engagement. His betrothed, of awe-inspiring beauty and noble lineage, stands like a trophy in his gaze. He appears to agree, but who can tell what lurks in the abysses of another''s mind. As for the mother, I hardly know that she wanders from place to place unmoved by the welfare of her own lineage. This is one of the elderly aristocrat''s chief complaints when our talks turn dark, which, from my perspective, is a macabre irony, for I doubt he does not emulate such behaviour, fluctuating from one corner to another and neglecting his own. But it is not for me, a mere spectator, to point out such paradoxes. The long-lived man always whispers that his consort is a real liability, a stigma that sullies his reputation and causes him innumerable problems. He has not revealed in detail what kind of trouble, and I, respectful of his mystery, have not insisted on knowing the details. He maintains his reserve, or at least the fa?ade he projects to society demands it. Nevertheless, in his moments of confidence, he declares his love for his wife. However, these words are just that, mere words, and the sincerity of such statements vanishes in the haze of uncertainty. He is always proud of his offspring, seeing in him a promise of future glories. I am pleased to hear it, for his son is a tormented being in desperate search of paternal approval. But that happiness does not often show in his features, as his father claims that he does not offer such comments in order to boost his current efforts, but with the intention of demanding even more from him. Moreover, he proclaims that his other offspring will be as magnificent as he is, although in reality he is completely unaware of how to relate or interact with them at all, as he believes he is past the stage of chasing after infants who wander endlessly from place to place. He conveyed to me the impression that perhaps his wife experiences similar feelings to his own in relation to his younger children. The dynamic between his eldest son and his wife seems to be somewhat convoluted, at least that is what is apparent at first glance. It is surprising that this old man reserves his trust exclusively for me, being the only one with whom he allows himself to have a genuine dialogue. I regret, however, that I do not know his name, which adds a tinge of misrepresentation to our coexistence. My curiosity to unravel the mysteries of this family is growing exponentially, as they seem to be as detached from my own reality as they are from each other. However, I must confess that I am limited in my ability to acquire more information about them. It is important to stress that this perception I have could be merely the fruit of one of my recurrent hallucinations, as has happened on previous occasions. Nevertheless, I consider it plausible that in the near future new experiences will unfold and await to be unveiled. Chapter 3: Withered blood The Empty Mirror Chapter 3: Withered blood However, just as I was immersed in this recapitulation, a disturbing interruption came in the form of creeping footsteps approaching. How could this be possible? There is no one else occupying this space, apart from myself; could it be another hallucination playing with my perception? Undoubtedly, this hypothesis stands out as the most plausible. But before I had time to react properly, there was a knock at the door. A female voice, full of trembling, asked from the other side: "Hello? Strangely, that voice seemed to evoke the young woman from my earlier dreams, although I sensed a different nuance in her tone, which I found unsettling. Unable to articulate a response to my surprise, I opted for silence. The person on the other side of the door attempted to peek inside, opening it slightly, and perceiving nothing out of the ordinary, ventured timidly in. I stood motionless in the corner of the room, watching carefully and waiting for the next sway. The situation was becoming more and more enigmatic and unsettling, yet I was compelled to remain calm and proceed with caution. Who could this person be and what could be his intentions? And, above all, how had he managed to get here? A latent premonition told me that the answers would soon be revealed. And then, with a firm and determined step, the enigmatic figure crossed the threshold of the door, entering the room completelyˇ­ At the entrance, fully immersing... Or rather, delving into a melodrama? She, a blooming dawn rose, delicate and proud, Oh yes, a delicate rose, how original! Her snowy strands gracefully fluttering in the wind, Adorn her black eyes, gleaming stars, Gleaming stars! I''m about to faint with excitement. Nose and lips traced by a divine brush. Divine brush... they probably sell that paint at the bazaar. Her dress, a dance of black and white, Someone call the ballet dancers! In a swirl of contrasts and nuances, A whirlwind of colors for our enraptured eyes. Outlining her figure in shadows and profiles, I love it when shadows create portraits, how ingenious! Her shoes, subtle in their sound. Watch out for those heels, you''ll wake everyone up. Even if her attire is rags, Oh yes, those luxurious high-fashion rags! They radiate her grace and elegance, Like the sun on the horizon of blushes, Does anyone know if blushes are in fashion this year? Her cheerful, restless, and joyful demeanor, I wonder what funny joke she just heard. She radiates an inexhaustible inner strength. Inner strength! She must be friends with the Jedi. Her presence is a poem in motion, Oh yes, this poem is moving so much that I might get dizzy. A corporeal and profound work of art, Enchanting with its sweetness and beauty, Enchant, sweetness, beauty... it seems someone abused the thesaurus. Inspiring us to find our own light. Of course, why not! The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. My head throbs with a painful, tangled affliction... I am in an unknown place, enveloped in an ominous, lurking gloom. Every fibre of my being is lacerated, as if I have been subjected to a macabre ordeal. With an effort, I rise and take a few faltering steps, yet my legs refuse to obey me, trembling incessantly. A shiver snakes down my spine, as fear takes deep root in my being. I prostrate myself on my knees on the icy ground, overwhelmed by an insurmountable hopelessness. The furrows of tears emanate from my eyes, nourishing the grief that grips my being.... For what reason? My figure contorts as I cling to my own person, feeling abandoned in the midst of abysmal blackness. Fear consumes me to such an extent that I succumb completely. I remain immersed in the depths of this overwhelming abyss, struggling to restore my serenity and find some glimmer of lucidity in this abode of unspeakable horrors. After a few interminable minutes, with the impetus of a dazzling resolve, I opt to take a viable tenacity. I erect myself, still trembling, but with an unshakable firmness, ready to face the unknowable. Memory fades into the recesses of my mind, like a thick, sinister mist. I cannot recall my true identity, not even the faces of those who bore me... Disorientation looms overwhelmingly over me, plunging me into a vortex of uncertainty. Yet in the midst of this primordial chaos, one word manages to insinuate itself into the recesses of my consciousness: "Giselle". Its meaning escapes my comprehension, but it resonates within me with an unwavering force. That name, devoid of tangible evidence, stands as the only unquestionable truth in this intricate labyrinth of shadows. I am Giselle... In the shadows that envelop me, that is the only thing I can say with certainty, as I traverse the abysses of amnesia and strive to unravel the mysteries that hide my true self. My vision falls on the image reflected in a nearby puddle, somewhat muddy, barely perceptible. My eyes meet the reflection of silver hair, an anomaly that defies rationality. I have never witnessed such a phenomenon before, except in the elderly in their final twilight... However, I am not an old man, I know that with absolute clarity. Although this drastic transformation overwhelms me with awe, I cannot allow it to obstruct my path. Defying the limits of understanding, I will pursue my path without hesitation. Scanning my attire, a distinguished dress, in black, boasts an elegance that slips into decadence, with intricate details such as lace and ruffles, yet its present state betrays signs of wear and tear that defy primeval opulence. However, its present state betrays signs of wear and tear that defy primal opulence, in every thread, I make out rips, scattered all over its face. Was I the victim of misfortune? The questioning takes possession of my thoughts, although I am aware that this is not the right moment to unravel the veiled enigmas. My appearance lies dishevelled, my hair in disarray, my dress in tatters, mute witnesses of an impenetrable history. Moreover, my dermis bears tiny lacerations, abrasions that reveal themselves to the naked eye and leave their mark on my being. Although not serious, they add a tinge of violence to my condition. However, these minor wounds will not be enough to slow me down. With unwavering resolve, I will continue on my path. In the aftermath of the preceding events, I was compelled to scrutinise my surroundings closely, expanding my attention beyond the limits of my being. Night was hovering over the landscape, enveloping it in its dark and mysterious cloak. To discern the exact hour that accompanied me, I turned my eyes towards the moon, my guide in the shady depths. I beheld its gibbous crescent phase, a languid gleam illuminating the firmament from its celestial throne in the east, yet it had not yet reached its zenithal apogee. With reverence and a hint of trepidation, I immersed myself in the contemplation of that nocturnal radiance, which seemed to hold indecipherable secrets beneath its silvery glow. In spite of the nimbus that covered the firmament, the moon managed to project its glow, transgressing with some skill the dark veil that hovered over me. The horizon was illuminated by a faint clarity, just enough to discern the nuances within the scope of my vision. I am not a learned scholar in this discipline, but using this reference, I deduced that the celestial clock pointed to a time zone between 2 and 4 a.m. Although my estimate lacked absolute precision, it implied a discernible change in the nocturnal distortion that enveloped me. My steps hurried with haste, as the imposing moon poured its faint glow over my head. Although its brightness did not reach its dazzling intensity and the gloom persisted, I clung to this glimmer of illumination. I consoled myself by conjecturing about the most dire possible scenarios: a moon hidden entirely behind celestial shadows or a night sky permeated with dense, oppressive darkness. As I walked on, I clutched at my own arms and chest, trying to fight the cold that was creeping deep inside me. This icy wasteland was an unforgiving realm, where the wind intoned its perpetual lament, whispering its inscrutable secrets in the ear of the helpless wanderer. However, my keen sense of hearing picked up more than the terrifying echo of my own footsteps. In the undergrowth, I could make out stealthy rustling and the scuffle of tiny paws in the surrounding blackness. They were the rats, creatures that crept and crawled in the shadows, carrying an unsettling presence. But also, a macabre chorus of crickets accompanied my footsteps, their mournful chirping coiled around me. Though those sounds seemed to carry a deceptive melody, they emanated a melancholy and loneliness that resonated deep within me. They reminded me of my own vulnerability, my helplessness in an unknown world, where every step became an uncertain challenge. As I progressed, the minute details of the surroundings took on an eerie relevance. I was enveloped by a tangle of birch trees, majestic giants whose twisted forms hinted at unfathomable secrets. Though their trunks bent in defeat, they exuded an enigmatic aura that stood out against their unique hues. The leaves were predominantly yellow in hue, but there were also some that still retained a lingering green, as well as others tinged with an autumnal orange or a veiled brown, albeit to a lesser extent. Each leaf revealed a hidden story, an ephemeral tale in its fleetingness, giving the landscape a mixture of nostalgia and mystery. The scattered leaves rustled beneath my feet, whispering sinister murmurs that tinged the air with an inscrutable helplessness. With every step I took, the certainty of autumn came over me, whispers of decay and death creeping through the shadows like veils themselves. The forest unfolded before my eyes, revealing elm trees with their withered leaves and birch trees whose reddish hues resembled drops of blood spilled in the abysmal darkness. My longing to explore and unravel the secrets of the flora of the place was hampered by an enigma: the dim light barely allowed me to make out the details hidden among the twisted branches, those mysteries that awaited in the depths of their vegetal essence. However, the overriding need to stay alert and avoid deadly mistakes prevented me from pursuing this tempting task, plunging into the unknown depths that lurked in every corner of the enigmatic forest. The absence of animal life was unmistakable, a desolation that stretched across the horizon. I could barely glimpse the fleeting presence of elusive rats, squirrels, and I could even have sworn I caught the subtle image of a mole, though its form faded into the folds of the gloom. Yet there was no trace of majestic creatures, no rustle of feathers or roar to break the prevailing sepulchral silence. An uneasy feeling came over me as I moved forward, my feet treading on a slightly undulating terrain with rocky surfaces that seemed to exhale pleas in my passing. Every step I took took me further and further away from the supposed safety I once knew, inexorably moving me deeper into the maw of the unknown, into the abyss that loomed before me and devoured certainty with every beat of my heart. A narrow path writhed beside me, like an insidious tongue whispering hidden temptations, but its obvious danger forced me to turn back. My muscles were beginning to ache from the sustained effort, but I could not afford to give in to fatigue. I continued my advance, devotedly following the north star in the sinister firmament, a twinkling beacon in the midst of the unfathomable blackness that guided me into the depths of the unknown. From my earliest childhood, that star had been my unchanging compass, my unerring guide to keep me from getting lost in inhospitable and twisted lands, where horrors lurked behind every shadowy corner. Thirst began to devour me with parsimony, a thirst fanned by inscrutable fatigue and the lack of springs in the desolation that enveloped me.... There were no rivers to caress me with their silver sparkles, no crystalline fountains to offer me the vital elixir I longed for. The only alternative was to search for porous stones that could yield their precious liquid or to wait in despair for the humidity of the air to give me a fleeting respite. However, the hostile conditions and threatening darkness deterred me from exploring such uncertain options. With each step I took, the thirst became more unbearable, a slow torture that threatened to sap my will, eroding my being to its very core. Chapter 4: Daughter of rot The Empty Mirror Chapter 4: Daughter of rot All that remained for me to do was to continue on my way, in search of a shelter where I could find a glimmer of rest, or at least a glimmer of safety in the midst of the gloomy landscape that loomed over me. The idea of building a shelter vanished completely, a victim of the adverse circumstances that surrounded me, denying me any possibility of respite. In that seemingly self-absorbed forest, populated by trees with deciduous foliage whose leaves descended like shadowy whispers, I could perceive multiple details that revealed crucial information: they indicated a perpetual autumnal sunset, the hands of the clock seemed to be stuck between 2 and 4 a.m. The topography of the place was revealed through the prominences of the terrain, evidenced by the altitude of the superb birches and the solitary presence of the elms that rose with lofty grandeur. The topography of the place was revealed through the prominences of the terrain, evidenced by the altitude of the superb birch trees and the solitary presence of the elms that towered loftily in that place maddened by the most perverse dreams. The only life forms that dared to show themselves were rats, squirrels and moles, creatures that seemed to intertwine with the shadows and peep out from the most sinister corners of the place. There were no springs or streams nearby, which lent a bitter aftertaste of abandonment to my situation. These were the primary facts that lay in my hands, but there were other disturbing detailsˇ­ Because of all these characteristics, I could infer with absolute certainty that I was in a confinement far removed from any vestige of civilisation. There was no sign of human activity, only the tracks left by the tiny rodents that infested this doomed place, a desolate testimony to my isolation in the midst of darkness. Exhaustion loomed overwhelmingly over me, having marched tirelessly for about 40 minutes... Yet, in a fleeting instant, everything was transfigured. It was then that my tireless search was rewarded. I came upon a castle... a building that looked as if it had been torn from the pages of a sinister work of literature. The building exhaled an aura of nostalgia and unease in equal measure. However, something immediately caught my attention: it was a monument to decadence in all its essence. The relentless passage of time had left its mark on the structure, which now stood lonely and abandoned, consumed by eternity. The walls, once magnificent and built with stony splendour, lay worn and eroded by the inexorable embrace of nature. It gave the impression that the enclosure had witnessed a forgotten grandeur, but now languished in utter desolation. The surrounding walls had crumbled in many places, revealing the fragility of the ruined castle. The tower stood dangerously leaning, defying the laws of gravity and creating a disturbing unease of instability. Compared to the dazzling castles of archaic times, this building seemed diminished, destined to dissolve in the shadows of the grandiose fortresses that loomed large over the panorama of the age. However, I must confess my limited experience in the contemplation of fortresses; this was the first one that gave me the opportunity to admire it in person. Erected mainly by the tenacity of sturdy stones, its main entrance was guarded by an imposing and mournful cedar gate, bearing the weight of centuries in its own bosom. I approached the architectural landmark with unyielding determination, though before reaching sufficient proximity, I opted to divert my course towards the castle''s rear domains... There I longed to revel in the meticulous detail of its construction before boldly entering its inner precincts. The sight that unfolded before my eyes was a heartbreaking and desolate picture in equal measure. In times past, this corner would have been an opulent orchard, an Eden of meticulously crafted beauty. But now, only the ruins of such past splendour remained. Ivy and moss had assaulted the domain, devouring whatever vestiges of life once flourished there. I conjectured how the subtle fragrances of the flowers would have lifted their scent towards the sun, intoxicating the air with their intoxicating fragrance. Yet all that now lay buried in the abyss of oblivion. A short distance away, in an abandoned corner, I spotted a well that once must have been a source of primeval vitality. However, its water had been extinguished, leaving behind only debris and desolation. The condition in which the castle lay fueled my speculation about its purpose, for it stood in a location distant from civilisation. Had it been erected for some particular purpose? Deep within me, a whispering voice urged me to believe so. I scanned for signs of animal activity, any vestige of life that might inhabit such a lonely confine. However, I found only the insignificant tracks of rodents, tiny creatures that seemed to be the lonely witnesses of glorious days gone by. The insatiable quest to satisfy our material needs and the everlasting yearning to enrich our spirit with virtues intertwine in a delicate harmony, delineating the purpose we give to our existence. However, in that castle, there was no sign of human activity, which fuelled my urge to delve into its enigmatic depths. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. With the utmost diligence and resolve, I approached the ominous door, sensing the oppressive darkness looming behind it. It was imperative that I proceed with extreme caution, safeguarding my integrity and sanity at all times. My trembling fingers brushed the ancient wood, as if the door itself resisted yielding, as if it wished to conceal the unspeakable horror that awaited behind its threshold. As I slid it with extreme caution, an icy, putrid wind emerged, enveloping me in an ominous symphony of chills that ruffled every fibre of my being. A shiver of terror ran down my spine, as if the air itself carried with it a sinister omen of doom and gloom. My senses were supernaturally heightened, and suddenly the unsettling sensation of being watched by countless unseen eyes came over me, eating away at my sanity and unbalancing my mind. The interior of the castle was pitch black, an endless abyss that devoured any trace of luminous hope. Its oppressive, gloomy atmosphere clung to my lungs, hindering my breathing as I made my way through ruined halls that seemed to stretch into infinity. The space became an intricate labyrinth of shadows, where hissing whispers and ominous creaks intertwined in a melancholy, macabre symphony. My faltering footsteps obeyed the call of an enigmatic instinct, as I struggled to keep my mind clear, though my thoughts crumbled like shards of glass. A throbbing headache and blurred vision threatened to drag me into an abyss of disorientation, but my unquenchable thirst for revelation and reckless daring urged me on, even at the expense of my own sanity. The crumbling ceilings and twisted beams were silent witnesses to the inexorable passage of time that devoured this cursed place. The ground, littered with debris and treacherous trickery, became a testing ground for my staggering daring. With each step, my heartbeat echoed like a deafening drum, filling the air with ominous anticipation. Yet I could not stop, nor allow fear to consume me, for I had come too far to give in to it. The walls, once festooned with splendour and beauty, now lie stripped and corroded, baring the rawness of the stone that supports them. The shattered windows stand as silent witnesses to a buried past, while their torn curtains dance like shrouds in the sinister waltz of the wind. A veil of dust and decay covers every surface, like a spider''s web imprisoning forgotten memories and whispers. The foyer, a vast desolate space, stood like a desecrated crypt, its grandeur crumbling and its ruins prostrate. On either side stretched stairs that stood like an anguished spine, their appearance reflecting the decay of time and neglect. I contemplated with a mixture of awe and fascination the upward challenge to the upper levels, aware that those steps led to secrets hidden in the maw of darkness. My footsteps, directionless, echoed in the overwhelming silence as I entered the desolate foyer. The banqueting hall, the former beating heart of the castle, lay in sombre abandon. Echoes of opulent festivities had faded into the darkness, leaving behind a heap of rubble overrun by relentless nature, a mausoleum shrouded in mould. The torn tapestries hung like pitiful souls, while the great shattered table and old, broken chairs seemed to be silent witnesses to a glorious, faded past. One of the walls, outraged by a gigantic abyss, revealed a macabre vision of the castle''s interior. The structure that had once proudly displayed the family crest was now fading into primordial anarchy. A mournful echo of neglect and decay unfurled throughout the room, whispering in ominous tones and threatening to unleash unseen horrors. On my way, near the entrance to the feasting hall, I found myself before a disturbing and totally misplaced presence: a mirror... Its imposing wingspan was diluted within the fractures of its broken surface, while a veil of dust enveloped it like an ancestral shroud. As I gazed at its tarnished reflection, an icy anguish came over me, as if the fragments reflected a terrifying truth that transcended my own comprehensionˇ­ After leaving the room, I made my way discreetly up the steps to the second level. As I passed through the entrance to a chamber, I was confronted with a harrowing scene, a grotesque sight that defied all rationality and comprehension... I immediately stepped back, feeling my heart gallop in sync with the impact of the aberrant vision. Nearby, however, stood another room. Its appearance was almost identical to the previous one, but it emanated a darkness that chilled my blood. Every fibre of my being bristled at a silent warning, urging me to retreat. Yet, instead of fleeing, I found myself advancing towards its threshold, drawn by an invisible force that defied all logic. My heart pounded with a mixture of trepidation and fear as I approached the ominous door. My fingers, trembling with anticipation, brushed its wooden surface in a desperate attempt to discover some trace of life. However, only the ethereal silence returned the echo of my own heartbeat. Still, I ventured a faint "Hello?", waiting for an answer that refused to come. Uncertainty gripped me, and amidst the oppressive darkness there was no sign of any activity or sound. The lack of response led me to consider it all a figment of my imagination, an amalgam of exhaustion, discomfort and the weight of my own fears. Perhaps there was no one there... perhaps I had just been carried away by the shadows dancing in my mind. With a lump in my throat, I turned the doorknob with extreme caution, allowing a beam of pale moonlight to filter into the room. My eyes anxiously scanned every nook and cranny for any hint of a presence. However, I soon realised that my assumption had been wrong... The castle did not lie abandoned; something inhabited the cloistered place. On the threshold of the enclosure rested a coffin, stained like jet, forged in wood of high lineage, now worn. The coffin was embellished with silver fittings and ornaments, while the woven silk tapestry, milky white, appeared faded at the corners and torn in the centre. Despite its neat surface, without inscriptions or emblems, the lid was ajar. As I noticed it, my legs wavered, and an invisible callus cut me off from either advancing or retreating. I swallowed my saliva, and at that precise moment, an entity emerged from the mortuary bed: a beautiful lady, with emerald eyes, or rather, I take it back, a man of refined appearance. My pulse, racing, struggled to discern the nature of this being. Its features faded, its outlines blurred in the gloom. I could not tell if it was indeed a human being or something else, something that defied all reason and assimilation. An oppression came over me, as if the air became thicker, saturated with an ineffable presence. Fear, loathing, and rejection were entwined in my being, weaving a whirlwind of uncontrollable emotions. Every fibre of my existence yearned to escape, to evade this cursed place. However, a subtle, immaterial force kept me immobilised, unable to turn away from this macabre encounter. At that precise moment, I realised that I had crossed the threshold into a forbidden domain, a shadowy realm not meant to be explored by mortals. A sense of warning and danger enveloped me, but it was too late. I had crossed the boundary and now I had to face the consequences of my insatiable and unsettling longing. Chapter 5: Worms of misfortune The Empty Mirror Chapter 5: Worms of misfortune In the dusk of the dawn, what a beautiful moment! The vampire rises, what a charming creature! Steadfast, with an athletic and captivating presence, His pale complexion and blazing eyes, what envy! Ivory and ebony, his nocturnal hair, Flows like a waterfall, caressing the air, Contrasting with the smooth silk of his cape, Which shines with elegance, a rare jewel! A purple, torn, and tattered cloak, Reveals the silk and ebony beneath, A loose and stained white shirt, Hugs his figure comfortably, how attractive! Tight black trousers, snug as an aria, A brown leather belt with a metal buckle, Soft leather boots with silver buckles, Their worn soles suggest antiquity, how charming! Metal breastplate and backplate, rusty and old, Adorned with engravings and martial details, While black leather gloves on his hands, Reveal wear at the tips of his fingers, how intriguing! A leather necklace, a metal cross, Hang around his neck, an unparalleled mystical touch, His attire balanced, refined, and mysterious, Between elegance and rusticity, a grand mix! Thus, the vampire presents himself, with his eloquent attire, A being of prolonged existence and deep experience, In the night, he reigns as lord, what a privilege! A mystical and captivating figure, oh, eternal vampire! The scene I had the privilege of witnessing metamorphosed into one of the most awe-inspiring moments I have experienced in a considerable span of time. Suddenly, in a bend of the forest, in the bosom of my sacred territory, an unknown young woman manifested herself, having managed to cunningly elude the skirmishes and impediments guarding the castle. Her unwelcome presence roused me from my slumber, and as I heard the ominous creaking at the door, I could not help but question whether that melodious voice I had earlier perceived emanated from her. However, as I looked at the young woman, I immediately sensed that something was unbalanced. She was alone, trembling with fear, like a frightened prey thrown into the unknown abyss, unable to comprehend what lay ahead. While it may seem disdainful to equate a lady with a creature, at this particular juncture it is appropriate, for she reminded me of a vulnerable and bewildered being in the midst of oppressive darkness. The damsel bore a peculiar appearance, as if emerging from a remote land, and her features were exotic, a departure from any form my eyes had hitherto beheld. Her dark, almond-shaped, piercing eyes, with a crease lower than the upper lid, revealed an abyss of inscrutable mysteries, while her snow-white complexion and thin, delicate lips gave her countenance an overwhelming singularity. Her dress was indescribable, defying any conventional classification of fashion known to me. Tight but delicate, with lace detailing and an extravagant belt framing her waist, she looked more like a maiden spawned in dreams than an ordinary young woman. Her intriguing and inscrutable appearance was captivating and, at the same time, disturbingly unsettling. The young lady seemed to have an almost childlike freshness, out of place in the twisted surroundings of the castle. However, the only thing that seemed to be in harmony with the macabre scene was her hair, ashen white, lifeless and unkempt, flowing freely down past her shoulders and reaching almost to her waist. As time passed, I also became aware that her clothing exhibited strategic tears, details that had escaped my first scrutiny, but which now revealed themselves as signs of a tangled and disturbing past. The young woman exuded an air of fatigue and desolation, as if she had gone through terrible torments to reach this place. As for her footwear, she wore slippers that, despite their apparent fragility, seemed to cling firmly to her feet, as if they had been moulded by the thresholds themselves. Immeasurable strength emanated from that fragile appearance, as if the young woman had faced and overcome harrowing trials on her journey to this watchtower. However, her vulnerability was palpable, as if she were trapped in an incomprehensible reality. This fact awakened my curiosity and the insatiable desire to know more about her and the events surrounding her... The scene I had the privilege of witnessing left an indelible mark on my mind, shocking and shuddering, feeding my intrigue to unsuspected limits. This unknown young woman radiated a singular appearance that was impossible to ignore. If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Her presence seemed out of place, but at the same time, she emanated a gloomy and enigmatic vigour that left me perplexed. My longing to discover her story and the secrets that enveloped her became relentless... I wanted to unravel the enigmas that tormented her and to understand how she had come to this point, in spite of it.... In an impassive and commanding voice, I asked her: "What has led you to this sacred precinct? - as we stood in my personal seclusion, the sanctuary that houses my own demons. Yet she maintained a funereal silence, as if fearful of the consequences of unveiling the truth hidden within the blindness. "How did you reach this execrable spot?" - I insisted, yearning for diaphanous answers that might shed light on the enigmas that surrounded us. In a trembling, barely audible voice, the young woman murmured, "I-I..." Intrigue consumed me voraciously..... "Who instructed you about this abode?" - I asked more vehemently, pursuing the source of her unsettling presence. With a look full of dread, he answered in a whisper: "N-no one..." The tension in the atmosphere became oppressive. "So how did you come to this abyss?" - I asked, struggling to unravel the enigma unfolding before my eyes. "I find myself... disoriented..." - she whispered, as if every word was imbued with abyssal suffering. My imperturbability remained unchanged. "That is not my concern. You must leave without delay," I replied in an icy tone, without the slightest hint of sympathy. In desperation, she pleaded in a broken voice: "Please! Gentleman, I beg you to allow me to spend the night. If I leave this place, my fate will be death. Allow me to spend the night here...." - his plea echoed in my ears, causing a deep disturbance in my being, as hesitation took over my mind. "This enclosure is not the right place for a damsel.... You will undoubtedly perish if you venture beyond the castle walls," I proclaimed serenely, wrapping my words in a dark and mysterious cloak. The young woman, with a face marked by anguish, pleaded, "Could you not grant me your help?" "Unfortunately, such a possibility is beyond my reach" - I replied in a forceful tone, resolutely establishing the limits of my influence. "W... why...?" - she mused in a piercing, monotonous voice. "Because we must atone for our sins, so it has been decreed by my Father" - I answered with a burden of remorse, as if I carried on my shoulders an ancestral guilt. "Your father?" - he asked in astonishment, his eyes reflecting dismay at the revelation. "No, our father" - I solemnly affirmed, hinting at a more abysmal and disturbing link. "...Why, I have committed no offence.... I only long to live..." - uttered the young woman in a perplexed tone, her words imbued with a fragile innocence. "Though your countenance may be immaculate in appearance, I am not in a position to say with certainty that you are what your features imply" - I replied shrewdly, cautiously introducing the seeds of uncertainty into her trembling mind. "I feel... an overwhelming fatigue..." - she whispered, as her figure slumped with a leisurely cadence towards the ground. "You may be perplexed by my apparent insensitivity to your misfortune, but nothing and no one will be able to disturb the inexorable course of your destiny. If you fail to evade the confines of this chamber before daybreak, your fortune will be irrevocably sealed" - I sentenced with an icy coldness, evoking a fatal and macabre culmination... "My prayers will be directed towards you" - I added in a distant tone, hiding behind the mask of my indifference the dark intentions that lurked in my being. I was aware that his ears could no longer catch my words because of his fainting, but I uttered them without hesitation. I concluded by taking her body in my arms, shielding her from a violent impact against the ground, as if she were a fragile petal caught in the imminence of a maelstrom. It is true that my figure was not confined to an imagined dimensionality, for I could superimpose my entity above and below, as well as face a sort of incomprehensible horrors. Thus, my presence unfolded all over the castle, to say the least. I lay in a state of total unconsciousness, vulnerable to the unfathomable horrors that lurked in the shadows of that shadowy place. In an instinctive act, I gently slid my hand over her forehead, sensing the burning fever that consumed her. Yet I felt helpless in the face of her anguish, unable to alleviate her suffering as it faded to the edges of the darkness. Then I decided to remove the cloak that had rested on my shoulders for so long, and meticulously placed it on the coffin, as if it were a sacred mantle imbued with ancestral mysteries. Carefully, I placed her under her exhausted body, longing to offer her a brief respite from the enveloping gloom, like a faint light struggling to break through the eternal darkness. As I confirmed her condition, my attention was drawn to an opening in her skin, nestled near her right cheek. With measured steps, I cautiously approached to inspect the wound that defied the immutable laws of nature. Brushing her soft cheek with my leather gloved fingers, I witnessed with astonishment as the injury began a process of unearthly closure and healing, as if an elusive and unknown force manifested itself through her in the form of black necrophagous maggots that writhed around the wound until they entered her flesh and vanished completely. This phenomenon transcended the limits of my comprehension and defied rational explanation. My gaze fell upon her as she sank into an uneasy sleep, as if her being was immersed in an enigmatic symphony that could only be grasped by the most subtle and perceptive of senses. Indeed, something about her awakened an eerie familiarity with my own being, a transcendental connection that transcended mere physical resemblance. It may seem an extravagant assertion, but my unwavering priority was to watch over her momentary well-being and grant her a brief respite amidst the shadows that stalked her. However, the enigma surrounding the wound on her cheek persisted, keeping me in a constant state of alertness and expectation. Plunged in the darkness of uncertainty and fascination, I was determined to unravel the confidences hidden in that countenance marked by the inexplicable. Nevertheless, in the inner realm of my being, there resounded with inexorable force the painful certainty that manipulating the occult forces would entail an imminent danger, capable of unleashing an unspeakable situation, the consequences of which would unleash the deepest and most execrable horror. I was aware of the insidious presence of a warning that, like a stealthy serpent, slithered through the very folds of my mind, whispering ominously of the dire consequences that might arise from my daring incursion into these forbidden domains. Although I was still immersed in the painful search for my own identity, I could not escape the disturbing awareness of the sinister abysses that lurked behind the nebula of my memories, like disturbing shadows that, in the mysterious gloom of the night, wrap their cloak around the darkest and most cryptic secrets. Confusion, like a dense and inscrutable mist, loomed menacingly over my being, embracing me with its abject embrace and bringing with it the indecipherable enigma of the unknown. My mind, captive to a macabre fascination, danced in a dance of restlessness and a magnetic attraction towards the forbidden, yearning to unveil the answers that were jealously hidden behind the diaphanous veils of reality. In that corner of the castle, a scene worthy of the most intricate foul novels unfolded. A coffin of sable wood, festooned with silver accents and veiled by a threadbare white tapestry, revealed its contents when its lid was opened. Inside rested a maiden with hair as white as milk, so long that it seemed to devour the space of the coffin. Her closed eyelids denoted a deep lethargy, adopting a posture so disturbing that it recalled the rigidity of death. Yet there was a wistful longing in her delicate features and on her lips parched with thirst. With bated breath, she held some of her influence still in the realm of dreams. Near the door knocker, on the threshold of the night, a vampire with a delicate, emotionless face stood majestically, like a shadowy pillar. His countenance, immutable as stone, reflected the coldness of centuries lived. His crimson eyes, like embers in the gloom, remained fixed on an albino god, emanating a silent devotion. It was as if he played the role of a servant in an unfathomable dance, where the boundaries between reality and fantasy were blurred. Chapter 6: Pale horrors The Empty Mirror Chapter 6: Pale horrors This scene hinted that both characters, the vampire and the girl, had transcended their own identities, exchanging the scripts of their existences in a grotesque theatrical performance. The dance of their fates, intertwined in the gloom, revealed a mysterious narrative where the vampire, with his macabre porcelain face, became an obedient servant, awaiting his master like an actor immersed in an eternal drama. The atmosphere that enveloped them was as dense as the shadows of the night, weaving a tapestry of intrigue and mystery that invited the imagination to unravel the threads of this enigmatic relationship as foul as vomit itself. I awoke with duly measured caution, realising that I was still tenaciously holding on to my existence. With a colossal effort, I endeavoured to rise from the inhospitable and icy sarcophagus; in the coffin where that freakish male in perpetual repose had lain the night before, I would question my peculiar condition and surroundings with great fear and bewilderment, yet a sharp pain in my head stifled my attempt. A plaintive wail escaped my lips, as my trembling fingers strove to quell the source of my discomfort. Through halting blinks, I scanned my surroundings, yearning to unravel the enigmas that lurked in their shadows. I whispered in a murmur barely audible to my own ears: "Where am I... Have I been the victim of a blackout? However, as I turned my gaze towards the threshold of the room, my eyes met again with that enigmatic man who watched me undaunted, radiating an unsettling calm. It was he who, at the crucial moment, had offered me his complicit hand. Nevertheless, an uneasy and alarming sensation was taking possession of my being, a disturbance with no apparent cause. Perhaps my ingratitude was the master of ceremonies in this gloomy theatre of moods. Fixing my gaze on the stranger, the words came from between my lips with a bow tinged with a dismal echo: "I express my gratitude for your assistance". His reply, however, plunged into the abyss of indolence: ''There is no reason to be grateful, so there is no need to worry about it''. An oppressive silence hung over us, like a veil of declining darkness. "You looked exhausted. What events have brought you to this state? From what remote abyss do you emerge?" - The man inquired with an intrigue that exuded a hint of unease. My trembling lips stammer, shrouded in the haze of confusion: "I... I... I don''t know... I apologise" - I articulated, still lost in the mists of my mind. "You are ignorant of your own antecedents? You have confessed to have misplaced your course, but now I glimpse that the source of your origin is hidden in the enigmas of incomprehension" - whispered the man, as if unfathomable truths were hidden in his words... The dark and hermetic castle stood majestically before my broken spirit, its imposing figure shrouded in shadows and abysmal secrets. The macabre structure stood like a grim fortress, defying the passage of time and emanating an aura of unfathomable mystery. I was plunged into an intricate labyrinth of unknowing, as if I had been dragged into a forgotten and unknown realm... The gloomy and oppressive forest, whose twisted branches and withered leaves seemed to whisper ancient secrets, surrounded me without mercy... My mind wavered between confusion and horror, like a navigator lost in tumultuous and unknown waters. Every step I took seemed to plunge me deeper into the abyss of oblivion, while an unsettling sense of danger lurked in every nook and cranny. I searched desperately for answers, but they were jealously hidden in the deepest recesses of my presumed memory, as if protected by a supernatural barrier. Beside me, the enigmatic stranger, bearer of unspeakable secrets and clad in dark robes that seemed to melt into the shadows, turned his piercing gaze upon my being. His deep eyes, charged with a sinister and ancient presence, seemed to delve into the depths of my soul. "The shadows have faded your memories" - he whispered in a suspenseful voice laden with ominous presence. His words echoed in the air, as if they were reverberations of the echoes of forgotten times. "Have you forgotten even your own name?" - he continued, unravelling the most vulnerable fibres of my being. My lips trembled as I tried to articulate a response, but the words resisted emerging, stifled by the veil of uncertainty that surrounded me. Amnesia had woven its web in the darkest, most hidden recesses of my mind, leaving me trapped in an inextricable tangle of confusion and unease. I found myself in an abyss of oblivion, where the fragments of my past had faded into a sepulchral silence, and all that remained was the hope of unravelling the enigmas that had led me to this mental helplessness. "Have your family ties vanished as well?" - inquired the enigmatic stranger, whose tone shrouded in a halo of inscrutable mystery resounded like a whisper imbued with hidden revelations. "Where is the face of your loved ones hidden in the impassive shadows of your oblivion?" A torrent of overflowing anguish flooded my eyes, which were surrendered to the oppression of grief, as I admitted in despair, "No... I remember nothing...". The man, in his aura of enigma, let out a sigh that seemed to carry with it the burden of overwhelming disapproval, as if my forgetfulness were an unforgivable affront. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. "Your despair of yesterday has given way to the quiet sojourn of oblivion," he declared with a mixture of bitterness and concern, revealing his dissatisfaction with my state of oblivion and the sombre uncertainty that enveloped me. "But that doesn''t matter now. Now, listen carefully" - his words reverberated in the thick, uneasy air, like an ominous echo echoing in the depths of the abyss. I found myself immersed in the depths of darkness, wandering through an intricate labyrinth of murky thoughts. The stranger''s words reverberated in my ears with a cryptic and ambiguous air, like the hieroglyphics of ancient civilisations. My fears and doubts devoured me, dragging me like a lonely underdog in the vast ocean of foolishness. I was fighting a fierce battle to find a glimmer of light amidst the thick fog of amnesia. Certainty had completely disappeared, leaving me with no direction or clarity in my thoughts. I could not fully comprehend his enigmatic insinuations, and his every word exposed my fragility, plunging me into ineffable anguish. The castle, once a safe haven, had now become a deadly trap closing inexorably around me. I felt the tightness squeezing my shoulders, certain that my only alternative was to plunge into the depths of unknowing. Fear clung to me tenaciously, whispering nightmares deep inside me. Every step into the unknown was fraught with uncertainty, but I could not turn back. It was the price I had to pay to escape amnesia and unravel the enigmas that enveloped me, even if it meant delving into the darkest abysses of my existence. Oh, please, cease your frivolous and banal behaviour, young lady! "Why should I find myself in danger if I should make up my mind to remain in this place?" - I boldly assert that I will cause no disturbance. "I beg you, in desperation, to allow me to prolong my stay for a short time. I undertake to withdraw at the earliest opportunity" - I pleaded, imploring with full knowledge of the delicacy of the situation in which I was immersed. "Girl, I''m not trying to misrepresent," he replied in a tone of voice that denoted some latent irritation. My words had resonated in his being unexpectedly, and the air was charged with a palpable tension, as if a veil of discomfort was unfurling between us. "No... I did not mean to imply anything so reckless" - I hastened to reply, fearful that I had offended his susceptibility. I sought to rectify any misunderstanding, aware that the fragile balance of the place was teetering on the edge of precipitation. "A vampire dwells in the vicinity..." - he continued, emphasising each word with a cadence that sent shivers down my spine. The name of that accursed creature echoed in the air, invoking images of sinister shadows and unfathomable horrors. "Vampire?" - I inquired cautiously, feeling dread take hold of me, snaking through my veins. The mention of this supernatural being aroused age-old fears, fuelled by tales whispered in the most grotesque gloom, when reality and fantasy intertwine. "Are you ignorant of its true nature?" - he replied with evident surprise, as if my ignorance was incomprehensible in those domains steeped in inscrutable secrets. His words revealed the true essence of these sinister creatures, inhuman entities hiding under the guise of humans, eager to quench their insatiable thirst for blood and vitality. An ineffable shiver, like a remote echo of ancient terrors, snaked through the recesses of my being, as the man''s words faded into the stale air that permeated the room. Barely a whisper, delicate as a lost sigh, escaped my lips: "A Rokurobuki? Fear, like an invisible but tangible entity, imprisoned me with its claws of icy steel, bristling my skin in a sinister dance, worthy of macabre rituals. "I understand. I will leave at once," I replied hastily, conscious that I must not add to the grief of the man who, until then, had been my only lifeline in this inscrutable abyss of unimaginable nightmares. Nevertheless, to persist in calling him "you", as I had done until now, seemed increasingly insufficient, even inappropriate in the face of the blackness that lurked. His youth was apparent, apparently only a few years separated me from him. Yet I found it hard to find the right words to address him in any other way. Moreover, on one occasion, it was he himself who considered me a "child", condescendingly descending into the fragility of my existence, as if I were a delicate puppet in a world of cosmic terrors. The instant of revelation manifested itself in a sudden unexpectedness, as I carefully lifted myself from the disfigured bed. In my trembling hands I held the fragment of purple cloth that had served as a makeshift bed. A shudder twisted up my spine as I became aware of the dark, viscous bloodstains that desecrated it, disturbing signs of the evil events that had transpired in that dark corner of gloom. I hastened my steps, a strange urgency gripping me, as if the castle walls themselves guarded shadowy secrets that threatened to engulf me. The conversation I had had with this enigmatic individual, both in days past and in the present, echoed persistently in my mind. His words, enigmatic and ambiguous, slithered like poisonous snakes through the intricate labyrinth of my thoughts. Despite his apparent indifference to my situation and my opinions, I felt a strange excitement bubbling inside me, as if he was about to unveil something momentous. When I saw him for the first time, his gaze, with eyes of deep, inscrutable crimson, pierced the barriers of my being to my innermost core. A shiver ran down my spine and a hitherto unknown unease gripped me, as if a sharp sword threatened to slowly and mercilessly sever my existence, carving my throat with every beat of my heart. Yet the apprehension that gripped me was not just from his physical presence; it was something more, something ineffable and sinister that lurked in the shadows of his being. Her hair, tangled and black as the fathomless depths, fell chaotically over her shoulders. The pallor of his skin, with a complexion so diaphanous it bordered on the unearthly, emphasised the fine, delicate features of his face, whose perfection bordered on the feminine, leaving no doubt of his masculine nature. Dressed in a loose-fitting white shirt with long sleeves, the fabric fitted smoothly to his figure, while the cuffs and bottom hem were tailored with almost supernatural precision. Black trousers, cinched at his waist by a brown leather belt festooned with a metal buckle, extended to black leather boots. These boots, with their metal buckles and worn soles, seemed to carry dark and sinister tales of walking along paths that strayed into the gloom. Their garments also comprised a breastplate and backplate of rusted metal, profusely ornamented with enigmatic motifs and detailed engravings. The rust marks visible in places hinted at prolonged use over the centuries, as if it had wandered forgotten lands for ages immemorial. Chapter 7: Threads of putrefaction The Empty Mirror Chapter 7: Threads of putrefaction The gloves she wore showed noticeable wear at the fingertips, revealing their persistent use over the ages. In addition, I could see that he wore a fine silk cloak of a purple almost as deep as black, whose subtle sheen contrasted strikingly with his moon-pale complexion. Despite small rips and tears in certain areas, exposing the all-black, seductive fabric hidden beneath, the cloak retained its unchanging elegance, losing none of its irresistible charm. It seemed to have been expertly crafted in a moment that transcended the limits of time... What really caught the eye, however, was her leather collar adorned with a silver cross-like luck at its heart, giving her a touch of security in the gloom. His appearance was utterly anomalous, even disturbing. I wondered about his purpose in that castle, how he could remain there unchanged. And what was even more disturbing? Why was I totally unable to question its presence? The conception of an undead being crept across my mind like a gloomy shadow, spreading its evil influence. Who was this enigmatic figure who defied the limits of human comprehension? What was the real intention that had led him to this mysterious and hidden place? Never before had he glimpsed someone with such an inscrutable appearance that transcended mere eccentricity. Though perhaps, in some obscure corner of my memory, vague recollections of an old volume, leafed through years before, which contained similar images, were vaguely resurfacing, thus feeding my bewildermentˇ­ This individual, by all accounts, seemed to have emerged from a realm outside of everyday reality, a being whose existence defied the logic and conventions of the earthly world. Was he real or just a manifestation of my deepest fears, a macabre projection of my own psyche? Despite all the shadows of uncertainty that hung over my spirit, I refused to give in to the hooves of mistrust. That enigmatic figure had reached out to help when the world had turned its back on me. I could not be, therefore, like the other human beings that populate my existence, I could not fit into the established moulds... Besides... Who, in the end, has the right to judge what is real and what is not in this vast universe? That question, like a sinister echo, reverberated inside me, sowing the seeds of a restlessness that seemed to drag me inexorably towards the abyss of madness. And... something peculiar was happening. I could not find in my memories the precise moment when that enigmatic figure rose from the shadows, as if suspended in an altered reality, alien to the laws that govern space and time. Was something still awaiting me... that escaped my apprehension, my parsimonious earthly knowledge? Each moment shared with this mysterious presence plunged me deeper and deeper into an abyss of unease and disquiet. A lurking darkness, permeated with a sinister aura, seemed to envelop us, suffocating me and planting in my being an unsettling sense of unease and fear that undermined the foundations of my own sanity. Yet, in spite of everything, something prevented me from detaching myself from this enigmatic influence which, in turn, stirred in me an amalgam of conflicting emotions: fascination and repulsion, attraction and rejection. The only option left to me, the only way forward, was to persevere in waiting, even if my spirit trembled and my sanity was called into question. As my steps wandered without a fixed direction, a storm of questions troubled my mind even more, entangling itself in the intricate threads of uncertainty. However, the lack of direction failed to overwhelm me; I had made up my mind to proceed south once more, convinced that this was the most sensible option in such a sinister place. Who knows if in the shadows that hid the landscape there was a path that would lead me back to civilisation, a path that, due to fatigue and the prevailing darkness, had eluded the perception of my weary footsteps. Now, a new vitality seemed to flow in my veins, revitalising me completely and healing wounds I was not even aware of having suffered. However, a grim memory of the night before crept into my consciousness, threatening to shatter the fragile peace I had found. Had he been the one who had watched over my wounds? It was the most plausible explanation, but a tangle of doubt surrounded its authenticity. Why would he have withheld his help? No trace of such benevolent assistance found refuge in the recesses of my memory, nor did I discover any tangible evidence of his intervention. Every attempt to salvage some glimmer of that night only engendered even more disturbing details, twisted in their uniqueness and devoid of convincing explanation. Besides, how was it possible that my wounds had healed so quickly? Shouldn''t there have been some trace, some vestige in my flesh to testify to the suffering I had endured? Uncertainty clung to my being like an insidious shadow, haunting my every thought and leaving me with the feeling that the truth lay hidden in the deepest abysses of the unknown. I paused briefly to assess my condition, and to my bewilderment, I did not perceive a single mark on my dermis, nor any trace of the dried blood that must have been the inseparable companion of my wounds. The situation plunged me into perplexity, but I made an internal promise to myself not to allow it to consume me. It was imperative to remain calm, to clear my mind and to find a solution that would allow me to avoid the abyss that threatened to engulf me in its unfathomable vortex. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. I stopped pondering the threads that had led me to such a hellish torment and concentrated all my attention on the pressing need to find a way out. I cautiously watched the position of the sun, keeping its glare from scourging my eyes. Its trajectory, majestic and merciless, tilted towards the west, announcing the imminent sunset that lurked between 6 and 7 pm. The firmament, tinged with ominous clouds, proclaimed the arrival of an inexorable end, as if the celestial forces were taking pity on my misfortune and tracing the limits of my misfortune with their implacable brush. Despite the oppression of the pain that assailed me, and the hunger and thirst that sapped my vigour, I could not stop. An indomitable force propelled me forward, an iron will that defied the limits of my endurance. Deep within me, a glimmer of hope clung to the possibility of finding a way out, a path that would rescue me from the clutches of doom. So I stood up with determination, leaving behind me the bitterness of despair and bravely facing the challenges that stretched out on the uncertain horizon, like shadows of an inscrutable destiny. The magnificence and merciless trajectory of that path seemed to bend towards the west, foreshadowing the imminent sunset that lurked in the late afternoon. The firmament, in its eerie splendour, was tinged with ominous clouds that proclaimed the inexorable arrival of a grim outcome. In spite of the affliction that afflicted me, and the hunger and thirst that consumed me, I was not permitted to stop. I continued on my way for a long distance, while a disturbing certainty seized me, as if I were entering the unknown abysses of existence itself. Finally, I reached the narrow path I had glimpsed in the gloom of the previous day. It was my only option to continue, although its intricate and challenging appearance instilled in me a latent intimidation. On either side of the path, majestic trees stood like silent guardians, while tiny creatures crept stealthily in search of shelter. As I reached the end of the desolate path, the route seemed to fade into darkness, becoming inaccessible and impenetrable. A shiver ran down my spine as I faced the sense of failure, the crushing defeat inflicted once again by the inscrutable impetus that inhabited that inhospitable realm. However, just as I was about to turn away and abandon myself to despair, something caught my attention in the distance. It was something sinister and out of place, a presence that defied the laws of the already precarious consonance and balance in that desolate setting. My eyes scanned the surroundings, barely glimpsing through the elusive trees, and there, in the shadows, I could discern the silhouette of a lake. A small lake that radiated a strange, sickly presence. The promise of refuge and respite lay before me, but to reach its shore required a steep descent of at least 20 metres... madness, no doubt, but there was no alternative. Shadows loomed menacingly on the horizon and time was running out. Bereft of adequate tools to secure my descent, I surrendered to my instinct and precarious skills, ready to defy the laws of gravity and sanity. Each step became a titanic struggle against the treacherous slope. My hands, trembling with effort and uncertainty, searched desperately for a handhold among the jagged rocks. Every muscle in my body roared in agony as I clung to the hope of surviving the hellish descent. Pain intertwined with determination, forming a symphony of sacrifice in my being. Gravity, cruel and merciless, tried to throw me into the abyss, but my will resisted fervently in the face of imposing adversity. Time seemed to drag on, stretching out in a maelstrom of anxiety and despair. Yet I persisted, pushing my physical and mental limits in pursuit of reaching that enigmatic lake, where dark vitality awaited with its hidden secrets. Each instant became an eternity of effort and hope, a silent battle between human frailty and the challenge of the hostile environment. Finally, after a fierce contest that challenged the limits of my endurance, my weary feet found a longed-for point of solidity on the solemn plinth of the steep slope. A liberating sigh escaped from my chest, as my gaze, heavy with exhaustion and hope, caught sight of the outline of the riverbank, which awaited with unchanging mystery. With determination and longing, I rushed towards the descent, embracing the slope with the recklessness of one who rushes into the embrace of the unknown. The surroundings seemed to imprison the breath and surrender to absolute silence, as if the cosmos itself, overwhelmed by my audacity, had suspended its hissing. My exhausted body rocked in an enigmatic stillness, prostrate in a vortex of inherent chaos, captive of a dense and enigmatic atmosphere, enveloping the senses with its unreal might. The oppressive gloom enveloped my being, as again unintelligible whispers crept furtively from the shadowy folds, feeding the abysses of my deepest fears. Yet I refused to surrender to the horror that stalked me with insatiable greed. Although my attire was unmistakably unsuitable for such a reckless undertaking, I stepped forward with foolish bravery, defying the sinister forces that seemed to mock my intrepid gesture. My hands, scarred by wounds and abrasions, clutched desperately at the stony ledges that vanished beneath my sweaty palm. My mind was clouded by vertigo and uncertainty, but the fire of determination burned unperturbed in the depths of my being. And then, the moment came when my fingers met the abyss, with nothing to hold on to. It was a precipice into eternity, an inescapable test of my worth and courage. With my heart pounding in my throat, I slid cautiously, my muscles tense like ropes on the verge of breaking. Every inch represented a battle, a struggle against relentless transcendence and inexorable fate. Every second stretched into endless agony as I approached the abyss, fully aware that only one last leap separated me from my longed-for goal. With a choked scream in my throat, I launched myself into the unknown, my mind populated by terrifying images of what awaited me on the other side. However, I was caught in a precipitous fall that caused me to experience a stabbing pain. I struggled to stand, despite the wounds on my hands. Blood trickled sparingly from my left hand, while my legs and hands trembled more intensely. With tenacity, I slowly pulled myself upright and continued my journey, fully aware that I had to reach the lake to purify my wounds and rest for a short while. I staggered forward, though I tried to keep my breathing calm, inhaling and exhaling calmly. The path became more and more favourable as I advanced, making my progress easier. Chapter 8: Ace of Wands The Empty Mirror Chapter 8: Ace of Wands After a few metres and a couple of trees, the proximity of the lake finally revealed itself to my eyes, like an oasis in the midst of uncertainty and darkness. It was indeed a lake whose fleeting appearance filled me with exhilaration, prompting me to quicken my pace. At last, I stood before the waters of the lake, experiencing an amalgam of relief and exhilaration. Kneeling humbly, I bent my hands to drink directly from the water''s surface. While I admit that this action may not have been the wisest, as I was unaware of the water''s potability, I can argue in my defence that its appearance was limpid and crystalline. Settling myself on the shore, I drew my knees up to my chest as I looked at the wounds and scratches on my limbs. I dipped my hands in the water, longing to purify them, and tore a piece of cloth from the bottom of my dress. With great caution, I knotted it around my left hand, which was still oozing blood. My garment was in a pitiful state; the dress was stained and torn in several places. There was nothing I could do about it, so I just resigned myself to contemplate my pitiful condition. I took a brief pause, about 15 minutes or so, while I tried to preserve some water for later. Unfortunately, given my circumstances and limitations, such an undertaking was impossible. How could I survive without any resources? I stood up again and gazed up at the vast sky, whose hues were beginning to tinge with darkness. No doubt the imaginary clock read around 7 p.m. or perhaps a little later. I tried to record in my memory the details of my surroundings, in case they might prove useful at some point. I could only make out nearby trees and the slope I had descended on the trail. Nothing else of relevance manifested itself before my eyes, everything seemed monotonous and overly similar. I contemplated erecting a makeshift shelter, but an inexplicable feeling whispered to me that it was more appropriate to continue my advance. After regaining some of my vigour, I continued my march, heading into the sunset. After a few minutes, something absolutely implausible happened, something that defied all logic and lacked any established coherence. Once again, I was faced with the steep slope I had descended in moments past. However, a nagging doubt seized my reasoning: was it the same slope, or a similar one? Its very existence seemed to defy all known logic. With a mixture of confusion and anxiety, I decided to continue my way south, ready to unravel the hidden enigmas of this mysterious place. Suddenly, my eyes met the lake, unfolding in front of me like an ominous and fearsome watery mass. Was this the same lake I had left behind? The question echoed in my mind with unsettling insistence. The idea of being trapped in a meaningless labyrinth began to insinuate itself, triggering a sense of hallucination and paranoia. Despite my insecurity, I continued my advance, this time facing north in a desperate attempt to find a way out. My pace became accelerated, almost frantic, as if something sinister lurked in the shadows, pursuing me with a relentless thirst for disturbance. Yet cruel fate seemed to mock my efforts, leading me back to the same places again and again, as if time and space were entangled in a macabre dance. In an act of desperation, my hand clutched at the branches that lay abandoned on the ground, detached from the tangled trees that guarded the forest. They were sturdy branches, twisted by the cruelty of the environment, at least a metre long each. With determination, I grasped three of them, feeling their roughness and vibrating rigour under my trembling fingers. Armed with these precarious sticks, I continued my wanderings, trying to mark the path and cling to a thread of control amidst the growing darkness that enveloped my soul. I stuck the first branch into the earth near the lake, burying my hopes and desires in the damp soil. However, fate seemed to revel in my despair, for as I went on, I repeated the ritual twice more, sticking a branch in each path I followed, like a fanatical adept of the ace of wands. Entering the arboreal labyrinth without clear guidance, my steps became more uncertain and hesitant. With each advance, a disturbing revelation began to take shape before my astonished eyes: all paths seemed to converge in the same places I had already visited. The branches I had buried in the earth emerged again and again, like twisted shadows mocking my anguish. I found myself paralysed by the situation before my eyes, an indescribable horror that seemed to imprison me in its macabre yoke. My attempts to escape the torment around me led me to explore different directions: north, east, south and west. However, no matter which way I turned, they all seemed to converge towards three ominous routes. It was an incomprehensible phenomenon, something that defied all known logic and plunged into the abyss of the supernatural. As I watched carefully, I caught a glimpse of an enigmatic scheme that governed this grim anomaly. Was I, by my mere existence, the cause of this nightmare that enveloped me? An unsettling theory arose in me, an insidious presentiment that whispered disturbing truths to my spirit. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. I decided to put my theory to the test, bravely heading in the three main directions, keeping the cursed places in my mind: the path, the slope and the lake. No matter which way I turned, I was convinced that, in some dark and sinister way, I would be drawn into one of these infamous places. It might seem foolish, but it was the ominous pattern of this abomination that haunted me. Having made that determination, I ventured intrepidly down each of the paths, keeping the cursed places unchanged in my mind. And to my disquiet, my predictions came true with macabre precision, with no margin for error. The occasions when I found myself in these cursed places coincided exactly with my sinister predictions. This experience left me bewildered and bewildered, in a tangle of displeasure and fear. I could find no explanation for this strange anomaly that seemed to envelop me like a malevolent shadow; was it possible that, through the inscrutable influence of my dalliances, I was altering the very course of the forest? It was a chilling thought, but the only explanation my tormented mind could conceive in the midst of this abominable nightmare. Was this an inexorable fate, a curse hanging over me? I underwent more tests, but in one of them, restlessness gripped my being.... As I walked, I stopped to contemplate a pair of swallows hovering above my head. It was an unusual scene in that dense and dreary forest, and this added to my uneasiness and restlessness. However, this singularity no longer surprised me as much as the dark and persistent situation in which I found myself, as if something sinister condemned me to wander eternally lost in this state of endless nightmare... I checked my back thoroughly to make sure I wasn''t carrying a bulky backpack or an extravagant ponytailed hairstyle, and to my relief, I found neither. "I''m no snail''s child," I whispered with a hint of humour, though my words did little to alleviate my growing unease. I proceeded with purposeful stride, firmly intent on reaching the slope that was my unpublished becoming. However, in a strange turn of events, my attention was diverted along the way, and I found myself wandering in one of three random places. The forest seemed to have a will of its own, toying with my senses and diverting me from my intended course. Though I tried to focus my mind on the desired goal, I found myself hopelessly trapped at the edge of the lake once again. Despair began to take hold of my being, embracing me with its sturdy hooves. In my eagerness to find an escape route, I scanned every corner of my mind in search of a strategy capable of counteracting this inexplicable phenomenon. However, my hopes were dashed, as all my efforts proved to be in vain and fruitless. Every attempt to devise an escape plan turned out to be a complete failure, and I was dragged back to the same three places over and over again, no matter which direction I took or how much I thought about it. At that moment, a grim truth seized my consciousness, as if an unseen presence was whispering deep inside me: there was no choice but to analyse and assimilate all the information I had gathered so far. With a sharp mind and steely determination, I began to enumerate the factors that had emerged from this strange experience: 1. Three places exercised an ominous control over the future of my existence: the path, the slope and the lake. 2. If I held firmly in my mind the resolution to head for any one of them, no matter how winding the path, the outcome would be inevitable. 3. Any external distraction, no matter how insignificant, had the power to divert my thoughts and lead me inexorably towards one of the three randomly cursed places. 4. Cardinal directions, whether north, east, south or west, seemed fruitless... 5. Even if I tried to leave the forest, I would be dragged uncontrollably towards one of these three places, with random but relentless precision. 6. Apparently, there was no obvious solution to this macabre enigma that trapped me in its suffocating embraceˇ­ As I pondered these revelations, an icy feeling came over me. The forest appeared as a malevolent being, a dark and twisted entity that delighted in manipulating my existence and mocking my desperate attempts to flee. A suffocating oppression clung to my soul, and the thought of being trapped in this endless cycle, doomed to repeat the same sequence of events over and over again.... It is clear that there is no escape route from this tortuous loop. Something I hadn''t noticed until now is that, despite the fact that hours had passed and I felt exhausted, the firmament remained unchanged. It had not changed at all, as if time itself had stopped. Although the firmament showed 8 p.m., this could not be reliable; it should have gone on at least until midnightˇ­ This situation is becoming more and more entangled, each passing moment a process of decay. I must find the answer to this enigma that defies logic and the conventions of what we know. It seems an impossible undertaking, perhaps it is... but I am determined to face it and confront this manifestation of evil. The dilemma lies in how to do it; I don''t have the faintest notion... I almost want to shed tears of despair and frustration, but I must maintain my composure at all times. After countless attempts, I returned to the lake one last time and, facing its shores, drank from its waters to keep myself hydrated. I rested briefly by the lake before standing up a few minutes later and beginning my hypothesis: I must return to the castle from which I had departed that afternoon. If I couldn''t leave the forest, then I should head for the castle. It was inside and, I suppose it is possible, and I sincerely hope, that staying there was my most vehement desire. Ah, I mean... it was the safest place. I rejoined the path and headed north, but this time with the purpose of returning to the castle...As I made my way towards my destination, I began to question the reason for my need to visit those three specific places. I had no clear answer, so I could only evoke how I felt in each of them. Each place evoked different emotions: On the path, I experienced determination and security, as if I was following the right path, but something inside me raised doubts about its veracity.... On the slope, I could only perceive a sense of danger and risk, which led me to question my ability to reach my goalˇ­ As for the lake, it gave me a sense of calm and tranquillity, as if in its waters I could find a supposed rest and renewal of strength. However, I now realised that it was perhaps only a false goal, as I was not getting any closer to my objective... Chapter 9: Tower of Babel The Empty Mirror Chapter 9: Tower of Babel In the turmoil of my reflections, I was struck by the disturbing question: Who is the ultimate authority to dictate what is real and what is not? Are we mere architects of our own truth and authenticity? As I pondered my thoughts, the soft trill of swallows broke into my reverie, shaking me out of my reverie. When I looked up, I was perplexed to find that the firmament had been plunged into oppressive darkness, as if midnight had reclaimed its sovereign throne. A shiver snaked down my spine, but I could not allow fear to imprison me. With determination, I hurried towards the imposing castle that stood majestically before me. Finally, I reached the threshold of the castle and, without hesitation, pounded vehemently on the wooden door with my fist. In the blink of an eye, the door swung wide open, revealing its lord and master. It was he, an enigmatic being holding the door with one hand, concealing the sinister interior of the castle. His stance was firm, imposing, and his gaze seemed to pierce the barriers of the soul. With an icy tone but imbued with a subtle hint of intrigue, he questioned me, "Who are you?" In that instant, all my confidence vanished in a breath, leaving me unable to articulate a response. Despite this, I summoned the last reserves of courage and, in a trembling but determined voice, I replied, "I am.... Giselle. Silence took over the atmosphere, while the halo of mystery and confusion thickened around us? In a rotten time, within the walls of the Lunatic Castle. After the fading of the young woman, I found myself plunged into a perpetual existence, condemned to endless punishment. My ability to grasp the passage of time in the tangible world, like human beings, vanished, escaping my conventional experience of its inexorable flow. As an entity alien to humanity, my perceptions and conceptions were radically removed. As a creature immune to the relentless temporal becoming, its influence did not affect me in the slightest. Upon first crossing the threshold of the castle, I immediately fell into a deep sleep, close to the majesty of the feasting hall. My lethargy emulated the condition of an inert statue, a state devoid of life and filled with emptiness. I slept for what seemed to me an infinite number of centuries, and I say this with absolute certainty, for even in that time I did not entirely lose track of time. Imagine, if you will, one who has patiently waited for long years, enduring the crushing frustration and despair that such an undertaking entails, both physically and mentally. However, if I were to give myself to such a wait, for years and even centuries, you would see that I would no longer experience the fluidity and weight that usually accompanies prolonged expectation. It would be as if I were tearing at the very fabric of causality, entering a realm in which I am totally devoid of sensibility, without an ounce of delicacy. If I were to describe my true nature, I would say that I am a "Creature who defies and transforms concepts". However, I nourish doubts about my own words. One can never be completely certain about what one says, even after repeating it again and again with great effort. There always remains a trace of uncertainty and intrigue that whispers the existence of some margin of error yet to be unravelled. And the mere realisation of not finding it is even more disturbing. One can never be absolutely certain about anything. The devil lurks perpetually in the smallest details, and this is something we all know in our innermost being. I think it is precisely this that gives my being a terrifying ambiguity. I am aware of this, but I will never be able to fully express what I feel and think in simple words. The meaning of words is in constant metamorphosis, as they have ceased to exist in their original state. They are victims of the probability of being altered or distorted in some way, which plunges them into perpetual imprecision. Thought itself is constrained by the limits of language, although it is an inescapable and valuable tool, and yet it harbours a margin of falsity. All this leads me to ask questions of a transcendental nature: Are we the ones who determine truth and authenticity, or is it something that transcends our capacities and is beyond our reach? I can only settle for a vague and imprecise question... As I come to the end of this enigmatic monologue, let me say that, as I proceeded, I was swept along by currents of deviation, moving away from the initial goal I had in my thoughts. Again, the hooves of time have distorted my perception, plunging me into a maelstrom of indescribable confusion and bewilderment. From the moment the neat marble-haired young woman vanished, a sense of eternity enveloped my being, devouring me mercilessly. In that first encounter, my thoughts were constrained to conceive of her presence as an omen of my punishment, an unmistakable sign that this abysmal place was the inexorable destiny to which I was predestined. However, in a fleeting flash of clairvoyance, a disturbing idea took shape in my mind: what if this tenebrous space became a veritable abyss, a maelstrom that devoured my essence and dragged me into a harrowing eternity? Although it was I myself who, imbued with a fateful destiny, ventured into this abode, driven by the insistence of my holy Ascendant and my religious fervour, a tiny spark of hope still lingered in the depths of my being, yearning for this place to transmute into a sinister abyss destined for those whose outrages against the divine word demanded atonement. Though aware, in my innermost being, that this idea was ephemeral and expiring, my mental faculties were powerless to adequately conceive of the oppressive environment around me.... If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. I burned with a fervent belief that the young woman had been dispatched to purge her own sins, sins which she vehemently denied as she longed for redemption. As soon as her figure dissipated, however, that thought crumbled into an echo of dust, shattered under the onslaught of my own doubts. Had this frail creature perpetrated crimes as monstrous as my own? Such a possibility seemed like a distorted horizon, an idea that defied logic and corroded the flimsy structure of my sanity. No one, not even she, could have descended into such dark and depraved abysses.... However, in a fleeting flash of ephemeral comprehension, an unsettling conclusion dawned in my tormented mind: if this space had been erected as a den of punishment and redemption, its purpose would have reached its climax centuries ago. This thought sowed seeds of doubt and distrust deep in my spirit, refusing to accept such an ominous possibility. Are those beings who inhabit this cosmos indifferent to the quest for redemption, as if they were soulless puppets, mired in inhuman apathy? I find this conception repulsive and grotesque. Humanity cannot be so ungrateful, so lacking in that inner compass that yearns to purify its own sins.... Reality faded into a chaotic whirlwind of perplexity, where words crumbled into intricate labyrinthine tangles and concepts slid down dark and twisted paths. In the midst of this labyrinth of confusion, a fuzzy explanation emerged, a barely palpable suspicion: could it be that, somehow, the unfathomable divine will of God was finally willing to set its gaze upon my being, contemplating the remote possibility of granting me the longed-for forgiveness? A torrent of unspeakable emotions intertwined their currents in the deepest corner of my being, an inscrutable tangle of hope and dread tangling relentlessly. Like a remote echo of sanity, the idea clung pertinaciously to my doubting mind: was that enigmatic damsel who emerged from the abyss... a celestial being, remanded to this world, bearing a transcendental message of redemption? A disturbing impulse prompted me to rise from my inert position, as I was swept through the mist of uncertainty towards faith in a reality beyond the tangible. Her appearance, attire and bearing evoked a sense of cosmic strangeness, as if she were a wanderer from uncharted planes, an emissary from the celestial spheres destined to convey the divine word. Could this abstraction materialise in my helpless existence? Defying the barriers of coherence, I ventured down the stairs in search of answers, anxious to unravel the enigma that haunted me. As I reached the threshold of the castle, an unsettling uncertainty gripped my being: had I disregarded his will? Had I dared to refuse the supreme opportunity of my redemption? If that were true, then I would consider myself dispossessed, condemned to a hopeless darkness, without the slightest chance of salvation. The air grew thick with a maddening miasma as I hesitantly opened the ancient wooden door. An amalgam of longing and apprehension gripped my spirit. Peering outside, I was confronted with an eerie emptiness, a panorama devoid of all life and presence. It was as if the world itself had vanished in an ominous whisper, leaving me a prisoner in the solitude of my thoughts. My gaze remained fixed on the dark firmament, barely illuminated by the gloom that refused to yield to the night. A shiver ran down my spine as I closed the door with a despondent creak. Despite the desolation that gripped me, my fingers clung to the door, as if searching for an anchor in a sea of confusion. My mind, tangled in a labyrinth of murky ideas, was rushing into an abyss of uncertainty. Time stretched into an eternity, as sinister sounds summoned me from the feasting hall. A barely perceptible voice seeped into the recesses of my consciousness, evoking dreamlike images from my deepest reveries. The inscrutable whispers reverberated in my ears, weaving a web of enigma and trepidation. Cautiously, I approached the source of the call, my steps marked by an amalgam of trepidation and apprehension. The chaotic murmurs intensified as I approached the threshold guarding the banqueting hall, enveloping me in an eerie halo of mystery. Suddenly, a rumble echoed loudly and determinedly from the castle''s entrance. Without hesitation, I made my way to the door and opened it slightly. There she stood, the enigmatic, silver-haired maiden, whose mere presence evoked reminiscences of times past and futures uncertain. His figure loomed before me, emanating a supernatural aura. His piercing eyes seemed to carry the weight of unfathomable enigmas, as if he had witnessed every nook and cranny of my existence. A shiver snaked down my spine as I met her gaze. Silently, I waited for her to speak, trying to decipher the hidden meaning behind her presence. However, only silence reigned in the air, while an enigmatic smile was plastered on her face. It was as if horror and mystery were intertwined in a macabre dance, imprisoning me in a game of forbidden emotions. The tension in the air was palpable, and a sense of unease was taking hold of me. Though I struggled to maintain my composure, a deep unease clung to my being, as if I was on the verge of discovering something unimaginable and terrifying. The silver-haired woman advanced slowly, her footsteps echoing eerily in the room. She spoke no word, but her intense gaze seemed to scrutinise my very existence, as if she were examining the darkest corners of my soul. I was drawn into a whirlpool of perplexity and fascination, trapped, unable to escape her powerful sway. Who was she and what hidden enigmas were woven between our destinies? Deep within me, a question echoed loudly: Was she an anomaly or an unusual manifestation? "Who are you?" - I inquired in a firm voice, imbued with a captivating curiosity that seemed to hang in the air. "I am... Giselle" - she uttered with a mixture of boldness and hesitation in her voice, hinting at her own uncertainty. I gazed at Giselle with a penetrating gaze, trying to unravel the secrets hidden behind her eyes. Instead of finding answers, however, I found myself plunged into even more abysmal confusion. "W-What''s your name?" - Giselle asked with a hint of hesitation, her voice barely audible in the suspenseful air. "That''s not relevant..." - I replied without hesitation, trailing off slightly in my words. A brief silence took over the space as Giselle assimilated my answer, its meaning echoing in her mind like an ominous echo. She seemed to be my saviour, a glowing figure emerging from the darkness to bring me back to stark reality? But is this an unshakeable truth? I questioned, feeling the anguish begin to take root deep inside me. Or maybe, just maybe, it''s a malicious, cleverly woven lie, designed to drag me further into the maw of unspeakable madness... Chapter 10: Bloody Noses The Empty Mirror Chapter 10: Bloody Noses Oh, the intonation, that ephemeral play of sounds that now surrenders to the enchanting Giselle. In spite of all the adversities, I have once again been subjected to the same response, sinking deeper into the dense gloom that envelops me. Perhaps understandably, for until this moment I had not found the courage within myself to reveal my name. It is not that I have deliberately sought to conceal it, but rather that my genuine identity, my intrinsic being, persists as an inscrutable enigma. Even at this very moment, in front of that enigmatic individual on the threshold of the castle, my certainties about my own existence waver. The castle stands imposing and sinister, evoking the only safe watchtower in the midst of a twisted reality. It is the only refuge to which I can gain access, yet I have bypassed the gaze of the man who stands before me, concentrating solely on my own. Yet I am now wracked with guilt for having embraced such a reckless decision. He pleaded with me to stay away, vehemently warning that I should not remain in this enclave, insisting on the innate danger that afflicts it. His voice reverberated in the recesses of my mind, but my insatiable yearning to unravel the enigmas compelled me to return and once again expose my desolate condition, hoping that perhaps he would reconsider his position. I did not intend to coerce him, nor to burden him with someone else''s burden. My sole purpose was to present the truth to him with unvarnished honesty, with no ambition to arouse sympathy, but rather with a yearning for understanding. His inquisitive eyes scrutinise me with piercing intensity. I struggle to articulate, to unfold the reasons that have brought me to this point, but my voice cracks in the abyss of supulchral silence. Before I can even utter a prayer, however, his gaze turns icy and, with a barely perceptible gesture, he beckons me into the shadowy, hidden depths of the castle. With each step inside the ancient walls, my unease rises, grows in an unbridled dance. The air is charged with a disturbing density, imbued with an unholy presence that creeps in with every breath. The whispers of the wind take on the voice of forgotten echoes, weaving a sense of ineffable unease deep within me. My senses are alert, watchful for any sign, any glimmer of what awaits in this shadowy domain. As I move through the labyrinthine corridors, the walls shudder and whisper, telling macabre tales of times past. Shadows stretch and twist, taking on grotesque and menacing shapes, as if they were animated entities lurking in the chaotic gloom. I noticed a peculiar detail that wounded my spirit to the core: the castle was enveloped in abysmal darkness. Its blackness was so inscrutable that I could barely make out blurred silhouettes and ephemeral shadows, while faint glimmers of moonlight filtered through the cracks and crevices of the ancient walls. The dim illumination was insufficient to unravel the enigmas hidden in this enigmatic chamber. On entering for the first time, I remembered that dawn was near, but what puzzled me even more was that, despite my weakened condition at the time, my vision was sharper inside the castle than in the dense gloom of the surrounding forest. The enigmatic uniqueness of the light in that place defied all known logic. According to the few references I had gathered, the sun rose between 6:30 and 7:30 a.m., while darkness descended around 9 p.m. It was known that at midnight, the sun would rise and the night would be dark. It was well known that at midnight the light would be even dimmer, plunging everything into an almost palpable darkness, and that around 6 a.m. there should be a radiant dawn, with a luminous exuberance of light that would contrast strikingly with the gloomy gloom that enveloped me. However, what I beheld in that castle exceeded all expectations. It was as if something insidious and unknown was feeding on the light, consuming it without mercy, plunging the castle into a blackness that transgressed the laws of nature and entered the realms of the unspeakable. The indescribable strangeness that gripped me as I contemplated this unfathomable phenomenon loomed like an insurmountable haze. Only the intrepid who dared to enter this abode of shadows could glimpse its totality, for any attempt to rationalise it from a distance would only lead to futile and absurd conclusions. Something unnamable, something unnatural, loomed ominously over this accursed place, defying the very laws of reality in sinister delight. But, leaving these disturbing reflections behind for a moment, something else managed to shake my spirits in the oppressive gloom: the imposing stature of the man who emerged from the murky depths. He was a sumptuous figure, visibly taller than my puny self, perhaps reaching heights of six feet or more, displaying his presence with sovereign magnificence. In my smallness, standing barely 5''6" tall, I felt vulnerable and devoid of confidence in the face of the imposing grandeur towering before me. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. Yet his figure faded into utter darkness, his fine silk cloak the only thing that stood out, like an ephemeral shadow in the eternal night. His mere presence was intimidating and oppressive, causing an anguished unease to take root deep within me, as if an unknown and overwhelming force was taking hold of my very existence, pushing me into the unfathomable abysses of madness. The general scene that unfolded before me was terrifying, as if it had been plucked from the darkest abysses of the human mind. The atmosphere, permeated with uncertainty and unease, enveloped me in its sinister mantle, while an uncontrollable restlessness urged me to flee from this cursed place. Yet something deep within me held me there, as if an irresistible force was drawing me into the unknown, plunging me into an abyss of horror and despair. "Let me tell you my situation," I whispered in a trembling voice, unable to contain the shudder that ran through my body. The man, unperturbed, replied with impassive calm: "Go ahead, if you wish". I longed to hear his response, hoping that he would allow me to share my story. "It will be a long narrative, and I should like to begin at the beginning... Will you listen to it? - I pronounced, eagerly awaiting his consent. "No problem. Go on" - he replied with a certainty that seemed to emanate from an occult knowledge, as if he were familiar with the horrors that lurked in the shadows. I set about recounting the events in detail, aware of the dread in my words.... At the end of my story, in the present, in a dense silence, impregnated with doubts and unfathomable fears, I ventured to break the thread of uncertainty. In a trembling voice, I asked: "Did you take care of my wounds last night? - I stammered hesitantly, feeling the suffocating weight of suspicion on my chest. His reply came in a monotone devoid of emotion, his complicity in my misfortunes. An unsettling feeling came over me, warning me not to delve into further questioning. I opted to remain calm and let the conversation flow at its own pace, waiting for the right moment to unravel the secrets hidden in the gloom. After a few anxious seconds of tension, he broke the silence with uncompromising authority: "Go on..." he demanded, revealing his insatiable insatiability. - he demanded, revealing his insatiable interest in listening to my story, no matter how monotonous it might become. Continue? Sssslither sssslither At the crossroads of my being, no corner of my being held any propitious sway over the course of my existence: the lake, the slope and the path. If I faintly faded the idea of heading towards any of them, considering the straight lines of the path, the outcome would be avoidable. Any inner reflection, however momentous, lacked the power to divert my thoughts, leading me inevitably away from the three blessed places in a predictable manner. The cardinal directions, whether north, east, south or west, showed promise. Even if I intended to go deeper into the forest, I would be caught with absolute dominance towards any of these three places, with predictable but merciful precision. There seemed to be an obvious solution to this benign conundrum that released me from its liberating embrace. How intricate are the threads woven by fate, where the soul becomes entangled in the mysterious webs of life. ˇ°Now I get a glimpse... it was all a facade" - he said in an icy, distant voice. "It doesn''t matter... whether something is true or false... It doesn''t matter! I should not be moved... I alone possess the power to discern the authentic from the apocryphal... But truthfulness, what is truth? Is it only a chimera, a carefully crafted deception? How can I discern truth from falsehood? Everything is disfigured, nothing remains in its original state... Even if I strive to hide the truth behind mendacity or distort reality to make it appear fallacious, nothing will alter what is already meant to be. Is it so horrifying to cling to a fallacy, even if it scares away the suffering that comes with facing the truth? I am not constrained to confront it.... Am I? It''s absurd... a contradiction... face the harsh reality or embrace the fictitious fallacy...? I don''t understand... I... am..." I haven''t the faintest idea who you''re talking to..." - he suddenly interrupted me, his tone imbued with uncertainty and doubt, as if in that instant he was questioning his very existence.... "Allow me... I am deeply sorry... I am sorry..." - I tried to unravel, but my voice was abruptly interrupted by his. "I beg you... you are completely free to stay here for as long as you please" - he interrupted in a firm but distant tone. "T-Thank you sincerely" - I replied with marked displays of gratitude and gallantry. "You will have to spend the night inside the cenotaph again..." - he continued with a careful inflection in his voice. "I understand, I understand... I thank you" - I replied shyly, being fully aware of my position. Wait... Cenotaph? What''s this about? Will he plunge me into a tomb as he does? I''ll have to pretend I''m dead... but something slimy and disgusting has completely slipped the issue from my cognition. "The phenomenon to which you refer is, in truth, largely beyond my discernment. There are situations where there seem to be no solutions, and it is true, sometimes there simply are none. However, at this particular juncture, I can assure you that there is an answer.... Although I do not know its nature and the way to reach it, I possess a deep conviction of its existence," he said as he stared into my eyes, sending an icy chill down my spine. After uttering those words, he stripped with exquisite delicacy the fine silk garment from around his shoulders and held out his arm in a silent gesture of offer. I took the garment gingerly from his hand, still holding it out. "Cover yourself with this... and I strongly urge you to tend to those wounds in the coming dawn," he uttered in a commanding voice that broke the ominous silence, his words causing an additional shiver to spread through my entire being. After that, he walked cautiously away towards the first floor, leaving me wrapped in a strange and oppressive sense of unease. "I thank you... for the act of listening to me..." - I whispered in a tone barely audible to myself, as a shudder ran through every inch of my body. Without turning back or uttering a sound, he continued to move forward, which further increased my growing uneasiness and latent dread.... Chapter 11: Candyfloss The Empty Mirror Chapter 11: Candyfloss Thus I conclude my tangled tale, where the threads of fate intertwine with sinister mastery. My eyelids rose again, enclosing me within the imposing walls of this fortress. Although it appeared to be a repetition of past incidents, I resisted the veil of d¨¦j¨¤ vu that threatened my perception. Despite our limited progress, something momentous changed in this macabre game. Contrary to our last encounter, the man did not present himself to me upon awakening. The air was filled with an oppressive silence, his presence palpable in the shadows, still distant... After a brief moment of bewilderment, I stood up and held the delicate wrapper delivered the night before. Its texture hid a promise of shelter in a dangerous world. I decided to return the garment in an execrable choreography, following the capricious threads of fate. My eyes rested on the stony windows of the ancestral castle, where the sun''s rays struggled courageously to break through the oppressive darkness. The brightness barely illuminated the horizon, revealing a harbinger of a gloomy day that whispered eerie, barely perceptible promises. Cautiously, I descended the steps and ascended to the first floor, guided by a visceral instinct towards the room where our first meeting was born. Something dark, inscrutable to the human mind, was pushing me towards that cursed corner, prisoner of a condemned rhythm from which I could not escape, the mysterious paths that destiny traces, like an intricate tapestry woven on the loom of the uncertain. As I crossed the threshold of the room, my being was seized by an indescribable shudder. The darkness, like an insatiable beast, reigned with implacable dominion, snatching the sunlight from me and plunging the space into a suffocating gloom that caressed the limits of madness. The cracks in the castle walls, which in other rooms were portals of hope, here became vain attempts at clarity, confronted by the fierce darkness, as if it were imbued with a malevolent will of its own. The atmosphere in this room was saturated with a gloomy, dank atmosphere, as if the walls themselves exhaled the breath of despair, whispering gloomy ciphers in the ear of those bold enough to venture into its gloomy domain. There he lay, seemingly asleep in the stratum, his gaze eclipsed, like a beacon lost in the darkness of the ocean. He seemed to keep a restless vigil, though his eyes were mere mirrors without reflection, empty, devoid of life and wholeness. As I approached, each step I took revealed a deeper enigma, as if I was entering an insatiable abyss, ready to engulf my own sanity. The figure that stood before me had an imposing air, shrouded in shadows that seemed to dance around him, like restless spirits yearning for the light. And his voice, serene but charged with a sinister magnetism, urged me to delve into the hidden recesses of his mystery. This being seemed to know the darkest secrets residing in the abysses of my soul. With an unsettling, almost supernatural calmness, he asked: "How can I be of assistance to you? - his words hung in the air, impregnated with an ancestral echo that resounded in the confines of my mind. The cloak resting in my hands, a seemingly insignificant object but imbued with a strange essence, trembled slightly, as if its subtle threads were vibrating in unison with the hidden forces of the cosmos. With great care, I drew the cloth a few inches closer to it, seeking to decipher the reason behind its ominous magnetism, the spell that drew me inexorably to it. "I longed to give it back to you," I replied cautiously, my words floating in space, as my fingers brushed the silky texture of the fabric, as if trying to penetrate the secrets encrypted within its intertwined fibres. The tarnished uncertainty reflected in his eyes, and his question echoed in my mind like a haunting echo, whispering in the depths of my being: "Was it beneficial to you? Those words, carrying a transcendental meaning, reverberated through the corridors of my consciousness, leaving behind a trail of uncertainty and a giddiness at the unknown. My lips, restless as the dancing leaves of autumn, barely managed to articulate a faint but truthful reply: "Yes, indeed, its temperature is exceptionally comforting. A shiver, like the rustling of ancient parchment, ran through my being as I felt the comforting embrace of that garment, while an uneasiness, like shadows weaving through the darkness, seized my spirit. It seemed that the cloak, woven with threads of enigma, concealed unfathomable secrets, as if behind it unfolded an unsuspected abyss, a dimension of forbidden mysteries. In a clear and resolute voice, the mysterious being, shrouded in the mist of the unknown, surprised me by saying: "If this contributes to your convenience, I beg you to keep it temporarily, to be returned at an opportune moment" - the words echoed in the air, leaving an unsettling trace in my mind. Accepting the gift seemed to be the beginning of a journey into the unknown, where the paths became entangled in a tangle of uncertainty, whispers of the unseen caressing my consciousness like whispers of ancient myths. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. My words, imbued with gratitude and caution, floated into space: "But... it is not feasible for me to assent to your proposal. It looms as an article of considerable worth and, moreover, seems to hold a singular relevance in its appreciation. Its altruism goes beyond anticipation". The realisation that this cloak held a deeper meaning, a veiled purpose, crept in like a whisper from the abyss, revealing unknown secrets and placing upon me the weight of an undiscovered responsibility, like the weight of a knight''s armour in pursuit of his destiny. Melancholy, like a shadow intertwining with dusk, rose in his voice, intertwining with the icy reply he uttered: "It is irrefutable, however, at this very moment, I lack the need for its utility. I wear this garment merely as an extension of my own being, devoid of a clearly defined function. It would be of more benefit to you, however, as it is a delicately woven cloak, warm and comforting, which you could use to shelter you during the cold nights that plague the castle and defy the changing weather conditions of the forest." My emotions danced in a whirlwind between gratitude and bewilderment. I expressed my sincere thanks for his kindness, though I could not help feeling that accepting the gift would be tantamount to immersing myself in a bond with the unknown and the unsettling, like an intrepid adventurer entering a forest of enigmas. "I fully understand... your kindness is of singular distinction.... I thank you sincerely" - I whispered in a trembling voice, as my inner being was flooded with an inscrutable gratitude and, at the same time, an overwhelming disorientation, like the echo of an echo in the corridors of the castle, resounding in the recesses of my consciousness. "There is no foundation for any uneasiness that might be aroused..." - he replied coolly, yet his voice let out a subtle yearning, as if he knew the hidden dangers that lay beneath the unfathomable shadows of the castle, like the sage who scans the stars for answers in the darkness of the firmament. In the brief lapse of my hesitation, I was compelled to embrace the inexorable resolution to leave the room. I lacked the dexterity to articulate words, as I plunged into a bewildered perplexity that robbed me of my voice. The man, unperturbed, remained impassive, giving no sign that he had anything further to add to our painful exchange. Aware of the tension that had permeated the air, I opted to leave the place in a silence imbued with sumptuous subtlety. It was at that precise moment that an obvious revelation, which had hitherto gone unnoticed, manifested itself with overwhelming clarity: the door was already open when I entered and remained open after my departure. He did not know whether the threshold had remained impassive through the ages, or whether it was he himself who, in some recent past, had left it ajar. At this moment, however, his eyes transcended the scrutiny of the old and dilapidated door, and rested more closely on the castle as a whole. Every detail of its architecture was the object of his appreciation, and every dark corner exuded a haunting beauty. Moreover, I sensed that the man was immersed in a complex thought, a tangled skein that escaped my comprehension and that no one would take the trouble to unravel to reveal its meaning to me. It was an enigma for him alone to solve. With an ostentatious disdain for any perspective or opinion outside of his own, I descended the steps majestically and returned to the main hall of the castle. There, with flawless dexterity, I draped my shoulders in that imperial purple robe, whose graceful drape gave my attire a distinctive refinement, with only one additional garment. As I advanced towards the imposing main gate, my steps seemed to dance to a sombre and mournful melody. That cloak, guilty of this unexpected change, lent my figure an eerie air, a distinction that seemed to amalgamate elegance with decadence in a disturbing juxtaposition. Yet I was in the deepest perplexity at the way the delicate garment and dress were intertwined in an off-key fusion that had been stripped of its former radiance. My appearance increasingly resembled a creature spawned in the abysses of imagination, with an ivory hair that I constantly chose to ignore or preferred to be ignored myself.... I was transformed into an evil entity, a kind of yokai risen from the dark depths, capable of sowing woe and loathing in those unfortunate enough to dare to cross my path. Standing before the imposing gateway of the ancient castle, I found myself in a state of uneasy hesitation. My thoughts were tangled in uncertainty, unable to find a clear path to approach what lay beyond. The urgency of escaping the ominous hooves of the shadowy forest seemed an inescapable and pressing objective. However, the enigmatic anomaly that enveloped him made this undertaking a daunting task, seemingly insurmountable at the present moment. First and foremost, my top priority, above all other considerations, lay in the preservation of my existence. Survival was becoming a peremptory necessity, while hunger was devouring my insides without concession, a constant reminder of the anguish that enveloped me after nearly three days without satisfying my appetite. I was on the verge of reaching my limit, both physically and mentally. In the midst of my despair, I pondered how I could obtain sustenance in such a dreary setting and what strange creatures or substances were nourished in such an enigmatic environment. I categorically rejected the idea of returning and pleading for help, for I was well aware that the lord of the castle had no desire to allow further intrusions into his domain. I deeply doubted that I would get a straightforward and enlightening answer to my questions. There was therefore only one option left to me: to go back into the forest and search for any resource that would alleviate my insatiable need for food. With unyielding resolve, I exerted a determined pressure on the weathered wooden door and stood in the open air, even though a constant restlessness coursed through my veins like an incessant shiver. I closed the door behind me, sensing the world slipping into darkness and uncertainty. Chapter 12: Cult of Hunger The Empty Mirror Chapter 12: Cult of Hunger Each step I took increased the cognitive horror, as if the forest itself delighted in torturing my mind and disturbing my senses. I advanced along a familiar path, but now shrouded in a heightened aura of enigma and lurking danger. As I went deeper, my stomach twisted with a subtle but unsettling ache. It was a constant reminder of my desperate need for sustenance, but it also seemed to be a sinister echo of something deeper, something that lurked in the darker shadows of the environment. Fortunately, there was no one nearby to witness my physical and emotional torment, but shame lurked, even in the solitude of that cursed place. There was no one to be ashamed of, yet the fear of judgement and rejection lingered in my tormented mind. The sun was rising with sinister parsimony over the horizon, its sombre glow scanning the dawn as I stood at the edge of the path. It seemed to be barely 7 a.m., but already I sensed that the inexorable flow of time was conspiring against me. A myriad of unfinished tasks were demanding my attention, like a horde of unsettling shadows waiting for their moment to lurk. Nevertheless, I must confess that the night before had been a sleepless torment. My eyelids, once the guardians of my weary eyes, had surrendered under the weight of wakefulness. Though I fought a fierce battle for rest, sleep had refused to wrap me in its benevolent embrace. Nevertheless, I managed to extract from the dark depths of the night enough energy to face the challenges of the impending day. With a monotonous stride, I entered the trail, located a scant 20 minutes away. Each stride seemed like a meaningless litany, a macabre ballet of incessant repetition. There was nothing that stood out on my path, no irregularity to attract my attention, just a sequence of perpetual boredom that threatened to devour my will. However, it all metamorphosed in an ephemeral instant as I finally reached the path. I halted my progress and an unsettling doubt took hold of my mind, swinging like an ominous pendulum: what if what had happened the night before was just that, a fleeting manifestation destined never to be repeated? The conception that it was merely an ephemeral glow, a flash of the unknown that vanished without a trace, gained strength and loomed as a plausible possibility. But the uncertainty faded quickly. No sooner had I taken my first steps along the path, intent on keeping my attention sharp, than I sensed that something had mutated. In front of my eyes unfolded the lake I had seen the day before. The transition between the two places was smooth and subtle, as if the path had gradually dissipated to make way for this new abode. It was neither abrupt nor impressive in its manifestation. Rather, it was a barely perceptible slippage, a transformation that only those gifted with unflappable attention or those alert to the changing subtleties of the environment could appreciate. In the first instance, I was in dire straits, desperately hungry and yearning for sustenance. Yet the search presented itself as an enigma with no apparent solution, a labyrinth into which I wandered with perplexity. However, like a gleam of revelation in the midst of the blackness, an unsuspected possibility manifested itself in my mind: the dried fruits. These tiny treasures of nature did not seem unattainable under certain circumstances, and their collection and adaptation as sustenance were not inordinately complicated undertakings. They could be eaten in their raw state without obvious risk. That lush, thick grove, in particular, offered promising prospects for discovering these prized viands. With this ingrained in my mind, I decided to explore the surrounding undergrowth. I had no intention of leaving the area, so the possibility of encountering some deviation from the norm did not disturb me in the slightest. However, I must confess that this was only a hypothesis in which I was blindly confident, a reckless gamble on the precipice of ignorance. Still, I was willing to plunge into the shadowy depths of this place, in search of answers that lurked in the abyss of uncertainty. As I moved stealthily through the inhospitable realm, my fingers grasped at the exquisite fabric of my dress, tearing a fragment of fabric from the right sleeve. In this labyrinthine and hostile environment, every resource became scarce and precious, and I knew that this small fragment of fabric could be of use in future circumstances. I continued my advance for a few minutes until, emerging from the mist, the imposing silhouette of the nearby oak trees loomed before my eyes. As I approached, the wind rustled through the leaves, intoning a melancholy lament and announcing the presence of what I ardently longed for: acorns, those cunningly hidden nuts that could satiate my insatiable appetite. These tiny botanical gems had all the necessary attributes to become my salvation in that desolate spot. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. The presence of several oak trees nearby made the task of gathering easier. Although I could already see some acorns scattered on the ground, I did not stop to contemplate them. An irrational impulse urged me to look for a sturdy branch, strong enough to shake the treetops and trigger a precipitation of acorns. I tirelessly repeated the procedure, scrupulous at every step, collecting the acorns with exquisite precision and depositing them in the torn fabric of my dress. I had refined that cloth into a makeshift wrapper, making sure to hold it firmly in my hands. With skill and determination, I filled the wrapper with as many acorns as I could gather, knowing that the vast forest still harboured promising possibilities for more of the nuts I craved. After the arduous task of gathering was done, I decided to return to the lake, a refuge that gave me some safety amidst the ominous atmosphere that enveloped the place. There, with meticulousness and discernment, I carefully examined each acorn, separating those that met the criteria of maturity, dryness and consistency suitable for consumption. I discarded those that were in poor condition or had not yet reached optimum maturity. Although the quantity was considerably reduced, the selected acorns were still a vital resource to meet the challenge I faced. However, I could not ignore the inherent limitations of my rudimentary cloth sack, whose capacity was drastically constrained. I was acutely aware that its capacity to hold a considerable number of acorns was severely restricted, and this presented a challenge that I had to meet shrewdly. I recognised the barriers imposed by my own limitations and my lack of foresight in not having foreseen a more suitable means of transporting a larger quantity of these coveted fruits. However, in this inhospitable environment, adaptability was the key to survival, and I was determined to overcome any adversity that dared to stand in my way. After a scrupulous selection of the most suitable acorns, I proceeded to deftly separate the wrappings from the fruits, but only those that were necessary to satisfy my immediate appetite. I made sure that I had a sufficient number of acorns to guarantee me stability for a specific period of time. Meticulously and cautiously, I nestled the acorns into the heart of a nearby branch, making sure they were solidly anchored, ready to be used at the right moment, when hunger and need would clamour for sustenance. The next step, inescapable in my journey, required the lighting of the dancing flame, but, in retrospect, I could discern my mistake. I should have anticipated the need for a campfire, foresightedly gathered the elements that would fan its flames. However, I could not allow a stumble in the sequence of events to dampen my momentum. My survival lay in my ability to adapt and find solutions even in the most challenging and adverse moments. Undoubtedly, this act revealed my state of intrinsic perplexity, engendered by the enigmatic influence of this site. With unwavering determination, with exquisite meticulousness, I gathered each of the pristine acorns and once again encased them in the wrapping. Making use of the branch that had taken hold, I ingeniously entwined a fragment of cloth, tenaciously securing it around the wood. And so, with heart throbbing in rapture, I ventured boldly once more into the abysmal depths of the forest, in pursuit of more resources for my restless purposes. With unwavering determination, with exquisite meticulousness, I gathered each of the pristine acorns and once again encased them in the wrapping. Making use of the branch that had taken hold, I ingeniously entwined a fragment of cloth, tenaciously securing it around the wood. And so, with heart throbbing in rapture, I ventured boldly once more into the abysmal depths of the forest, in pursuit of more resources for my restless purposes. In the confusing boundary of that gloomy place, where my steps resonated like a sinister symphony in the ineffable silence that enveloped it, a complex question tangled its threads in the recesses of my thoughts: How many times is it necessary to traverse a path to abandon one project and embrace another? It was not, in my case, a resignation but rather a continuation... Isn''t that so? Although the words reverberated in my mind without reaching a defined clarity, my resolve remained unbroken. I was willing to undertake whatever was necessary, regardless of the horrors that might be hidden behind the veil of uncertainty. Once again, I found myself immersed in the tangled embrace of the forest, my eyes eagerly scanning the shadows, anxious to discover the suitable branches for my unique purpose. The first task was to find a long and sturdy branch that would bend to my will. After meticulously examining various options, my gaze settled on a branch exuding deep and twisted darkness, with almost a meter of elevation and a diameter of three centimeters. However, a single branch would not suffice to complete the sinister symphony I was orchestrating. I yearned for another, a companion in this twisted choreography. It didn''t take long to materialize before my eyes, trained to discover beauty in the grotesqueˇŞa branch of more modest dimensions but equally evocative. With about forty-five centimeters in length and a diameter of barely a centimeter, its exquisitely vulnerable fragility made it the perfect choice for my ominous purposes. Yet, I not only needed branches but also craved the complicity of stones in my macabre undertaking. My gaze remained unsettling, scrutinizing the ground for stones that could satisfy my insatiable needs. After an obsessive and exhaustive search, my trembling fingers finally seized a solid and resilient stone, exuding a coldness capable of sending shivers down my spine. Its flat and hard shape promised to be an ally in my macabre dance. However, destiny, with its malevolent wisdom, bestowed upon me not one but two stones, similar in appearance but different in essence. Each possessed its own hidden strength, ready to serve my sordid purpose. With meticulous precision, I arranged the collected branches and stones, fully aware of the pressing need to find an improvised rope for my task. However, in that isolated corner, the prospect of obtaining a conventional rope faded into the unfathomable blackness of the abyss. At that moment, a revelation materialized in my psyche: the bark of a tree could be the solution to my dilemma. With firm steps and a discerning gaze, I delved into exploring the surroundings, evaluating with sagacity which of the trees would offer the ideal bark for my purpose. After covering a short distance, I stood before a vegetal colossus, a prodigious arboreal marvel defying logic as it ascended to the unfathomable heights of the firmament, easily surpassing twenty meters in height. Approaching cautiously, feeling the weight of its imposing presence, I used one of the collected stones to meticulously detach a portion of its bark, without prejudicing the tree that seemed to harbor ancient secrets. The forest''s dimness made it challenging to ascertain which of the stones had been chosen for such a delicate task; both seemed to merge into an ancestral enigma. Though disconcerting, I persisted in my endeavor, and after a prolonged wait, I managed to obtain a thin strip of bark, approximately two inches wide and three feet in length. It was a strip of extraordinary solidity, carrying an unusual strength that seemed to vibrate in harmony with a primordial energy. Fully satisfied with my collection, I returned to the lakeshore, carrying my findings with reverential respect and growing unease. Once again, I found myself compelled to bid farewell to my precious materials in that solitary place, unable to take them with me. I deposited them with utmost care near a tree of singular magnificence, trusting in its protection, although an ominous shadow loomed in the deepest recesses of my being. Chapter 13: Cats cradle The Empty Mirror Chapter 13: Cat''s cradle Without delay, I immersed myself once again in the density of the forest, my mind tormented by the urgency to find branches and dry leaves, the necessary ingredients for my, perhaps, somber undertaking. Although the inherent monotony of this task was despairing, I understood the inexorability of each step. However, doubts began to whisper in the deep abyss of my reason: To what extent was this prodigious effort imperative? Was it worth surrendering with such fervor for a specific goal? Despite not having made significant progress so far, that was not truly the core of the issue that troubled me... My exhaustive exploration of the intricate woodland surroundings led me to meticulously trace every dry branch and leaf. As I collected a sufficient amount of material, a strange sense of security seized me in that place, which, despite fostering my perpetual disorientation, seemed to be a refuge where true loss had no place. I returned to the edge of the water with my precious collection, aware that the time had come to put it into practice. Using a rock as support, I proceeded with great care to split the long branch into two parts. Subsequently, I meticulously joined both sections using the bark of the tree. I was fully aware that it was not the most suitable option, as the bark lacked flexibility, creating palpable tension. Nevertheless, I did everything in my power to ensure I achieved an optimal result, even if it didn''t reach ephemeral perfection. Surprisingly, it seemed to have an effect in the circumstances I found myself in. In this way, I fashioned a rudimentary yet fully effective bow. However, I still needed to find a solution to create a sort of drill. I took the slenderest branch from one end and sharpened it to obtain a precise point. The collected stones revealed their valuable utility at this critical moment. I decided to move away from the water not to defile it; that conviction firmly settled in my mind. I gathered a small pile of previously selected dry branches and leaves and placed the sharp tip of my improvised drill upon it. Amidst the dimness of the forest, shrouded in an unsettling atmosphere, I began to drill into the pile of material. Each rotation of the drill was accompanied by a discordant crunch, as if I were violating the very mysteries of nature. Sweat beaded on my forehead as an anguishing uncertainty took hold of me. What hidden forces was I summoning with my actions? Was I disturbing an ancestral balance that should remain buried in oblivion? The process unfolded like a laborious and overwhelming odyssey. The echo of the rudimentary drill delving into the veins of the dry branches and leaves seemed to reverberate in the air, infusing a disquiet that rooted itself in the deepest recesses of my being. The forest, in its unfathomable mystery, seemed to whisper enigmatic secrets as I continued with my task. My hands trembled slightly, and my mind was overwhelmed by unanswered questions. To what extent was I willing to delve into my quest for knowledge? Would I be able to face the relentless consequences of my actions? Gripping the upper part firmly between my right fingers, I skillfully wielded the bow and made it dance around the drill with millimetric precision. Fully aware of the intricate laws of friction, I placed my trust in the perpetual movement to generate the latent fire needed to kindle the dormant embers of the dry branches and leaves, which would assume their role as fuel. However, amid my tireless effort, a disturbing unease rooted itself in the depths of my being, like an ominous foreboding lurking from the profound abysses of my mind. I rubbed with increasing intensity, displaying a technical mastery acquired through countless hours of study. Despite my meticulous efforts, the result remained elusive, like a shadow slipping through my fingers. Minutes slipped away fleetingly as I tried different tactics and stratagems, seeking to unveil the coveted success that resisted revealing itself. Furthermore, my injured hand, akin to an open wound escaping its confinement, exuded a burning pain intertwining with the persistent discomfort of my task. Nevertheless, my will, unyielding as a lighthouse in the midst of a storm, stood ready to defy the limits imposed by adversity, eager to uncover the mysteries lurking in the shadows. And finally, like a glimmer of light in the unfathomable darkness, a tiny spark ignited in the obscurity, defying the abyss of uncertainty. I did not pause; I moved forward with a mix of hope and fear, for the nascent fire seemed to breathe life into the desolate landscape, as if its ancient flames had been stirred by an ancestral breath. I endeavored to keep it alive, battling the voracity of the hostile environment seeking to extinguish its glow. The triumph, however, was mine... I achieved it. In the midst of the abyssal vastness, I stood in a small victory, where shadows cowered, and fears faded before my indomitable determination. At the outset, seeds of uncertainty sprouted within me, threatening to undermine my faith in the forthcoming success. Nevertheless, I prevailed over the confines of despair, rising in a small triumph against the vastness of doubt, like a lone captain finding their course amid the disorienting mist. If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Despite this, an unfathomable question rooted itself in the depths of my tormented thoughts. What would have happened if I had yielded in my effort just a few moments earlier? Would it have altered the course of events? However, in that moment, the quest for answers was overshadowed by the urgency of the present, by the imperative need to continue the tedious task looming over me. The acorns once again claimed the intimate embrace of the fire. With utmost care, I impaled the acorns on a branch again, ensuring to handle them cautiously while holding the branch in my left hand. Although the discomfort persisted in my hand, I deemed its utility far outweighed any momentary inconvenience. Furthermore, an incipient fatigue took hold of me, leading me to yearn for the possibility of immersing myself in a rejuvenating bath. Since my arrival in this forest, I had been deprived of this regenerative experience, and now I felt an urgent need to revitalize my body and spiritˇ­ However, as the flames danced and eagerly consumed the fuel, something subtle yet disquieting gestated in the profound depths of my being, in stark contrast to the moment of my arrival in this place. A disturbing sense of impurity infiltrated my being, as if the fire itself were searing me from within, craving to relentlessly devour everything in its path. However, its voracious desire was constrained, unable to satisfy its insatiable appetite autonomously. And thus arises the next question, looming like a specter on the horizon of reflection: To what extent is the recommendation to live in society justified? Each individual fulfills their function inevitably, nourishing each other in a tangled web of interactions. But where is the threshold at which such interaction strips itself of its benevolent value and becomes a prison for the soul? I even venture to ask if it ever truly possessed genuine value... Could it be that this reality imposes restrictions on our humanity, turning us into captives of a lifestyle that constrains us? In my unyielding endeavor to unravel these mysteries, aware of the impossibility of attaining absolute knowledge, I find myself compelled to inquire and explore relentlessly. As my mind delves into the richness of the surrounding natural environment, I experience a sense of fearless protection under the majestic mantle of its splendor. I plunge into a dreamlike universe, wrapped in the celestial loom, as if it were a garment of flowers unfolding before my astonished eyes, inviting me to delve into the hidden realms of the unknown. Once my ritual was complete, I meticulously extinguished the flames burning in the campfire, and carefully gathered my belongings. The acorns, I placed in the improvised wrapping, aware that they carried with them a deep and arcane symbolism. The bow and drill, silent witnesses to my limitations in efficiently lighting fires, I left resting at the feet of a nearby tree. That latent limitation became a tangible manifestation of my inexperience in this hostile and mysterious world that surrounds me... To whom am I superficially showcasing my worth in this profound desolation? Once my task was fulfilled, I raised my gaze and was overwhelmed by a terrifying sight: the Sun had completely disappeared. A chilling shiver ran through me as my eyes searched for any trace of its existence. Desperately, I hurried to find it, but I found not the slightest vestige on the horizon. Anguish seized me, enveloping me in unfathomable unease. Despite the absence of the sun, the sky appeared clear, as if it were still morning. However, that clarity was ominous, a deceptive veil concealing the darkness that had taken dominion over the planet. I couldn''t determine how much time I had spent on my duties, but it was evident that a temporal span still lay ahead. A somber time, alien to normalcy, urging me to explore and unveil the truth behind this aberrant anomalyˇ­ I decided to venture into the forest in search of any vestige of life, some manifestation of sanity amid the prevailing insanity. My steps echoed with a disturbing resonance as I ventured among the trees, which seemed to whisper dark secrets among their twisted branches. The atmosphere became dense, saturated with an oppressive silence that intertwined with my own labored breathing. My hopes dwindled rapidly when, after a meticulous search, I only found a few scattered acorns on the forest floor. The scarcity of resources was palpable, a gloomy reflection of the reality enveloping me. However, I was not willing to succumb to despair. Seizing the peculiarity of the situation, I strode with determination along the path, hoping to find some trace that would shed light on this supernatural enigma. Once there, I delved into every nook with a scrutinizing gaze, aware that the veil between darkness and revelation was becoming increasingly fragile. My mind, caught in a disquieting duality, wrestled between the fear nesting in the unknown and the curiosity driving me to unravel the hidden secrets. And then, in a shadowy corner, my gaze stopped at something out of place: scattered mushrooms on the surface of some trees. Their presence, as subtle as it was unsettling, seemed to emerge from a hidden dimension, intertwined with ours in a macabre dance. Despite my limited expertise in mycological identification, I immersed myself fervently in the task of acquiring knowledge in this enigmatic field, aware that my eagerness for understanding challenged conventional and cautioned norms. The specimens unfolding before me exhibited a morphology undoubtedly reminiscent of mushrooms. Their convex, smooth-surfaced caps seemed to invite the unwary to delve into their dark abysses. The cylindrical and slender stems widened at the base, as if concealing a dark and ancient secret. As I examined them closely, an undeniable conviction seized me, confirming that they were indeed mushrooms. Their color palette, dominated by beige and brown tones, resembled the typical appearance of this species, but a hint of strangeness permeated their coloring, like an indication of the influence of sinister forces on their existence. I took one of the mushrooms between my fingers, scrutinizing the gills beneath its cap, a crucial distinguishing feature for the proper classification of these beings. These gills, with a pearly hue and subtly separated, revealed a firm and fleshy texture, hinting at a mysterious essence that eluded the bounds of discernment. As for the caps, they appeared solid and velvety to the touch, as if hiding ancient cautions beneath their seductive surface. Nevertheless, my attention wasn''t solely confined to visual and tactile aspects; I paid particular care to the fragrance they emitted. The mushrooms exuded a penetrating yet gentle aroma, earthy in nature, evoking memories of forgotten lands and paths buried in time. With caution, I dismissed those specimens emitting intense or unpleasant odors, aware that they could be indicators of insidious and deadly toxicity. Chapter 14: Cinderella The Empty Mirror Chapter 14: Cinderella Guided by these rigorous criteria, I proceeded prudently with the selection of mushrooms that met the desired characteristics. Though their number was scarce, and most did not meet perfection standards for various reasons, I managed to gather some specimens that seemed suitable to satisfy my eager appetite and unravel the veiled secrets these fungal beings held in their enigmatic existence. However, the incompatibility of storing them alongside the acorns, due to the potential influence of mushroom compounds on the flavor of these fruits, led me to make a decision. With delicacy and respect, I wrapped the mushrooms in a piece of fabric torn once again from the sleeve of my right arm, aware that this act would alter the appearance of my attire. As a result, my right sleeve acquired a noticeably shortened look, as if it had undergone involuntary amputation, a tangible symbol of austerities I was willing to face in my insatiable quest for knowledge and survival in this ruthless and mysterious world. Furthermore, as I continued scrutinizing the meticulously collected mushrooms, I was astonished to discover that they weren''t ordinary mushrooms but appeared to be shiitake mushrooms. This unexpected find added an intriguing nuance to the situation, intensifying the sense of unease that engulfed me. Heading towards the lake with heightened senses, my perceptions picked up on something out of the ordinary. Twilight seemed to shift with supernatural speed, gliding from one place to another in a dizzying sway. Driven by curiosity and growing unease, I hurriedly moved from one spot to another to confirm what my eyes had witnessed. To my astonishment and horror, I realized that time flowed normally only when I stayed in one place. When moving between any of the three locations, time instantly vanished, advancing approximately an hour with each shift. This anomaly grew increasingly complex and manifested in constant changes, turning into an incomprehensible enigma... I felt an urgent need to head to the lake and fulfill a task of vital importance: obtaining clay. While many would consider this endeavor arduous, my conviction was steadfast regarding the existence of clay in that place, as if the very earth whispered the presence of this hidden treasure. During my tireless explorations along the lake''s shores, my perceptual sensors found a fine, silky texture characteristic of genuine clay. Its slippery and sticky touch confirmed, without a shadow of doubt, its existence in that remote location. Scrutinizing it meticulously, I distinguished a subtle brown hue in its appearance, as if harboring ancestral secrets in its apparent simplicity, revealing a forgotten narrative in each prominence. The versatility of this plastic material ignited my imagination, envisioning it as the sublime choice for forging a vessel destined to safeguard food, an object meant to transcend time itself, immortalizing my passage through this mysterious territory. As my eyes examined the fragments of stone intertwined in the clay, a curious impulse urged me to take a handful between my hands and skillfully stretch it into a consistent thread. To my amazement, the thread remained intact, without fracturing, attesting to the quality and purity of this authentic clay, as if its very essence resisted being deformed or dismembered. However, amid my astonishment and fascination, an unsettling sensation began to take hold of me. The silky and slippery texture of the clay seemed to come to life under my fingers, in a twisted and contorted dance of subtle yet disquieting character. A wave of repulsion and displeasure coursed through me, as if my hands were in contact with something more than a simple earthly material. It was as if my fingers were in intimate contact with something foreign to this tangible world, something that defied the boundaries of human understanding and ventured into the mysterious realms of the unknown. The challenge that awaited me lay in the skillful manipulation of that enigmatic and ominous substance, whose mystery was hidden in the depths of time, where the shadows of the past intertwined with the designs of the present. Majestic stones, some of considerable magnitude, stood silent guardians near the lake, erected as witnesses to primordial times, serving as mute witnesses to ancestral secrets buried beneath their imposing presence. With determined effort, I managed to move one of them to the shore, feeling the ancestral weight of its mass pressing on my inquisitive spirit, as if an archaic force resisted disturbance, zealously guarding the mysteries surrounding that monument of ages. Although not of colossal dimensions, its imposing presence provided a suitable foundation for my restless intentions, as if it were a sacrificial altar awaiting its use in a dark ritual destined to invoke powers beyond human understanding. However, its proximity to the water greatly complicated its relocation, challenging my resolve in an unsettling game where human will was subjected to the indomitable force of nature. In the end, I prevailed, and the rock rested in that shadowy spot, where it awaited its destiny imbued with shadows and ominous omens, as if the earth itself had conspired to place it in that exact point where telluric energies seemed to converge in a macabre cosmic dance. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. With almost supernatural patience, I submerged my hands into the frigid waters of the lake, using them as instruments of purification to meticulously cleanse the surface of the rock, as if performing a forgotten ritual that transcended time and dimensions. Every nook, every crack, had to be purged of earthly impurities, preparing the ground for the ominous fate that awaited it, as if I were communicating with ancestral entities whose true purposes were known only to beings that wander in the shadows beyond our understanding. An oppressive silence hung over the place as I carried out that mystical and unusual ritual, as if the entire universe held its breath, aware of the importance and power of that act, as if creative forces observed expectantly and insidious the culmination of that dark spell. The wind barely whispered, as if fearing to interrupt the communion established between my being and the rock imbued with enigmas, as if the very air currents carried unfathomable secrets and hidden messages in their subtle murmur. Next, with a trembling and shaky hand, I placed the collected clay onto the stone''s surface, a dark and malleable material, akin to the essence of nightmares. Its cold and damp touch seemed to pulsate between my fingers, as if harboring a hidden and malevolent presence that awaited release from the deepest, vile depths. The task of molding and shaping it proved to be a tortuous challenge, a sinister dance between my hands and that clayish being that took on a life of its own under my influence, as if every pinch and every shaping resonated in the shadows of the primal abyss. In the uncertain flow of time, it seemed to extend into a perpetual now as my mind delved into the abyss of creation, exploring the boundaries of the forbidden and the unknown. Every twist and stretch of the clay challenged the laws, a daring invitation to transgress the barriers of the known reality. The material, obedient to my designs, also revealed its own will, an unsettling volatility that fueled my unfathomable curiosity and threatened to defy my dominion, acquiring a deceptive softness that veiled its true nature. I observed it with shadowy and enigmatic eyes, evaluating every shade, every detail of that corrupted material. Every contour and fold of the emerging form seemed to whisper unspeakable secrets, as if my dark art had managed to capture the essence of abysses and primordial terrors. Only when I was convinced of its perfection, of its ability to summon the unfathomable and unveil the unfathomable, did I know that it was ready to move on to the next step of my anguishing experiment, delving even deeper into the abyss of blasphemous creation and forbidden knowledge, where only the brave venture, and the foolish find their demise. The clay rested on the rock for an indefinite time, while its transformation completed in a confusing and enigmatic process. The boundaries between the tangible and the supernatural faded, plunging my perception into a state of perplexity and wonder. It was essential to subject it to a new filtration process, as if attempting to purge any trace of impurity that dared to profane my creation, banishing from it every vestige of impiety and desecration. With great care and precision, I proceeded to cut a fragment of cloth from the left sleeve of my garment, a fabric impregnated with my own essence, an echo of my being. Afterwards, I gave myself to a thorough preliminary washing, removing any impurities that might affect my objective. However, a perplexing problem presented itself: the cumbersome drying process would take considerable time, perhaps hours or even days. Driven to find a suitable solution that would not hinder my progress, I felt an irresistible force urging me to explore alternatives that would circumvent this obstacle imposed by the inexorable passage of time. It was at that precise moment when an ominous revelation seized my perceptive mind, a poisoned intuition that led me down a dark but promising path, to use that anomaly... I decided to take advantage of the unusual anomaly in that gloomy border, using the hidden authority lurking in its domains for my own benefit. With unyielding tenacity, I clutched in my hands the piece of fabric subtly infused with my deepest desires and most guarded secrets. Thus, I ventured once again into the sinister grove, guided by the whisper of shadows and the sleepless entities lurking in the unknown. When the two realms, one tangible and the other subtly enigmatic, converged in a transcendental clash, the very fabric of time was shaken by a tumultuous shudder, a cosmic vibration that brought with it the disturbing disruption of the established order. As if by the art of an abominable enchantment, the piece of fabric, previously steeped in the hidden essence, emerged suddenly, freed from all moisture. This immediate metamorphosis was overwhelming and deeply unsettling, defying the innate laws that govern our known universe and plunging my mind into a state of awe and fear at the elusive nature of the reality unfolding before me. Back at the ominous lake, I yearned to obtain enough clay to be deposited onto the piece of fabric. Although its volume was not excessive, it suited the purposes I eagerly sought to achieve. With meticulous precision, I hung the clay over the fabric, tying it to a twisted tree with a knot loose enough to allow the filtration of impurities and undesirable substances. However, I still needed time to pass for the drying process to fully consummate, in an unsettling wait filled with anxiety and anticipation, where the flow of time became a lurking and capricious enemy. Therefore, I decided to venture once again into that dense forest, convinced that upon my return, the task would be accomplished. That cursed anomaly, infused in the very warp of time, had corrupted our conception of reality, unsettling the foundations of our human understanding. The undeniable and grotesque proof unfolded before my eager eyes: a process that, under normal circumstances, would require a considerable span, had been altered and replaced in a matter of seconds, defying all human logic and reasoning. The clay was partially dry but still retained enough moisture to be shaped and manipulated, presenting a hybrid texture that fueled the ambiguity of its existence, a fusion between the dry and the wet that ignited the flames of the inexplicable. With a mix of disturbance and aversion, I began shaping the clay between my hands, kneading it delicately to give it a smooth texture and rid it of any trace of air bubbles, as if I were extracting the very essence from hidden abysses, a substance resisting full revelation. The mass yielded under the pressure of my fingers, taking on a uniform appearance devoid of any undesirable imperfection, as if obeying a will from spheres beyond the earthly, a mysterious force guiding my movements with an overwhelming and perplexing presence. In every turn of my hands, I experienced an overwhelming sensation, an intimate connection with the unfathomable. With innate mastery, my hands unfolded a supernatural choreography on the clay, shaping it with a skill only attained by those versed in the secrets of art. Each movement, each calculated pressure, accompanied by cunning with sticks and stones, molded the formless mass into a labyrinthine vessel worthy of the most refined culinary creations, evoking reverence and astonishment. Chapter 15: Breath of insanity The Empty Mirror Chapter 15: Breath of insanity In every corner, unparalleled meticulousness was evident, an obsessive dedication bordering on the divine. Each detail was attended to with reverence, and every stroke and contour was perfected with absolute mastery of the craft, as if my hands were instruments guided by a celestial muse. The result was a vessel that emanated archetypal beauty, a receptacle infused with the very essence of the sublime, a physical manifestation of deep dreams. Perfection extended beyond the exterior. The lid, an equally sublime piece, was conceived to fit with millimetric precision, bestowing a hermetic seal on the vessel that only the most discerning could appreciate. Every union was a sacred marriage between form and function, a perfect symbiosis that sealed the fate of this mystical creation, destined to transcend the limits of human perception. Immersed in the fiery vortex of my art, time, an ephemeral human concept, faded into the nebula of creation. I lost track of hours, though I estimate that at least one, if not more, slipped through my skilled fingers without my consciousness, wrapped in creative frenzy, perceiving its passage. In the creative ecstasy, where inspiration and darkness danced in an enigmatic embrace, I decided, in addition to the main vessel, to shape an additional figure. A pointed sculpture of irregular appearance, with a latent vibration foretelling hidden and mysterious purpose in times to come. The sharp and twisted contour seemed to whisper a distant echo of ancient truth, destined to reveal itself when stars aligned and the veil of time unfolded. Upon completing my work, a profound sense of satisfaction flooded my being, as if the Castalian Springs themselves, in their divine splendor, had poured their grace upon me. Consciously, I knew that one final step remained, one that would demand patience and dedication. The clay figures had to undergo the sacred rite of drying, allowing each particle to absorb the essence of creation and reach its fullness of being, like a chrysalis transforming into a beautiful butterfly. This was not a mere brief passage but more than two full days of waiting, a sacred time in which every clay particle, imbued with the breath of divinity, would become solid and transcendent. During this period of repose, where the external world faded into the background, I immersed myself in the contemplation of latent beauty and the mysteries hidden in the very heart of matter, thus unveiling the enigmas that existence whispers to those willing to listen. Despite the temptation to once again invoke the enigmatic qualities of the forest that lingered in my restless mind, I restrained myself. I did not wish, in any way, to trivialize something so fascinating and mysterious. I had experienced the effects of such interventions before, as if a gentle sonata whispered ancient secrets in my ear. But now, with keen discernment, I understood the importance of exercising responsibility in my actions and allowing the process to follow its natural course, aligned with the cosmic designs that reveal themselves to those willing to listen and learn from the subtleties of the universe, in a sidereal dance of unfathomable mysteries. In this way, I found myself immersed in a moment of suspended waiting, in intimate communion with the mystery enveloping my work. The clay, so docile and receptive, patiently awaited its drying process, while I, filled with anticipation and reverence, prepared to take the final step in this sacred creative ritual. The vessel, with its unsettling and enigmatic aura, stood as a silent witness to the hidden ancestral and dark secrets concealed in every crevice of its majestic form. Every fold, every line, seemed to whisper a forgotten story, an echo of distant times that yearned to manifest itself through the material molded by my hands, like an ancient lament buried in the annals of time. The laborious process in which I had immersed myself, in the dense tangle of creation, demanded considerable temporal expenditure. Meanwhile, the oppressive darkness of the forest loomed over me, heralding the imminent fall of night. The sunset, with its melancholic and ephemeral beauty, seemed to urge me to promptly return to the castle''s domains, where safety and shelter awaited my return. With meticulousness and caution, I carefully hid all my belongings amid the herbaceous abundance, ensuring their protection from potential harm caused by animal curiosity. My valuable clay creation, so fragile and delicate, needed to be safeguarded with special attention, just like the harvest of provisions obtained during my creative journey in this land full of mysteries and shadows that seemed to dance to the rhythm of the unknown. With everything arranged in order, I embarked on the path back to the castle, following the trail that led northward. My footsteps resonated in the stillness of the forest, accompanied by the whisper of the wind among the ancient trees, as if they were voices unveiling their masks in unintelligible murmurs. The path, bathed in a dim and mysterious light, guided me back to my refuge, where I could calmly contemplate the fruit of my labor and immerse myself in the secure embrace of the starry night, which seemed to reveal hidden truths only to those willing to listen to the whispers of the stars. During my pilgrimage, my mind was ensnared by insidious concerns, whose answers eluded my understanding with relentless cunning. Among them, the mystery of the sun''s absence in its usual daytime position seemed unsettling, surpassing the limits of my rational comprehension, plunging me into an abyss of metaphysical uncertainty. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Throughout the day, I saw no signs of any living creature, heightening my unease and restlessness. The prevailing desolation enveloped me in an atmosphere of sidereal solitude, as if the vital essence of the place had dissipated into the shadows of oblivion, leaving behind an empty echo that resonated in the sepulchral silence. Finally, I arrived at the majestic gates of the castle, hoping to be welcomed with open arms, in a meeting between the known and the unknown. I knocked repeatedly, seeking the echo of a welcome, but silence stood as the sole witness, with no soul emerging to satisfy my longing for companionship, plunging me even deeper into the abyss of loneliness and abandonment. I remained there, motionless, as the nocturnal darkness embraced everything in its ominous and oppressive hug, as if the shadows themselves danced around me, challenging me to venture into the realm of the unknown. I patiently waited, resisting the temptation to burst into the castle as if it were my own domain, showing due respect to the mysteries that hid within, aware that the darkness harbored secrets not to be taken lightly. Nevertheless, an irresistible unease seized me, and with gentleness, I pushed the door, which opened with surprising ease, evidence of its decay and abandonment. I crossed the threshold with some timidity, entering a scene that seemed to have petrified in time, unchanged since my last morning contemplation, as if the clock of reality had stopped in this place of shadows and enigmas. With caution, I ventured into the bowels of the castle, but a chilling sensation ran down my spine, announcing the presence of something unspeakable lurking in the gloom, watchful of my arrival. It was as if the very structure of the place, imbued with ancient malevolence, came to life and greeted me with silent and ancestral hostility, revealing its twisted and disturbing nature. With utmost care and precision, I arranged the clay objects strategically near the vast window of the ancestral castle, as if a hidden and ineffable choreography guided my movements. The room, immersed in oppressive darkness, seemed to harbor a malevolent presence in its shadowy corners, like a dark breath seeping through the cracks in the walls, instilling palpable fear in every atom of the environment. Every movement, slow and cautious, needed to be executed with exquisite precision, as if disturbing the delicate harmony ruling that lugubrious chamber could unleash unimaginable consequences and reveal unfathomable secrets. Thus, with trembling yet determined hands, I placed the clay creations in their designated abodes, like offerings on a shadowy altar whose veiled meaning eluded my mortal understanding. Upon completing my task, a mix of intrigue and apprehension filled me, my spirit eager to seek the mercy of the man and apologize for my abrupt intrusion into his sacred sanctuary. However, an irrational and arcane fear overcame me as I approached that ominous threshold, as if the very essence of the air became dense and oppressive under the influence of a dark and menacing presence, whispers of an immeasurable past. My steps echoed on the stone staircases with an ominous reverberation, as if each sound awakened the ancient stillness of the place, reviving memories and fears buried in oblivion. My mind remained focused, fiercely defending my resolve to delve into the mystery hidden behind that door. I ascended with determination, reaching the second floor and approaching the threshold of the man''s room, as if each step dragged me toward a vertex of reality where the laws of time and sanity seemed to fade away, leaving behind an abyss of unfathomable uncertainty. The man, in his perpetual stillness, lay in the same pose as I found him that morning, as if the flow of time had been suspended in his presence. His figure, akin to a petrified statue, embodied an unanswered enigma, a fragment of existence torn from the very fabric of the universe and cast into the abyss of the unknown. The door, defiant in its colossal opening, stood as a threshold to a hidden and macabre world, inviting me with its unfathomable blackness to venture into forbidden domains, where reason and sanity succumb to the vastness of indescribable and encrypted terrors. However, something had changed since our last encounter. A glimmer of bitterness reflected in his eyes, as if the very shadow of the castle had found an echo in the tortured depths of his soul. With hesitant steps, I approached him and, with a trembling voice, addressed the man, struggling to articulate my words amidst a shiver coursing down my spine. "Excuse me..." I stammered, feeling the fear seize my words, submerging them in the oppressive atmosphere that enveloped us. "What''s the matter?" His indifferent tone seemed to imply that the world and its conventions lacked any meaning for him. My suspicions that he slept with open eyes faded in the face of his alert and serene presence. An uncontrollable shiver overcame me, but I gathered the necessary courage to continue. With trembling hands, I extended the makeshift cloth bag containing the acorns towards himˇŞa modest gesture imbued with twisted, almost grotesque symbolism. "Grant me, with benevolence, to present you with these nuts... Though their value may seem meager, they represent all I managed to obtain at this moment," I uttered, feeling a slight blush of shame tinge my cheeks. The enigmatic figure, hidden in the unfolding shadows of the room, replied without hesitation, emanating a mysterious presence from the depths of the darkness. His words reverberated in the air, wrapping the space in a veil of mystery and disturbance, as if they were cosmic whispers emerging from some unfathomable corner of the universe. My perplexity at such an enigmatic response left me speechless, unsure of how to react, so I chose to silently withdraw my offering, aware that I had crossed the threshold into an alien and hermetic domain. After a brief moment of silence, I continued with my words, struggling to maintain a composed demeanor amid the confusion. "I do not aspire to impose further discomfort upon you... I will immerse myself in the outskirts of the castle in search of fleeting relief. I beg you not to experience any perplexity," I stated with apparent calmness, though my voice barely whispered, as if fearing to disrupt the fragile balance enveloping that mysterious enclosure. The individual responded in a monotonous tone, devoid of any glimmer of emotion or interest, as if my words were mere ephemeral particles dissipating into the sidereal wind. His indifference plunged me into an even greater perplexity, fueling the enigma shrouding his being in the shadows of the unknown. Chapter 16: Sugar Nightmare The Empty Mirror Chapter 16: Sugar Nightmare With deliberation, I withdrew, silently advancing towards the stairs that led to the lower regions of the castle. Each descending step became a small journey into the unknown depths of that ancient enclosure. As I progressed, my mind couldn''t help but evoke the unsettling image of his scarlet eyes, whose insane gleam provoked in me a strange and unpleasant sensation, as if I were witnessing the very essence of the unnameable and forbidden, piercing the barriers of conventional understanding. Finally, I arrived at the lower level of the castle and collapsed exhausted in the heart of that colorful cenotaph, enveloped by the majestic fabric of an intense vermilion hue. The roughness of the stone and the cold emanation from the walls only heightened my discomfort, adding to the growing oppression that had already seized me. The atmosphere, as a whole, became stifling and menacing, as if the castle walls themselves were imbued with an ancestral darkness lurking in every corner. There I was, a prisoner in a sinister and unknown enclave, populated by inscrutable entities that eluded my understanding. My mind was immersed in unsettling questions, while uncertainty and fear intertwined in the depths of my being, and curiosity struggled not to abandon me. It was inevitable to wonder if there was any connection between those disturbing scarlet eyes and the strange repulsion nesting within me. Swoosh swoosh In the dimness of my misfortune, such an extravagant event has burst into my sanity, to the extent that my nerve fibers, arrogantly self-proclaimed as steel nerves with narcissistic disdain, teeter on the edge of their own disintegration. That ephemeral encounter in the castle and the singular anomaly of the forest, once considered insurmountable challenges, fade into insignificance when compared to the onslaught of this unprecedented struggle. To say they pale in comparison to this situation would be an understatement, as such terms lack the necessary depth to describe the heart-wrenching magnitude of what I am experiencing. In this grotesque theater of misfortune, the limits of despair are challenged and transgressed in such a staggering way that not even literary language can encompass the true essence of my anguish. In this misguided juncture, my person was plunged into an unparalleled delirium, with no glimpses of another term to refer to, undoubtedly auguring submission to a catatonic state that would cast doubt on the authenticity of my own existence. The reality unfolding before my eyes, to the point of tempting me to gouge out my eyeballs with my own phalanges, seemed more like a stab perpetrated by what was once a loyal friend, or even worse, the sensation that my own limbs were thrusting a bitter dagger into the depths of my heart, unknown to my full knowledge of such a tragic event. Indeed, I consider that I could be affected by some disorder inducing such a phenomenon, although my certainty wavers on this particular matter, given that I have lost various memories from my mind. All this misfortune would happen, provided that this reality is nothing more than a dream. A dream, you say? Smilingly, I affirm it so; I will not allow the shadow of doubt to loom over my conviction that this is a dream. The mere contemplation of doubting the dreamlike authenticity of this situation awakens an uncontrollable desire in me to shed desperate tears, in the face of the uncertainty that assails my understanding, even escaping the scrutiny of numbers, from one to nine; an uncontrollable reality, where even the surrounding grove does not grant the solace of counting, as it did in the truthful forest. On the threshold of reverie, imaginary numbers, perhaps, could be quantified, but I fear I might be misinterpreting the very concept of what the notion of imaginary numbers entails. It is not, perhaps, about silently enumerating them while attempting to maintain serenity, but rather articulating them with gracious lips... Am I indulging in excessive narcissism? Truly, it matters little. Although I do not adhere to the mathematicians'' guild and certainly do not aspire to become an expert in such a dry discipline, not because I disdain those who excel in this numerical art, but because my proficiency in the mathematical realm is, at best, modest. My cerebral capacity may not stretch beyond my level of understanding of such complex abstractions. Nevertheless, I pay homage and reverence to mathematics, considering it a sublime art. Likewise, I profess respect towards its exponents and inquisitive minds, as ''fanatics'' does not sound particularly elegant when referring to mathematics enthusiasts. Though I do not entirely dismiss the term, simply put, mathematics bestows upon me serenity. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. In the assumption that this reality is, indeed, a dream, the crucial question that arises is how I arrived in this dreamlike place. Obviously, in the dream scenario, the answer to ''how I got here'' translates into immersing myself in the realm of dreams, surrendering deeply to its embrace. I''ve heard through word of mouth that dreams manifest rarely and do not follow a completely predictable pattern. Likewise, I''ve heard that dreams constitute the last journey of the night, when our body has already found its rest. Throughout my life, I have experienced dreams, both good and bad, like any human being, although I do not characterize myself by remembering them before waking up. It''s not about forgetting, in the sense of losing them in the mist of forgetfulness, but rather realizing that I dreamed something and it simply slipped from my memory. Is this common, I suppose? However... This is a full-fledged nightmare. Moments before, in the antechamber of slumber, when shadows begin their nocturnal dance, I find myself descending majestically down the stairs of that centuries-old castle. At the zenith of my dream, I rest in a cenotaph of vivid colors, a place that emanates an uncomfortable feeling when considering the act of dozing in such a funerary abode. Although my repose takes place with relative comfort, I cannot overlook the original purpose of that sepulcher, attributing a new meaning to it by comparing it to a plush bed. This cenotaph, an uninhabited funerary monument, stands as a canvas of dancing shadows on the castle''s stage, where colors, among yellows, reds, and blues, playfully contrast with the enveloping shadows. However, in the moment of reverie, I find myself at the door of this castle, not the terrifying and archaic one, but one that lives at the pinnacle of its splendid beauty, brimming with life, albeit life in an ancient castle having different nuances. At its peak, the castle displays commendable maintenance; its stone walls delight the eyes, while the imposing main door, carved in dark and weighty wood, appears so meticulously crafted that it seems a building alien to the one I knew. It is essentially the same castle, just more flourishing, as if time had surrendered to the timeless beauty of this ancestral fortress. Suddenly, and without preamble, I noticed that, in addition to standing right in front of the door, just a few scant centimeters from my face, my hand was extended in a closed fist, in the posture of a door knocker, at the moment when one is about to seek the attention of the castle''s lord. No, indeed, I had already knocked on the door, delivering several resonant blows, oblivious to how many I might have caused, whether unconsciously or prior to my dream. The fact is that when this reality was revealed to me, a sense of unease enveloped me as I heard footsteps resonating inside the castle, heading towards my position. I felt noticeably embarrassed, anticipating how that man with a somber gaze, with crimson eyes, would open the door, with an expression of displeasure so expressionless. My cheeks burned, imagining myself once again shamefully saying, "My apologies..." only to follow him slowly. However, far from this anticipation, the door creaked open with a silent murmur, and suddenly, a middle-aged lady, with barely noticeable wrinkles and full lips, welcomed me. Before me, a completely unfamiliar woman, and yet, I couldn''t help but articulate hesitantly, "My apologies..." lowering my head, envisioning myself as an intruder in the castle, being received at the entrance. Though beautiful, I could not label her as stunning, a term reserved for those ladies capable of captivating my gaze; however, she certainly lacked no allure, even though she appeared to be of older age. As I looked at her, I experienced a tumult of emotions, a sense of insecurity and fear that made me lower my head, as if that woman were about to strip me of everything. Discomfort seized me because she did not inspire trust, even though I was the one knocking on the door. Despite my insecurity, I quickly raised my head, facing her. Her height slightly surpassed mine, just a noticeable difference, but she seemed to triumph by a few centimeters. However, I was considerably younger. Could she be the betrothed or wife of the castle''s lord? I doubted it; he seemed oblivious to such simple matters. The lady had a mane of bronze-brown hue, slightly gathered and somewhat extensive, mostly hidden by a coif of an even darker brown tone, elegantly styled and presumably made of costly material. Despite all, my now white hair is even more beautiful, albeit supernatural... I couldn''t help but reproach myself with a light tap on the head, maintaining silence. I should not rival her or foster competition, especially when I was the intruder. My behavior seemed to escape my own essence, and perhaps, just maybe, I was experiencing a subtle... jealousy. That lady wore a velvet outfit with an archaic air, yet, in all honesty, it gleamed almost as if brand new in a state of perfection. The dress, in a petrol blue shade, was adorned with embroidered details and lace, discreetly fitted, accentuating the woman''s figure. Without reservation, I would assert that she possessed a commendably shaped and voluptuous anatomy. Although, speaking truthfully, I shouldn''t blush to express it, being a woman myself; it''s not like I''m about to make a similar statement about a man, as, even though it pertains to the realm of human behavior, it would be embarrassing. Nevertheless, the lady exhibited a somewhat diminished appearance, with slim facial features, barely perceptible in her thinness, and slender hands. Her height seemed slightly above average, wearing a dress with flared sleeves that added volume to her slender figure, along with a thick dark brown belt adorned with a metal buckle and threads of gold. On her feet, she wore closed black leather shoes, devoid of heels. Her sun-kissed complexion and pink lips, along with fine features, gave her an appearance of high society, as if she had emerged from the pages of a fairy tale. Am I the Snow White here? Additionally, she distinguished herself with an indifferent and circumspect attitude, revealing a certain reserve towards others, as well as a tendency towards vanity and egotism. "I awaited your presence eagerly; I invite you to step into this chamber. With great pleasure, I wish to reveal to you the splendid acquisition of this castle, recently added to our heritage by my spouse. Undoubtedly, certain marvels will captivate you, as our residence here spans mere months," the woman uttered after casting me a quick glance, with a haughty gesture and slightly raising her chin. Following that, she turned her back and proceeded towards the interior of the castle, inviting me to follow and explore the zenith of such a majestic fortress. Chapter 17: Bullfighting Ceremony The Empty Mirror Chapter 17: Bullfighting Ceremony I had no choice but to pursue her, contemplating her slender silhouette where her back and waist unfolded with graceful delicacy. Uncertainty led me to ponder what might be revealed by placing even the slightest trust in that lady. Escaping into the depths of the forest seemed like a futile and vain alternative in my situation. Furthermore, a genuine fascination with the history of the castle and its mysteries urged me to continue, though determining if something was hidden in the fortress seemed to be mere speculation lacking foundations. Uuuuhh raaawr The term "primitive" penetrated my thoughts, chilling my blood and causing my skin to bristle as if it were a taboo notion that should be eradicated from the human sphere. Expressions imbued with impurity and tinged with grotesqueness echoed as a repulsive refrain. However, this reaction seemed excessive; although "primitive" is not an essential word in everyday discourse, it is not inconvenient to mention it in a conventional conversation, regardless of the setting or the individuals being addressed. Using "primitive" as an adjective to describe someone would be disrespectful and would reflect poorly on the speaker''s education. It is subtly offensive, comparable to calling someone stupid or inept, albeit less directly but with the same intent. Or maybe I am misinterpreting the true substance of "primitive," as it refers to the first in its lineage, not deriving its origin from another entity. From this perspective, it resonates as a compliment, something unique, not constrained by ideological interferences or amalgams of other individuals. However, my mind collapsed upon itself, as if those thoughts were devouring my brain and identity. I couldn''t continue pondering the topic, something I had relegated for my own prosperity, a veil that rescued me from my own annihilation, from my own calamity... Slish-slosh We walked through the extensive and wide corridors of the castle, dazzling and seemingly captivating with its presence and historyˇŞa sight I never expected to witness. The quest for a castle itself is complicated, with no trace of the whereabouts of these monuments. It''s like looking for a needle in a haystack, even more challenging, as you don''t even know if the castle truly exists in the place you''re exploring. I felt fortunate to stumble upon a castle by mere chance and even more so to have the authority to traverse its intricate passages. I never imagined discovering such a splendid castle, seemingly lifted from a fantasy, as I didn''t even expect to come close to one. Though it may sound novelistic to claim that I hadn''t even imagined it in its best state, I truly didn''t dare to. I was content with experiencing overwhelming curiosity. Upon careful consideration, it almost seemed impossible not to conceive of the castle at its zenith. Fortunately and, to a large extent, unfortunately, we don''t possess the complete and definitive ability to control what we conceive voluntarily or involuntarily. Unintentionally, like an ineffable caress, I had envisioned that monument in its prime, although it was suppressed by my own will. This dream, or rather nightmare, seemed to be a residue of that conception. Although I displayed apparent mastery in this peculiar nightmare, I couldn''t ignore the discomfort and hindered movement sensation typical of night terror. We walked just a few minutes, which surprised me given the peculiar and noticeable length of my monologue. We stopped in the heart of the castle, the banquet hall. The woman advanced with deliberation and slowness, like a priestess in perpetual distress. While I tried to keep up, my legs trembled slightly, whether from apprehension or inquisitive curiosity. I didn''t immediately realize that leading a guest, or attempted visitor, directly to the feast hall was inappropriate and out of place. It would be more coherent to receive a guest in a less prominent setting for the lineage, more suitable for the situation. While she asserted with certainty that she would guide me through the castle''s inner workings, it wouldn''t be strange for us to first delve into its heart to impress and kindle expectations, akin to those who flaunt luxuries and pleasures, as that woman seemed to do at first glance. However, upon closer inspection, I shouldn''t judge her so hastily. She took me back to the beginning of this nightmare, assuming that this place follows the inherent laws of the universe. It would be illogical for the castle owner to abruptly open the door to an outsider, even contradictory. Perhaps the amorphous mass orchestrating the plot has become disoriented, unless I am that aberrant flesh directing it. A film director? Wouldn''t it be more appropriate to speak of a theater director? Master of opera sounds more fitting, though it still maintains a certain degree of vagueness and misinterpretation. Maybe everything has been orchestrated so that someone of significance responds to my involuntary call with extreme urgency. In the real world and at the right time, I would have been received by castle guards or, in the best case, awaited under the watchful eye of the progeny, with attendants and troops ensuring the security of the venue. That would be proper, but the notion of being riddled by warlords seems to dissipate from my judgment because, from that woman''s perspective, I am her guest; she even claimed to have been waiting for me. But why would she really be waiting for me? Did I have the honor of meeting her previously, or how is it possible for me to conceive her appearance and personality in such detail? At least for me, such a level of detail seems to elude the understanding of a mere dream. Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! Something that caught my attention in the banquet hall, apart from the nuanced tapestries and ornaments, was the absence of the strange and hermetic mirror that left me petrified in my steps. In the real world, that mirror was covered by a thick layer of dust and dirt. I imagined I would find that mirror in its place, like a zenith alongside the castle, but it had simply vanished from its previous position, not because it changed places but because it was nowhere to be found. I examined my surroundings carefully, but there was no trace or vestige of the mirror. Perhaps, just perhaps, in the temporality of the nightmare, that mirror had not yet manifested, not yet assumed the relevance that my eyeballs could glimpse. Although the entrance to the banquet hall was characterized by that silver and gold mirror, in this case, despite its absence, something else captured the attention of the threshold. A severed bull''s head rested on the threshold of the banquet hall, meticulously sectioned, with fur as deep black as ebony. Its eyes shared the same jet-black hue, and its mouth, barely visible at first scrutiny, was distinguished by a crimson tint, akin to having imbibed a glass of red wine, a bloody cup. The bull was one of those beasts taxidermied and displayed as trophies. The head lay on a frame of deep brown wood, seemingly attended to with a subtle gloss of varnish, as if it had been polished and revered over generations linked to the castle. While some powerful individuals taxidermy exotic animals to showcase on their properties, such as bears or deer, it''s not as common to find a bull''s head at the threshold of a banquet hall. I''m not saying it''s unusual or overly eccentric, considering that preserving parts of taxidermied animals is eccentric in itself, but I mean that the display of the bull''s head suggests something beyond the obvious, like geographical symbolism or something of the sort. It''s just a conjecture, but there''s no doubt it''s something I had never witnessed. The beast, perhaps hunted, as it''s common to display hunting trophies. That bovine head proudly displayed massive horns with a milky, creamy white hue, emphasizing its eminence, presented not as a trophy but as a standard of the castle. This hinted at a unique connection between the fortress and bullfighting. However, after my contemplations, I heard the woman''s voice again. "The dismembered head of the bull, an object of my spouse''s devotion, constitutes the supreme expression of his pride. Do you find pleasure in such a distinguished emblem?" she said, turning slightly toward me, as if she had perceived my interest in that caprine appendage, even if my attention was focused on it for only a few moments. "Yesˇ­ a magnificent sculpture encapsulating the imposing elegance of the bovine anatomy," I replied swiftly and unsure of how to engage with the woman. It seemed she didn''t expect a witty response and wasn''t disappointed. After my reply, she looked at me with a subtle smile and continued toward the main center of the banquet hall. Spontaneously, I followed. We reached a colossal dining room, where she urged me to take a seat. She occupied the main seat, with the casual attitude of one unaffected by any concern. I, on the other hand, chose a nearby seat, maintaining a distance of a few empty seats between us, cautious of any eventualities. "Allow me to express unease at the possibility that your appetite may be in a state of noticeable neglect. Would it please you to satisfy such a need with some gourmet delicacies before I have the honor of presenting you with the imposing walls of the castle?" - she said with a haughty expression and a slight hint of concern, not beyond what one would expect from someone who cares about guests. Though somewhat bewildered, I couldn''t outright refuse or agree. My response was nil, as after saying this, the woman gestured with her hands, snapping her fingers to summon the servants. Swiftly, the lackeys seemed to emerge from the entrance of the room. However, I couldn''t help but swallow hard and contain a grimace of horror, as these servants were nothing more than opaque shadows, figures without defined form. I could only vaguely discern their genders through their blurred physical outlines, while their faces were veiled by fabrics of impenetrable black. They were abstract and disturbing shadows to anyone faced with such a grotesque and unconventional sight. Apparently, there were five or six in total, carrying large metal trays in their hands. They bowed, placed the metal trays on the wooden surface, and uncovered them, revealing not a variety of delicacies but a colorful selection of sweets. There were donuts, cookies, popcorn, candies, and pretzels, among others, all these tempting treats infused with an aroma of chocolate and caramel, along with other sweet flavors. The servants withdrew from the feasting hall without uttering a word, only with a bow, but with a barely perceptible, heart-wrenching sob or lament. It gave the impression that they were crying throughout eternity. It would be judicious to consider that by referring to ''gourmet delicacies,'' we mean a banquet befitting a castle or a simple tasting; however, in this juncture, preconceived logic proved pernicious and even calamitous. This was not an ordinary nightmare, but rather a sweetened nightmare, where sugary delights infiltrate your palate until they evoke a sweet death. Now, the previous chapter title makes sense to readers; treats, preserves, sugar. That lady executed a gesture with her hands and invited me to a peculiar and aberrant feast, yet it was part of the sugary nightmare. The woman seemed entirely hollow, corrupted, and devoid of real identity, like a rusted puppet with joints that creaked like the metal of bygone centuries. It wasn''t genuinely her; she was being manipulated, transformed into a toy representation. However, she didn''t yield without resistance; she seemed to shudder and contort on her nauseating bed, as if resisting something hidden from that deliberate scrutiny. It wasn''t the entity turned into a toy that constrained her, but something she couldn''t relegate to oblivion: a cruelty and misfortune, a sin committed by herself. Hastily, I reached for the rusted metal trays, where donuts, pastries, candies, and popcorn lay. I seized them and, unabashedly and with delight, began to adorn them with chocolate sauce, sugars, and caramel apples. Not because I succumbed to that deformed flesh; nightmares gain strength when we consume sweet treats before sleeping, but now I needed to wake up. As I devoured, nightmares faded from the epicenter, where toys and plushies crumbled into sugar. My nose started bleeding impressively, bleeding noses; now epistaxes had meaning. Like a primordial divinity forging art, I starred in a show in the bullfighting arena, amidst untamed baboons yearning for their torero''s death. That silhouette flaunted a ruddy cape of red wine, and the muleta, though attractive to bulls, wasn''t so because they are entirely blind to red. Color-blind, they snort, cosmic roars, with tales that pierce the skin, the repugnant dermis of the matador. I am not that bullfighter in a suit of lights; I am that brave bull, dream slayer, skillful in prowess, traversing the arena with grace and firmness. The bull defies, noble and brave, waving cape, the matador unfolds his art. Roars resonate in the amphitheater, where bullfighting is an opera. Chapter 18: Tea in blood and sugar The Empty Mirror Chapter 18: Tea in blood and sugar If we consider that indulging in hearty or less sweet delicacies before rest may hinder the achievement of wakefulness or induce dreams of a macabre nature, we find ourselves immersed in a common notion. While the authenticity of such a statement doesn''t stand as certainty, it is a speculation that imposes its consideration. Nevertheless, woes find their origin in causes of strange and obscure lineage, fluctuating under countless influences. The mental health of an individual can be a source of dominance, although in my experience, the consumption of sweets before rest was not the genesis of my nightly horrors. Restrictions to access such exquisite fare and the scarcity of food options in general even limit the viability of a worthy feast or snack. I have barely managed to obtain forest nuts to ward off the threat of starvation. When I refer to ''barely managed,'' I don''t embrace ingratitude but, immersed in the context of subsistence, obtaining such delicacies becomes my primary task. Death, from my perspective, hints at the end, although the possibility of an afterlife looms. Whether it be the heavens or hell, it lies beyond my understanding; only the ground separates us from the abyss of hell. Uttering the need to be vigilant about not perishing is inherently incongruent, as you cannot safeguard that which escapes your control; death lurks in any corner and moment, with no room for avoidance. Thus, excluding the notion that sugary sorrow is a direct result of my dietary regimen. The most plausible consideration lies in exploring the reasons that precipitated the overflow of sugars. Among these, stress and anxiety emerge as more prominent and plausible causes compared to the enjoyment of sweets. Elevated levels of daytime distress cannot be overlooked as contributing factors to general unease. Dietary restriction, ultimately, influences what we consume, unfolding a divergent perspective. It is conceivable that the distress gained momentum due to my amnesia, a crucial facet that I cannot overlook or underestimate. Could trauma be the architect of such unease? I do not ascertain it with certainty, but in my memory, I do not recall experiencing fear towards sweet dreams plotting to devour me, akin to childhood haunted by sweets. I have never felt apprehension towards donuts with large toothed quotation marks, allowing sugar and chocolate to slide down their delicious silhouettes, crawling through corridors of ancient stone and rock in their desire to devour or transform your essence into sugar. This evolution prompts contemplation about the ailments and afflictions that can arise due to the consumption of sugars and harmful products for well-being. Although sugar holds its vital essence, like the glorified glucose, an indispensable pillar in the world, excess reveals its detriment, particularly in the realm of sweetness. It seems like a sin, as if by extending a confiding hand of evolution, we seize more than we should, akin to a caramelized apple in Eden. An apple of caramel and damnation, shines with eagerness to be savored. Its curves, a sin wrapped in sugar. The apple, an ambivalent icon: wisdom and freedom of choice, or temptation and fall, akin to the forbidden fruit in Eden. A fiery delicacy, a delight that endures. Sweet ambrosia in every bite, juicy sin that calls to the spirit. The pursuit of knowledge linked with ethical dilemmas, guiding our determinations. Guilt and the role of the individual in adopting moral choices intertwined with truth and autonomy, caramelized in divine encounters. In the vast tapestry of evolution, the joy and duality of our choices, between pleasure and suffering, jubilation and sweetness, delineate the full essence. Though prone to follow impulses and desires, even at the expense of imposed rules, our actions can yield unforeseen consequences. The notion of sin or transgression could be considered as human constructs lacking objective foundations, revealing a lack of genuine control over the course of existence. Each bite becomes an act of purity, delving into the complexity of our decisions in this sweet journey of flavors and dilemmas. Once again, the detestable subject of evolution... I can''t help but imagine donuts creeping like zombies, breaking into the castle to capture me. Nor can I stop fantasizing about what that neighbor would do in my situation. They always seem to have everything under control, immune to any impact. How would they react if faced with a banquet hall filled with rusty trays but sweet contents and an apparent feast? A fantasy and dream for any sugar-winged child: giant donuts! We have extensively discussed the sugar of fortune, but we have only just begun. To apprehend and structure this topic more diligently, it is imperative to delve into its genesis, i.e., the origin of sugar. This commonly accepted order is what is designated when seeking to organize the prime ideas. However, sugar emanates from various vehicles and sources, such as the whole sugar cane, commonly conceived in the collective imagination, and sugar beet. Personally, I was unaware that beets were one of the main means of obtaining sugar until well into time. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. Setting aside this fact, it is necessary to emphasize that the sugar we ingest undergoes a long and laborious process of acquisition and refinement. My primary purpose is to introduce into the dialogue the lustful mother of the sweetener: glucose. Now, regarding the chapter''s title, ''A Tea of Blood and Sugar,ˇŻ it is challenging not to visualize a white porcelain cup on an equally immaculate saucer. The content of the cup is mysterious: thick red blood, akin to red wine. The cup is half full, and a tea bag, brimming with sugar, transforms it into a ''tea of blood and sugar.'' However, it is evident that it does not adhere to the classical definition of tea, achieved by infusing the dried leaves of the Camellia sinensis plant in hot water. In conclusion, the title lacks coherence since tea, by definition, does not include sugar in a bag and, additionally, contradicts the very essence of the brew; it''s nonsense. Glucose, an essential component of many carbohydrates, is absorbed during digestion and used as a direct energy source or stored as glycogen in the liver and muscles for later use. The symbiosis between organisms and their environment manifests as an interconnection between biology and existence. It is that grotesque dance between life and the need for external resources for sustenance, a complex choreography between matter and vitality. This constitutes an intrinsic and necessary part of a predetermined biological destiny, a biological component devoid of inherent meaning, lacking fundamental purpose or intrinsic value. A human artifact devoid of objective foundation, where living beings are trapped in the perpetual pursuit of something as elemental as survival. I contemplate whether we can emancipate ourselves from the chains of our imperative biological needs to achieve license, and if this is motivated by authenticity or merely the immediate satisfaction of our most primal needs. We yearn to experience moments of delight and contentment, the ultimate exaltation of pleasure and the alleviation of pain. Ultimately, the ingestion of glucose contributes to joy and well-being in our daily lives. We face the dilemma of how to harmonize these pleasures with broader considerations of long-term happiness. Beneath the epidermis, the sweet score of glucose, an everlasting melody, the sugar that the body interprets. In the capillaries, verses that traverse, the monosaccharide, a current that comes to the rescue, nectar of impious life. In spirals of dancing insulin, balance in the body, a lover. In my contemplations, the confusion may lie within me, for the expression ''tea of blood and sugar'' does not seem to imply a tea made of blood and sugar. The tiny preposition ''in'' could suggest that the tea rests inside the blood, but how could tea be retained in a substance as dense and sticky as blood? The contradiction could be avoided if we manage to keep the tea from overflowing. For example, the tea could lie on top of the blood, still adhering to the rule of ''in.'' In other languages, the expression may acquire different interpretations, but with the rules of lawyers, we can play. I couldn''t help but imagine a plate underneath the porcelain cup, like a float amidst the turmoil. The immaculate porcelain ceases its whiteness in the crimson tint, a porcelain cup on canvas dancing over a fictitious sea, supported only by a ceramic lifebuoy. Under this terminology, the cup should house tea to be deemed ''tea of blood and sugar.'' I envision a black tea, delightful, without added sugars, a shadowy elixir with revealing fragrances. Dancing leaves like floating shadows, secrets unveiled. A deep infusion, earthy liquor, dancing in the liquid, a bitter embrace that awakens the senses, a journey embraced in every sip, narratives in each leaf, in every nuance. As the cup rests between the hands, time slows down, a soothing ritual, a peaceful pause. Black tea, master of everyday alchemy, orders life in every drop. Black tea reduces the risk of heart diseases by enhancing vascular health and lowering cholesterol. Moreover, it promotes digestion and may alleviate gastrointestinal ailments such as indigestion. This is the authentic ''blood and sugar tea.'' Now, concerning sugar, arises the intricate question of why blood separates from sugar. Although blood harbors glucose, both elements are presented as independent entities in the sentence, as if sugar had been scattered over blood. Two teaspoons of sugar, two lumps, whether on top, underneath, to the side, or within, the faience cup transcends into a cosmic overlap. A cup in ebony hue with white tea within, resting upon nothingness, akin to savoring directly from the hand. The cup rises above the absence of bodily fluids with three sugar cubes, then collapses and shatters, like a mirror fracturing repeatedly. It metamorphoses into the epicenter of a mental exploration, where the interaction between seemingly disparate elements, such as tea, blood, and sugar, intertwines in a tapestry of threaded meanings. Attention is not confined solely to individual parts but focuses on the entirety of the experience, as if the mind pursues patterns and forms that transcend specific words used. This begets a wholeness that surpasses the simple sum of its parts, inviting the mind to unravel weighty connections amid the complexity of the symbolic world. In this intimate introspection, tea transmutes into a succulence that distills moments of stillness, blood personifies the pulsating life of our deepest perversities, and sugar dissolves like the abrupt dissonance that mitigates the nuances of our presence. The amalgamation of these components stands as a reflection of Homo erectus'' complexity, where allegories act as viaducts intertwining individual experiences with the sapiens fabric of the mind. This mental journey calls for an exploration of the richness of intertwined interpretations, challenging the mind to unveil the essence hidden behind the apparent diversity of elements, an orgy. Leaving aside the matter and delving into what lies at the end of the sweetened nightmare, just as everything turned into plush toys and sweets, and setting aside that notably important event, of which I have no intention of inquiring at this moment, I refer to the moment after extinguishing the glow of the television. At that moment, my nose began to bleed. I am not prone to nosebleeds, and when exploring possible origins, we must immediately rule out a hereditary predisposition to coagulation disorders or capillary fragility. It''s not nasal malformations, septal deviations, or other structural anomalies; I am certain of it, despite my fragile appearance, I do not suffer from such conditions. The possibility arises that dry environments could irritate and dehydrate nasal membranes, but this theory fades away as the castle was rather humid. Undoubtedly, I do not recall experiencing impacts on my nose or traumas. Perhaps that abrupt change could be considered exposure to thermal variations, although it was not the case, the possibility still lingers in my mind. Additionally, I am not suffering from a cold, and I trust that I do not have any nasal infections or coagulation disorders, so medications like anticoagulants are also ruled out. Although it might seem that I shouldn''t be concerned about this, as it was just a dream, upon waking up in that cenotaph, I experienced a sensation of warmth or moisture in the nasal area. I felt a flow of blood running down my nose, accompanied by a slight uncomfortable pressure. The metallic taste of blood in my mouth pierced through my sugary nightmare, transforming into a grim show of bleeding noses. Chapter 19: Breastfeeding The Empty Mirror Chapter 19: Breastfeeding In the perpetual gloom of the imposing fortress, my consciousness rises once more, challenging unfathomable abysses. A deep void looms over my being, sensing the absence of those once-crimson eyes that scrutinized me with relentless intensity. Loneliness swirls like a dark cloak, and I desperately yearn for the presence of his company as he remains distant from this oppressive place. From the shadows of the main floor, near the majestic entrance, I rise, clutching with determination the mauve cloak that provides me with meager doses of refuge and comfort. I gaze attentively at the faint light filtering through the forsaken windows, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the sun, a promising oasis in this dim abode. Despite the hope that such a prospect kindles in my chest, I quickly dismiss the idea of tracking it down. My journey must continue without delay or distraction. Once again, I wrap myself in the peculiar robe and, with sumptuous caution, partially open the heavy castle door, entering the sinister forest that surrounds it, where shadows come to life, and concealed ancestors lie hidden. Clay artifacts rest protected in the recess of one of the windows, a secure sanctuary where they find shelter. However, my right hand tenaciously clings to the sharp fragment of clay that I rescued, like an unsettling talisman linking me to the strange and ominous tale that has led me to this point of enigmatic mysteries. Carrying a modest supply of provisions wrapped in makeshift fabric, an unsettling affliction envelops me as I depart without uttering a word or undertaking any action. An invisible force seems to inhibit my ability to act or influence my surroundings, as if the shadows themselves conspire against me. In this accursed place, the whispers of darkness intertwine with the creaking of twisted branches, creating an oppressive atmosphere that seeps into the most intimate recesses of my being. As I progress along the narrow, tangled path, my thoughts become increasingly dark and inscrutable, as if the arcane forces of this land infiltrate my vulnerable mind. I wonder what secrets and horrors await in this labyrinth of shadows. What unknown forces lurk behind the ancient walls of this castle, silent witnesses to countless tragedies? Uncertainty takes root in my mind, fueled by the unsettling echo of my own footsteps, resonating like a lost lament in the forgotten corners of this macabre enclosure. Must I confront the mysteries surrounding me or hastily escape, abandoning all I possess and seeking refuge in the certainty provided by sunlight? Fear and attraction intertwine, and though my heart beats wildly in the face of the unknown, I cannot help but feel a strange fascination for the shadowy abysses that surround me. In my tireless quest for answers, I find myself trapped in an internal dialogue, questioning the very essence of my sanity. However, I am constrained in my ability to express myself adequately, lacking the precise knowledge to do so correctly. I rely on instinct and make decisions based on what I deem most appropriate at that moment. Additionally, I must confront new signatures in the forest, generating an unease I cannot evade. The firmament appears tranquil and clear as the sun ascends on the horizon, marking the beginning of a new day. Around 7 a.m., its radiant presence manifests as if it had never faded. However, an unease lingers within me, fearing that at some future moment, it may vanish... I continued my pilgrimage southward, tracing my path along the road leading to the lake. Once there, I noticed how the clay piece in my hands suddenly became more solid and firm. Was this the long-awaited result my being had anticipated? I contemplated the idea of cradling the clay between my fingers to see if the peculiarity of that forest could affect it again, yet I did not foresee such a remarkable change. Despite witnessing similarities in past times, this phenomenon continued to bewilder and disquiet me equally. The clay, now completely dry, urged me to proceed to the next stage of my journey. My plan wove itself into the exploration of the forest''s surroundings, searching for new elements that could satisfy my purposes. The enigmatic nature of the place fueled a deep sense of intrigue and wonder within me. I advanced cautiously, aware that each step brought me closer to the unknown and the unsettling. Every rustle of the branches and every whisper of the wind seemed to convey clandestine and dark deeds, feeding the fear rooted in the depths of my being. My thoughts intertwined among the dancing shadows swaying between the majestic trees, while an unsettling oppression relentlessly seized my spirit. The forest, in its mysterious wisdom, seemed to breathe with its own pulse, enveloping me in an oppressive and threatening atmosphere. The distorted echo of my steps, accompanied by the accelerated beats of my heart, created a sinister symphony that resonated in the deepest recesses of my mind. As I ventured into the surroundings, nature transformed into an increasingly twisted distortion. The trees, in their twisted majesty, took on grotesque forms hiding lugubrious tales beneath their deceptive appearance. Pale creatures lurking in the darkness, invisible to mortal eyes, seemed to spy from the shadows, while incomprehensible whispers slid silently through the recesses of my mind, heightening my unease and paranoia. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. I continued my advance with utmost stealth and meticulousness, carefully exploring the ground for dried branches, stones, and withered leaves. I even claimed a fragment of tree bark, sensing that its mere presence would afford me some form of shelter in this maddened world. I won''t delve into details about this task, as I have immersed myself in similar endeavors on previous occasions, deeming it superfluous to repeat the explanation once more. Nevertheless, I must acknowledge that, in this instance, I have managed to gather a considerable amount of such elements, a dark and fascinating collection that induces a sinister vertigo within me. Having completed my task, I returned to my refuge, a structure erected with autonomous vigor in the vicinity of the lake. Despite the body of water displaying dazzling magnificence, spanning approximately seventy meters in length, I did not experience fear or disturbance in the face of its majesty. On the contrary, a tranquil serenity enveloped me in its proximity, as if the crystal-clear waters radiated a benevolent and comforting energy. However, my ignorance persists regarding the true depth of the lake, and that enigmatic uncertainty, as indecipherable as the aqueous body itself, whispers ancient revelations that disturb my psyche and challenge my judgment. Something extraordinary hides in the folds of its depths, as expected in such mysterious cases. Despite its colossal magnitude, its presence becomes almost elusive, veiled by the thick vegetation that surrounds it, as if nature itself attempts to conceal its magnificence from profane gazes. Even I was unaware of its existence until I reached the abrupt slope descending to its shores, revealing before my eyes a panorama that evokes contradictory emotions and fuels my insatiable curiosity. Allow me, in my quest for clarification, to shed light on certain details: the path I traversed, with a mixture of caution and determination, is located approximately 2 kilometers south of the somber castle, while the route opening towards the slope is situated about 1.5 kilometers westward, where silhouettes whimsically dance. As I descended into the journey, exploring the twists and turns of the path leading to the lake, I noticed the distance gradually diminishing, nearing the 1-kilometer mark. However, it is crucial to emphasize that these estimations are shrouded in a fog of uncertainty, given that multiple variables and possible routes between different landmarks complicate precise measurement. I must underscore that only on my initial journey was I blessed with the opportunity to verify such information, as, until this present moment, that possibility has not reappeared before me, plunging me into the shadow of hesitation. An unsettling presence, an inexplicable anomaly, stood before my eyes, challenging all logic and human understanding, plunging my mind into an abyss of confusion and despair. It was an impenetrable enigma, an inscrutable mystery that defied all limits of our rationality, greatly hindering the estimation of the time needed to traverse the domains of this mysteriously arcane entity. I found myself immersed in a sinister web of disquieting variables, where the very terrain took on a hostile nature, and the challenge of advancing in those cursed areas far surpassed our limited understanding. Every step I took, every decision I made, was imbued with an uneasy restlessness that enveloped me like a dark veil, weaving a web of shadows on my path. Moving along the lake''s shore, where shadows came to life, and esoteric murmurs intertwined in unspeakable tales of doom, had no parallel to the previously traced path I ventured. The discrepancy was evident and directly influenced the duration of my torturous journey, instilling in me an unsettling discomfort due to the lack of control over the time it would take to cross that terrifying precipice. Upon concluding my monologue, in which I had replaced the mundane search in the forest with something considerably more intriguing and captivating, I felt an ancient chill running down my spine, as if they were distant echoes of an ancient and forgotten progression, resonating in the dark recesses of my mind. Animal vitality seemed to have regained its presence, but at what cost. Whitish squirrels frolicked nearby, their eyes shining with a malevolent curiosity that seemed to emanate from the darkest abysses of the surrounding entity, bearers of a hidden and sinister heritage that transcended our assimilation. Within the depths of my being lay a profound unease as I contemplated the possibility that these creatures, drawn by a shadowy influence, had desecrated the bow and drill, vital artifacts for my survival in this world of mysteries and pallid beings. Though I had desperately hidden them among the thickets, blindly trusting that no profane shadow would dare defile them, I now faced the consequences of my reckless assurance. The weight of uncertainty and fear bore down on me as I momentarily left a pile of sticks and stones, plunging into an abyss of insecurity when undertaking the unsettling task of examining their condition, as if unraveling the dark and perverse mysteries hidden in the very essence of these objects, revealing the sinister marks left by time and the presence of the unknown. My trembling hands rested upon the bow and drill, while my gaze delved into the depths of their condition, anxiously seeking to unravel the arcane vagaries hidden in their enigmatic form. In a fearful sigh, I discovered with relief that they remained unharmed, a small spark of hope ignited amid the oppressive darkness that enveloped my existence, like a fleeting beacon in a stormy sea. Nevertheless, that momentary joy failed to dispel the disquieting shadow that loomed over me, the constant sensation that horror lurked at every turn, patiently awaiting the opportune moment to unleash its monstrous and twisted influence. With steady steps and deep conviction, I traced my path to where I had previously lit the fire, aware that there I would find a fleeting respite amidst the abyssal blackness that surrounded my steps. Immersed in the vastness of the firmament, I ventured into the shadowy domains of the forest, caressed by a blend of anticipation and deep unease, as if nature itself jealously guarded its darkest secrets in every hidden corner. With meticulous skill, I began to gather twisted branches and dry leaves, selecting each one with sumptuous precision, knowing that the choice of these elements would be the key to the success of my labor in this hermetic and enigmatic world. Drawing upon the accumulated wisdom throughout the ages, I turned to the ancient method of the bow and drill to kindle a spark amidst the shadows, invoking an ancestral connection with the primordial elements. The fire came to life with an ominous roar, releasing its glow into the density of the distant foliage, distilling an ancient energy that seemed to imbue the air with a halo of ancestral mystery and an enigma yet to be deciphered. This time, ignition proved surprisingly more fluid than in my previous attempt. However, the process still required a dose of patience, as I had to maintain a delicate balance between the vulnerability of the nascent fire and the voracity of the faint lattice surrounding it. It was as if I were dancing on the edge between the fragility of the fiery rebirth and the maelstrom of shadows lurking in the vicinity, eager to devour the faint light daring to defy their dark dominion. Gradually, I incorporated the dry branches and leaves into the fire, feeding its crackling with meticulous dedication. The flames rose, dancing with an unsettling vitality at the heart of the surroundings, as if they were beings endowed with their own life, eager to unleash something hidden in the depths of the surrounding darkness. With each addition, the fire took on unusual strength, its flaming tongues writhing like restless entities seeking to release veiled masks in the innermost shadows. On this occasion, I made the wise decision to allow the intensity of the fire to diminish, letting the smoldering embers glow with a latent force, like a harbinger of the storm to come, a tense calm that hid an impending, sweeping anger in her tits?. Chapter 20: Flayed The Empty Mirror Chapter 20: Flayed With phalanges barely adept at holding the pulse, I used a sturdy branch to meticulously spread the embers within the bosom of the bonfire, evoking the image of an ancestral ritual. The sacred elements aligned precisely, as if invoking entities from an unknown universe, lurking in the shadows of time and space, waiting to be summoned by those daring to unravel their mysteries. Smooth slabs, arranged with opulent symmetry, lay as ancient sentinels on the pyre, following an inherited liturgy imposed by primordial entities. Their cold and rough surfaces contrasted with the infernal heat of the fire, creating a constant tension between the earthly and the divine, trapped in an eternal oscillation between two realities. With careful precision, I placed the fragile clay piece at the epicenter of the fiery whirlwind. Vulnerable to the surrounding elemental forces, it seemed to tremble in anticipation of its imminent fate, as if harboring a latent awareness of the trial by fire it was about to face; a metamorphosis that would reveal its true essence and hidden nature. Throughout the process, I dedicated myself to maintaining precise control over the intensity of the flames, adjusting the distance meticulously, and preserving an optimal temperature for the firing. My purpose transcended the mundane; I longed to achieve perfection by elevating that fragile clay fragment to a sublime state of ceramic creation, forging a bridge between the ephemeral and the eternal, the tangible and the transcendental. Time seemed to vanish into the ether as I immersed myself in the captivating choreography of the wild flames, coiling in a threatening embrace around the vulnerable clay piece. It was a dark and mysterious rite, an intimate ceremony that transcended the constraints of common discernment, a necessary mutation to infuse soul into the fragile material and sculpt a haunting beauty that would defy the boundaries of conventional perception. Hours slipped away, perhaps three, though at that moment, I completely lost track of time, absorbed in a hypnotic trance where the present and the past intertwined into an indistinguishable amalgam. Each second expanded, becoming an eternity, as my eyes beheld the emerging results, witnesses to the birth of a new miniature cosmos, a unique universe coming to life in the piece shaped by the fire. The fire infused the clay with its ancestral essence, molding every nook and cranny with a primordial force that transcended the limitations of the ordinary. It wasn''t just an artistic creation; it was a manifestation of horror and repulsion interwoven, a twisted expression of my art, a palpable representation of the darkness and mystery stirring in the depths of my being. To effectively cool the piece, I shifted the embers with branches, carefully distributing the smoldering remains. My trembling hand immersed itself in the water, spreading it in circles around the bonfire, meticulously extinguishing the last incandescent vestiges. Patience became my steadfast companion as I waited for the surrounding air to cool completely, each gust whispering to me the echo of a profound unease, as if nature itself held in its breath unfathomable murmurs, mysteries that only the daring mind could glimpse. Next, with trembling fingers, I meticulously scattered the ashes, avoiding any risk of reigniting the flame that had taken hold so fervently. It was as if a veil of uncertainty enveloped the landscape, hiding ineffable secrets that could only be perceived in the darkest recesses of the imagination. The final result stood before me, a macabre and beautiful creation simultaneously, a conceited work born from the integration of fragility and darkness, evoking mixed emotions in those bold enough to contemplate it. In that precise moment, I discerned that I had breached the confines of sanity, plunging into an unexplored realm where horror and the grotesque danced in a macabre and sublime rhythm. What was initially conceived as a simple experiment turned into a transcendental confirmation of the effectiveness of my procedure, an irrefutable proof that I had touched the deepest threads of creation, unleashing a latent force that surpassed the limits of the known; a manifestation that revealed the very essence of the inexplicable. A sense of fulfillment and anticipation enveloped my being, kindling the embers of future intentions with the remaining clay pieces awaiting in the castle. The once-victim of its own fragility, the piece now exuded a feeling of solidity and enduring resilience, as if it had acquired the ability to boldly defy the inexorable passage of time. Measuring 10 cm in length and 3 cm in width, its proportions took on a fascinating charm, transcending the purely physical. Renewed in my determination, I set out to make the most of the daylight hours and continue my quest for edible treasures within the mysterious embrace of nature. As my steps ventured into that mysterious territory, my skilled hands, without hesitation, harvested some mushrooms timidly emerging near the path. Following that meticulously tested method, I selected only those worthy of nourishing my body and satisfying my vital needs. Those mushrooms, guarded jealously, would await their turn to be transformed by the fire into a tasty amalgamation of unparalleled flavors. However, at that precise moment, I was equipped with a more immediate provision: appetizing acorns brimming with vitality. Deciding to grant myself a brief respite, I rested my fatigued body on an imposing rock and surrendered to the delight of the earthy and intoxicating flavors emanating from these spontaneous gifts. You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. It was in that comforting moment of pause when my attention was captivated by a singular stone barely visible at my feet. Moved by an inexplicable magnetic attraction, I lifted the object and let myself be enchanted by its beautiful whitish and distinctive hue. The stone seemed to whisper ancient stories on its polished and glassy surface, possessing a cold and firm touch that transcended palpable certainty. With its flat and sharp shape, and physical resistance, I recognized it as flint, an ancestral stone used in ancient times for the manufacturing of defensive weapons. A primitive artifact... It was undeniable: I had to possess it, make it mine as an invincible ally. With foresight, I secured the gathered food in a bark wrap and ventured again towards the lake shores. Once there, I carefully selected a stone of considerable hardness to vigorously strike the flint. Gripping the flint firmly in my right hand, I repeatedly struck it with the other rock in my left, tirelessly carving its contours until obtaining a sharp and pointed shape, as if crafting the deadliest weapon. Next, I focused on finding a branch with ideal dimensions: around 10 centimeters long and 3 centimeters wide. It was imperative that it carried the necessary solidity to serve as a secure handle. With skill, I grasped a slightly sharp stone and, with innate mastery, made a deep notch in the chosen branch. Subsequently, I meticulously surrounded this notch with tree bark, ensuring a strong and durable bond. Thus, the handle and the tip became intertwined in an integral symbiosis, giving birth to a knife imbued with formidable power. It was a genuine weapon in my hands, ready to fulfill its purpose in a desolate and enigmatic world. Taking the fragment of ceramic, with its rough and textured surface, I positioned the knife at a 20-degree angle. With controlled movements and precise pressure, I delicately slid its edge along the ceramic. I repeated this process, alternating the sharpening of both sides of the knife, in a ceremony that was captivating and ominous in equal parts. Each stroke of the blade on the ceramic generated a penetrating metallic sound that hung in the air, creating a suffocating sense of unease. My hands, absorbed in this lugubrious task, worked with meticulous dedication and unwavering resolve. However, I couldn''t escape a disturbing sensation taking hold of me, as if the act of sharpening the knife plunged me into an abyss of indescribable horror and mystery. Amid dancing shadows and the echoes of ancestral whispers, my footsteps resonated on the earth like a mysterious melody. My eyes, hungry for discovery, scrutinized every corner in search of stories woven between the intertwined branches of the trees. The wind, a silent accomplice, swayed the leaves with an unfathomable whisper, while my heart beat to the rhythm of the enigmas unfolding before me. In every corner of that ancient forest, the twilight became an ally and confidante, revealing secrets that only those with the courage to venture could glimpse. With each step, the mystery deepened, and my soul became a tapestry of emotions woven with the invisible thread of the unknown. In that magical dusk, where shadows and light danced their eternal dance, I immersed myself in the very essence of exploration, letting myself be guided by the subtle narrative that the forest unfolded before me like an ancient scroll. My fist closed with determined resolution around the keen edge of the freshly sharpened dagger, an enigmatic artifact that ignited an irresistible fascination within me. As I delved into my contemplations, a question, as if emerging from the depths of my being, arose: What was the true purpose veiled behind my sudden impulse? Despite lacking certainties, something in that peculiar stone ignited an uncontrollable force within me, a mysterious attraction that urged me to follow the dictates of my intuition without resisting its call. As the sun descended on the horizon, shadows embraced the surroundings, plunging into the depths of this enigmatic realm and intensifying the sense of unease that enveloped me. I decided to return to the castle, a solitary refuge where I guarded the meager harvested fruits and the ceramic vessel now revered as a sacred enigma. Nevertheless, my fingers clung to the steel, as if an imperceptible force urged me to hold it in my hands, ready to face any eventuality in this unusual journey. With utmost care, I concealed my belongings among the dry leaves and branches, avoiding any circumstance that could spawn future complications. As I advanced with determination toward the ancient castle, my gaze wandered upon a small rabbit frolicking among the twisted trees. A shiver crawled down my spine, but a fascinating uncertainty bloomed in my mind: Would I be capable of capturing it? Gripping the sharp edge of the knife with determination, I engaged in the hunt, an innate manifestation of survival in this inhospitable environment. However, doubt emerged like a shadowy monster, questioning my ability to take the life of an innocent rabbit. Never before had I faced such a dilemma, and I was unsure if I could carry it out; intruding into the rabbit''s burrowˇ­ At last, I reached the imposing threshold of the castle, whose magnificence evoked an intimidating feeling resonating within me. Without hesitation, I crossed the door and entered the chamber where the enigmatic man awaited, eager to unravel the mysteries of the previous night, seeking answers and guidance amid the overwhelming vortex of uncertainty. In the chamber, lay the fellow, catatonic upon the mortuary box in an undisturbed posture, with the door slightly ajar, his gaze lost in the unfathomable abysses of emptiness, immersed in the hidden depths of his musings. With caution, I broke the prevailing silence, letting out a trembling murmur. "G-Greetings," I uttered as I advanced cautiously towards the entrance. The man, in a cold tone, replied, "What''s happening?" Gathering courage, I continued my testimony: "I have witnessed an additional event in the forest..." - his eyes locked onto mine, urging me to proceed. I merely detailed meticulously how I noticed time undergoing alterations. Every time I traversed one of the three crucial locations: the path, the slope, or the lake, I experienced a mysterious temporal transition, skipping an hour in the continuum. As I clarified, such a phenomenon has not recurred today. The effect disappeared completely, occurring only once on this day, and time decreased slightly without repeating in succession. I also narrated how, as the sun set, while contemplating its glow, it vanished completely from the firmament, leaving no trace of its presence. However, such a phenomenon has not recurred on this day either. "I understand..." - murmured the man from the shadowy depths of the coffin, advancing towards me with cautious steps. His crimson eyes, radiating an unfathomable abyss, locked onto mine with an unsettling intensity, sending a chill through my intestines with icy certainty. My words faltered as I struggled to contain the nervousness seizing me. I didn''t know how that entity had managed to transcend reality, nor how it had fixed its gaze upon me while lying in its deathbed; it was like looking into a mirror... "I-I... perhaps it would be prudent for me to withdraw. I don''t wish to cause any more disturbance..." - I stammered, humbly bowing my head in a gesture of submission. His countenance turned grave, reflecting a deeper understanding. "I understand..." - he whispered, resonating in the air like the mournful echo of a grave. Chapter 21: The first murder The Empty Mirror Chapter 21: The first murder Upon leaving that ancient place, a peculiar sensation enveloped me, as if an intense and unsettling fervor unfolded through every fiber of my being. An ominous veil seemed to loom over reality itself, hinting at the presence of something beyond our comprehension. I longed to share with that man what I had witnessed in the wooden dominos, but a profound sense of emptiness shrouded every thought. Horror had eroded the essence of my words, leaving them hollow and devoid of meaning. I descended to the ground floor of the ancestral castle and sensed how darkness, like a living and hissing entity, had taken hold of the environment, plunging it into an abyss of oppressive blackness. The silence was so dense that it seemed to pulsate in the air, intensifying my unease to unfathomable limits. I collapsed onto the cenotaph, enveloped in purple shadows that covered me like a veil imbued with mystery and malevolence. That interaction lacked sense, standing as an archetype of emptiness. I had no choice but to seek refuge in the embrace of chaos, longing for solace in the confines of unconsciousness. However, on the verge of lethargy, I experienced a chilling encounter that transcended the boundaries of dream, clinging to my being with its malevolent presence. It wasn''t prompted by the sugar nightmare, as it had no relation whatsoever and couldn''t even be considered a dream since it only encompassed moments prior to waking. It was then that a voice, barely a whisper devoid of life, shattered the oppressive silence. "Don''t distress yourself, my dear," it murmured with a foreboding cadence. The words, wrapped in a lugubrious and lifeless tone, settled in my mind like insidious poison, sowing deep unease. Seemingly placid, their macabre and weakened nature provoked an indescribable discomfort. This voice stood as the crucial pillar that transformed my reality into an authentic nightmare, far more horrific than the sugar nightmare, clinging to me with insatiable voracity. It challenged the limits of my sanity, whispering in the hidden abysses of my consciousness and spreading grains of uncertainty about reality itself. It dragged me into an abyss of fear and despair. The putrid stench of abandonment permeated the air, flooding my senses with a blend of decay and dread. Each beat of my heart became more hesitant, aware that danger lurked in every corner, patiently waiting for the opportune moment to strike. The persistent voice continued to whisper the same words for an indeterminate period, inexorably dragging me into the depths of madness. In every attempt to unveil its origin, it faded like a mocking illusion, leaving me trapped in a state of insecurity and anguish. There seemed to be no escape, not even in the deepest abysses of my psyche... At the next dawn, I awoke and continued my wandering without any noteworthy event. I wrapped myself in that purple cloak, which infused me with a strange sense of sanctuary, and skillfully wielded my primitive knife. The day was veiled by dense clouds, the sky a somber canopy stretching above me. Despite the early hour, the surroundings were immersed in oppressive darkness, leading me to consider the possibility of delaying my departure from the castle, hoping that the light in the ominous forest would improve, even minimally. However, an internal impulse urged me to leave the safety of the walls and venture into the enigmatic forest. I continued along the path that led to the lake, my mind focused on finding sustenance, as was my custom. Unfortunately, I only managed to gather a few nuts and mushrooms, insufficient to satisfy my hunger at that moment. The idea of returning to the lake and lighting a fire to roast the mushrooms, instead of monotonously consuming the acorns that had been my sole source of food until then, stubbornly occupied my thoughts. Time passed swiftly, not only due to the peculiar anomalies of the forest but also because of my misguided perception of the situation. An unsettling unease seized me, an uncomfortable premonition that strengthened with each step among the twisted trees and ominous shadows. The silence was oppressive, only interrupted by the sinister whisper of the wind and the crunching of dry leaves beneath my feet. In an instant, a disturbing sense of anxiety overcame me as I realized that the day was rapidly progressing towards the growing dusk. Nevertheless, confirming the exact time proved to be a futile task, overcome by the persistent clouds veiling the vast firmament. The possibility arose that I might have risen later than usual and ventured into the lush forest with an unwitting delay, entangled in the density of the cumulus clouds that concealed the horizon. Impotence swirled in my thoughts, with no other option but to succumb to the circumstances imposed by the insipid will of fate. Reality seemed to fade into a monotonous and desolate dimension. The forest, once revered as a sacred haven of tranquility and splendor, now exuded a disturbing atmosphere. Every tree and leaf appeared to harbor unfathomable secrets and unimaginable dangers, as if the roots extended into unknown abysses nurturing those pale horrors. Just as I headed to the lake to grill the collected mushrooms, my attention was captured by something in the distance. Something was approaching... towards meˇ­ In a dense and melancholic forest lies a mysterious boar, Its traces barely whispering on the earth, With gentle grunts, an affable surrender. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. In the shadowy dance of tall trees, it strolls silently, Chasing joy without boastfulness. At sunset, it reveals its subtle prowess, Oh, unveiled secret, embracing reality with cheerful and light firmness! In the grove where silence reigns, In the grove where mystery is lord, In the grove where light hides. In the glow of dusk, awakens its delicate grace, Hidden revelation, embracing reality with cheerful and gentle firmness! In the ominous twilight, a lugubrious panorama unfolds, weaving shadows of oppression, while a colossal wild boar, with masterful stealth, lurks in the surroundings. Its imposing presence evokes in me an indescribable sense of revelation, as if the beast, with malevolent consciousness, relished in the farce of my fictional existence. Gripping my modest dagger firmly, an asphyxiating unease takes hold of me as I perceive the aggressive stance of the boar. With deliberate steps, it approaches stealthily, but in a sudden break, without warning, it launches into a frenzied charge towards me. Fear envelops me as I struggle in vain to retreat and dodge its relentless onslaught. Desperately challenging my strength, my limbs strive to distance myself from such a terrifying being. However, the obstinate boar relentlessly pursues me, emitting threatening grunts and chilling dental crunches behind me. At astonishing speeds, propelled by a force beyond the laws of nature, no, it was the horrendous charge of nature itself. Amidst my frantic escape, my mind battled to maintain serenity, but it was in vain. My steps faltered as the delicate silk fabric of my attire got entangled in the twisted branches of the trees, leaving me vulnerable to the imminent charge of the colossus. Prostrate on the ground, absorbed, I watched as the colossal creature inexorably approached, its fierce gaze revealing sinister deadly intentions. My desperation became an oppressive burden, unable to discern an escape path in that terrifying enigma unfolding before my eyes. Driven by a primal instinct for survival, I wielded the goad with fury and, with resolute determination, plunged it mercilessly into the wild boar''s right eye, unleashing a strident scream of agony that intertwined with the pulsating echo of my own heart. In this tragic choreography, life and death wove their strands, creating a tapestry of dramatic despair under the impious cloak of unbridled nature. Despite the inflicted wound, the beast did not recoil; its thirst for violence seemed insatiable. With no time for hesitation, I extracted the bloodied dagger from its ocular orbit and thrust it once again vehemently into its sinewy neck, significantly weakening it. However, the measure proved insufficient, and my fierce struggle found no respite. With both hands clamped onto the weapon, I repeatedly impaled it into its throat, tearing it apart completely in an act of grotesque brutality. The somber stage was promptly invaded by a lugubrious tide of blood as the helpless creature writhed in abominable torment. Despite the terrifying situation, I persevered with determination, rending its skin with the relentless edge of the sharp knife firmly in my grasp. When, finally, the beast''s rending howls ceased, I halted my actions and plunged the dagger into its other eye, putting an end to its agony. Clinging to its lifeless body and feeling the rough texture of its fur, a repulsive and nauseating sensation overwhelmed me as I became aware of the savage brutality with which I had annihilated the creature. Despite the injuries that lacerated my body, I launched myself with unbridled fury, clutching the knife with a pure, white blade, now stained with impure and macabre crimson. While attempting to regain composure amidst the whirlwind of my emotions, I noticed the solitary wild boar, without the company of another of its kind. A feeling of compassion and sorrow engulfed me, as if I could perceive the loneliness and desolation emanating from its being. However, there was nothing more I could do for it. As I stood up, bitter tears began to flow from my eyes, some escaping uncontrollably. There were no more alternatives; the boar lay lifeless while I still struggled for each breath, feeling the overwhelming weight of my existence in that fateful moment. Realizing that my hands were tainted with the pristine life fluid and my dress soaked in that same dark crimson, I noticed the exquisite fabric of the cloak remained unstained, without undesirable marks. I chose to overlook such perplexing peculiarity and stood upright, despite my legs trembling uncontrollably, mere spectators of the atrocity I had just committed. The scene unfolded before my eyes was profoundly disturbing, a grotesque manifestation of my internal abyss. Doubts and fears seized my mind, while horror infiltrated every thought, unleashing a primordial fear rooted in the depths of my being. The blood continued to drip incessantly, forming a viscous pool at my feet. I plunged into the darkness, unable to escape the image of that bloodied sacrifice. Pale shadows wept around me, whispering incomprehensible words that intertwined with my labored breath. Once calm was regained, I found myself plunged into existential uncertainty on how to proceed in the face of such a grotesque scene. It was as if the abyss itself had opened before my eyes, demanding a decisive and enigmatic action. With relentless determination, I dragged the lifeless boar''s body to the shores of the lake, using the anomaly to my advantage, seeking a suitable place to carry out my macabre experiment. The forest, a silent witness to my gruesome undertaking, was shrouded in oppressive darkness and sepulchral silence, only interrupted by the whispers of the wind through the twisted trees. With keen dexterity, I carefully selected sturdy and robust branches, ensuring their unwavering solidity, a necessary prelude to bear the imminent burden. The foresighted harvest of firewood, a result of my explorations, promised an ample supply. With surgical precision, I erected a sinister structure, taking the form of an inverted "U," raising it towards the firmament with the solemnity of an ominous symbol, a grave warning. The vertical posts stood imposing, as if an evil presence emanated from their very nature. Having completed the atrocious construction, I meticulously arranged thinner and elongated branches over the posts, shaping a sort of stage, as if it were a macabre platform for a somber ceremony. Dedicate an obsessive zeal to every detail, ensuring the perfect leveling of each component, aware that supposed perfection was a crucial requirement for the success of my twisted purpose. The tension in the atmosphere became palpable, infused with an ominous energy that intensified with every move I made. At its zenith, with a strange fascination bordering on the morbid, I moved the lifeless boar''s body to the lake''s edge, succumbing to the sinister attraction emanating from its lifeless form. In that corner, shrouded by the shadows of dusk, I determined to purify it with meticulousness. My hands plunged into the depths of the gloom, exploring with obsessive precision every fold of the animal''s skin, every trace of death and corruption. The serenity that rested on the water''s surface of the lake transmuted into a sinister broth of diseases that reflected the distorted image of my being. The new moon, an impassive witness to my forbidden acts, cast a frigid and gloomy light on the grotesque scene unfolded before my tormented eyes. Chapter 22: Apolo 11 The Empty Mirror Chapter 22: Apolo 11 The anesthetic whisper of the liquid, stirred by the course of the germs, and my panting breath echoed in the nocturnal stillness, weaving a discordant symphony befitting a distressed entity. With the dagger''s blade still firm in my trembling hand, I venture into the gloomy task of stripping the creature of its skin. Each incision is carried out with meticulousness, though my eyes seem to slightly cloud, as if witnessing a macabre dance. My intellect, shrouded in a fog of unease, struggles to persist, clinging to the resolution of this somber undertaking. With a silent knowledge of the beast''s anatomy, I consecrate myself with devotion to perform this task with the utmost precision possible. While learned critics may question the results and methods employed, in this moment, they are the only offering I can present. Uncertain mastery slips through my sweaty and trembling fingers, yet I hold on to the hope of having achieved some degree of skill in my endeavor. The procedure becomes a genuine challenge, a grotesque choreography of dissection and organ extraction, while my consciousness wrestles between fascination and the revulsion that this eerie task evokes. Every gust of wind carries the unmistakable stench of fresh flesh, a nauseating chord entwining itself in the depths of my being, further intensifying the wickedness of the scene. With difficulty, I discern a nearby rock serving as a pedestal to cleave the flesh with the knife. The unleashed violence and my lack of technical skill manifest in each clumsy movement, but I persist with the determination of one clinging to the edge of sanity. Blood adheres to my hands, a viscous fluid that seems to have irreversibly amalgamated with my being. A shudder runs down my spine as I ignite the bonfire, armed with bow and drill, an act that seems to evoke dark forces amid the nocturnal gloom. With meticulousness, I take one of the hind legs of the boar, clearing it meticulously before placing it carefully on the rudimentary branch grill, hoping the meat will cook evenly. The crackling of the fire creates an unsettling atmosphere, intensifying the feeling of being immersed in a forbidden ritual. After an endlessly stretching time, the meat finally reaches its point. I contemplate it with a mixture of disbelief and repugnance, unable to accept the monstrosity of my actions. I had never conceived of engaging in such an activity, and now I find myself on the brink of the abyss of my own human condition. The grotesque shadows rise around me, unintelligible whispers seeming to emerge from the depths of my troubled mind. A chilling silence pervades the air as my trembling voice stammers the final words: "She was just... a simple merchant; I never imagined survival would drag me into committing such atrocious acts." Still disturbed by unsettling events, I fail to notice that the night descends with its cloak of shadows. The firmament unfolds like a vast sinister abyss, while the moon, with its penetrating gaze, attentively follows each of my movements. My once radiant hair now bore stains of blood, intense crimson drops as if profane blood had saturated every strand. Without fully comprehending what was happening, I felt compelled to take a piece of meat and devour it ferociously, experiencing a primal ecstasy that plunged me into an animalistic state. Although the meat was roasted, my senses perceived the raw taste and blood, a repulsive illusion defying the laws of concreteness. My mind was immersed in a whirlwind of confusion, unable to string together coherent thoughts. In that moment, the world lost relevance; I plunged into an abyss of desolation, abandoned to my fate in an oppressive landscape. I remained in the forest for much of the night, beside the carefully extinguished bonfire, casting the surroundings into an even more oppressive darkness. Bewildered about how to deal with the boar''s remains, which constituted the majority, I chose to hide them under branches, as if intending to bury the traces of a sinister act from the inquisitive gaze of the surrounding nature. As the darkness of the night stretched and the embers languished in their slow demise, I sought refuge beside a majestic tree whose twisted branches rose threateningly, like whispering claws sharing dark anecdotes with the nocturnal wind. I wrapped myself in the soft silk fabric, seeking shelter against the tangible oppression looming over me, as if longing for that covering to provide solace amid the unrest rooted in my being. While grappling in a sea of uncertainties about the hours and minutes, I strenuously endeavored not to lose track of time, as the sense of control had become a treasure in that distorted panorama. Nevertheless, the security commitment insidiously whispering in my ear, was it a truthful promise or merely a sinister artifice destined to plunge me into an abyss of nightmares and despair? In the ominous and suffocating dawn, my eyelids were violently snatched from their reverie by the first gleams of the rising sun, whose rays eagerly slid through the corroded recesses of consciousness. Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. With growing unease, I was compelled to forsake the truce of my rest, only to discover a barren world, devoid of emotions. In a cosmos immersed in disheartening monotony, where even the most insignificant glimmer of astonishment seemed devoured by the silhouettes of oblivion, I moved with unwavering resolution to fulfill my inevitable responsibilities and free myself from the icy embrace threatening to envelop me. Ensuring everything was left in an impeccable state, I embarked on the journey back to the imperturbable castle, a monument secluded in the sinister confines of the forest. In this dense grove, where twisted branches whispered unfathomable mysteries, a darkness unfolded before my troubled being that concealed more than it revealed. At that precise moment, an unsettling sense of dread seized me, and the mere thought of prolonging my stay in such a sinister place became an unhealthy obsession. Though my eyelids had gained the coveted and fleeting rest, my fatigued limbs still bore the weight of exhaustion, as if an insidious entity had silently drained the vitality from my being. It was then, in that moment of somber wakefulness, that my fingers clung tenaciously to the knife, recently purified in the murky waters of the lake, whose blade hinted at disturbing traces of past unsettling events. With hesitant and unsteady steps, I ventured into the winding path that twisted northward, dragging behind me the crushing weight of my desolation. Each step resonated with the heaviness of my discouragement, shrouded in an indescribable melancholy that nested deep within me, like a serpent clinging to my existence. As my steps progressed, the imposing walls of the castle rose majestically before me, silent witnesses to the arcane remnants they guarded jealously. The cold and damp wind seeped stealthily through the cracks of the main door, penetrating the castle''s confines and caressing my face with frosty fingers. However, to my bewilderment, no being emerged to welcome me, plunging me into an unfathomable sense of abandonment, as if the very stones themselves had come to life and taken over the place. The silence, like a sepulchral slab, stood as an insurmountable obstacle, only interrupted by murmuring babble that seemed to emanate from the stony bowels of the castle. ''No displacement has occurred at all'' - my voice echoed within with a blend of uncertainty and confusion that spread into every crevice of my troubled mind. Considering the castle as the unchanging framework, regardless of how much the forest has been explored, the net displacement results in null. Though I have wandered and explored my surroundings, I haven''t progressed an inch, as if trapped in an illusory labyrinth woven by the intellect of progress. Then arises the question like a tangled enigma overwhelming me, plunging me into deep contemplation about the true utopia of my experiences: Is it worth highlighting all the actions taken, or are they mere fictitious illusions with no relevance? This mystery, in all its enigmatic essence, drags me into a whirlwind of unfathomable thoughts, prompting me to question the very reality around me, as if on the verge of unveiling the hidden corners of a ruthless and capricious universe. In the gesture I was about to undertake, the presence of that satellite, like a guardian and confidant of Earth, revered throughout the ages, the moon, becomes nonexistent. It is a stony celestial body that orbits our globe, playing a transcendental role in celestial phenomena and being considered the favored paramour of the deities. The Moon reveals itself from Earth thanks to the sunlight that reverberatesˇŞa fundamental knowledge for any individual immersed in decent education. In this realm, the lunar magnificence rises in the firmament, double the size of any satellite mentioned in legends. Its imposing presence illuminates the darkness of the night, creating a unique celestial panorama that captivates all who behold it. This phenomenon is exclusive to this forest, this fortress, this historical moment, as there has never been just one moon. In reality, our Earth has five moons of worthy dimensions rotating around it, regulating cosmic phenomena and holding the title of guidelines for astronomers. Since the third epoch, shrouded in legends, myths, and murky historical records of humanity, it is recounted that at the end of the second epoch, there existed a moon twice as grand as any trace from another universe or cosmos. This moon was an object of veneration, a source of inspiration for astronomers and poets, the protagonist of transcendental dramas. However, at the conclusion of the Second Epoch, the moon was torn apart by an apocalyptic event. Tears, in the form of crimson, streaked the moon''s cheeks, leaving it completely fragmented. Only with the arrival of the true gods, the Primarchs of humanity, did the moon begin to disintegrate due to their influence. The moon turned into an imitation of a continent, distant from the cosmos, in an isolated place, a farce and satire. From the shadowy stillness of the New Moon, where its countenance remains veiled in twilight, emerges the Crescent, a faint curve of light coming to life. Subsequently, the First Quarter unveils the right half of its splendor, followed by the Waxing Gibbous, approaching fullness without fully embracing it. At its zenith, the Full Moon appears majestic, illuminating the night in its entirety. But its radiance yields to the Waning Gibbous, declining towards the Waning Moon, where only a thread of light persists before fading again into darkness, thus concluding the lunar cycle in the mysterious anticipation of the next New Moon. The ancient knowledge, preceding the heartbreaking lunar fragmentation into five periods, was conceptualized before the moon shattered into its current states. Even in the ether, remnants persist of the moon that comprises the majority of its satellite. This black sun is not regarded as a genuine moon or sun, lying submerged in total darkness, immobile on its orbit, following its gravity. It moves solitarily in a dance with the Primarchs, completely black. This understanding of time is not quantified conventionally but through scant historical records narrating the era when the moon was a single entity, marking the Third Epoch, the second longest in human history. Therefore, the moon remains estranged from modern history, a contradiction. I am a doll in a tea party, a chimera trapped in a narrative. I cannot suppress the horror-stricken tears at the thought that this integral moon still gazes from its perch with its whitish glow; a "natural" satellite of Earth. A lieˇ­ In the cosmos, vomit danced, on Apollo 11 condemned, Twisted bodies, trapped in the spacecraft, bleeding. In the abyss of space, darkness was their misfortune, In filth they floated, Neil, Buzz, Michael, their souls in distress. Star worms voraciously devouring the skin, Devouring the skin, in a broth of pathogens, a cruel stench. In the feast of pus, traces of pus spread, Spread on the Moon, paranormal nightmares liquefied. The flag waved, a blood-soaked rag, A blood-soaked rag on the Moon, a deranged circus. In the ether echoed, the whisper of horror resonated, Resonated on Earth, Apollo 11 consecrated in disgust. Floating misfortune, souls gutted in space, In the condemned space, the cruel stench of the plague spread. The outer nightmare spread, a deranged circus on the Moon, On the Moon echoed, Apollo 11, an echo consecrated in retching. Chapter 23: White crab The Empty Mirror Chapter 23: White crab In the twisted cenotaph of yellows, reds, and blues, where my body lay in lethargy, symmetrical like a catatonic bloodsucker within a horrifying coffin, two faces of the same coin were reflected; no, it was the same face of a coin. The edge of such coin undoubtedly represented a satellite. After my mind turned into a shapeless smoothie due to the machination of an alleged human, following my first murder, being like a Cain, I found myself plunged into a stupor where the only option left was to sleep for a long period, far from all quantification. However, this lethargy meant the atonement of sins, a place to seek forgiveness from the gods, or more precisely, from the Primarchs, in this peculiar chromatic cenotaph. Plunged again into a deep lethargy, I faced the sugar nightmare, where displacement was illusory, like a rope around my neck, with a purple, imperial cloak enveloping my frail and brittle body, like a mantle soaked in glucose hemoglobin. The hood turned my figure into an unwrinkled Little Red Riding Hood resting on the box after entering the castle. With rolled eyes, I faced the dread of tears from that satellite that looked at me with carnal desire, a deceitful moon. The walls seemed to exhale moisture, and the pale horrors behind me awaited their progenitor as if they longed to be nurtured by her prominent tits. The moment to continue the sweetened nightmare by resuming the game arrived. I entered again and found myself seated on a wooden chair in front of a dining table. Beside me, a slender and mature woman observed me with expectant eyes, just a subtle gaze that didn''t expand or linger around my soul. We were back in the feast hall, my hands wrapped in a sweet chocolate substitute, like a hungry child, and my mouth covered in caramel. Still puzzled by the recurring tickets to this performance, I quickly regained my consciousness. I examined how the initially rusted metal trays worsened their condition, crumbling and decaying upon their own filthy alloy. The trays no longer held treats, only crumbs of donuts and other delicacies. The sugar crumbs lay like tiny corpses, scattered across a desolate panorama of the room. Their mutilated texture sent shivers upon touch, while their muted color hinted at an extinguished existence. The once sweet sugar now dissolved into a sticky mire, leaving a trail of culinary decay. A caramel apple, half-bitten, rolled on the surface until it fell into a silent stillness on the floor. I couldn''t help but associate the silhouette of the apple with the image of a poisoned apple, crafted with the sweet visage of a skull, like an omen resembling poison; a poisoned apple bestowed by a witch. However, in that space, no witch was in sight, none other than myself. The apple wasn''t tainted with poison, merely coated in cloying caramel. Upon hitting the floor, it was devoured by roaches that reached my feet. These nocturnal creatures, with unpleasant exoskeletons and coated in a viscous substance, explored the air with trembling antennae, leaving behind a trail of contamination and repulsion. Moved by discomfort, I couldn''t help but crush some of them under my feet, breaking their exoskeletons and separating them from their bodies. They died in agonizing gasps, crawling shapelessly and acquiring a pale hue, only to satisfy their appetite for sugar. More roaches arrived and engaged in cannibalism. A gruesome feast began where they devoured each other, leaving only one, more corpulent and repulsive. It was then that the mature lady abruptly rose and, with the tips of her toes, crushed the cockroach harshly. In a few beats, the roach, in the midst of its digestive process, was reduced to a mangled mass, its body torn apart, releasing a viscous hemolymph liquid onto the floor, repulsively slick with a subtly dark hue, reminiscent of decomposition. Its consistency, beyond any pleasant comparison, resembled a sticky fluid that clung tenaciously, leaving a gelatinous trace that induced an unsettling sensation. This fluid, a mixture of bodily secretions, embodied the essence of repulsiveness in its most primal form, a grotesque corpse, similar in tone to porcelain in the absence of its exoskeleton. The lady seemed to feel a certain embarrassment upon realizing my presence during the macabre spectacle of voracious cockroaches. In a subdued voice, she apologized, "Forgive me, but those roaches are like chocolates in a lover''s gift." Though not fully understanding, I nodded and quickly took a napkin from the table before me, cleaning my hands and lips with utmost care. It wasn''t entirely awkward, as both of us felt a sense of embarrassment due to our situation, a dance of blushing cheeks. The aristocrat regained her haughty posture, summoning the servants. Silhouettes of human souls, shadows of lignite, came at the snap of the lady''s fingers. With cautious steps, they gathered the traces of rust and crumbs from the table, cleaning while the rust indulged in a nauseating orgy with the sugar. With a lofty and haughty tone, the woman inquired, "From which continent do you hail, young lady?" After a moment of hesitation, I replied trembling, "I reside in the... of... Sh... mor..." A dense fog devoured my memories, leaving an inscrutable void and scattered thoughts. The woman looked at me with confusion, expecting corrections or additional explanations, but I remained silent. "Fascinating," the woman finally expressed. "I haven''t had the privilege to visit such a sumptuous region. I have friends around the world and knowledge of geography, but you leave me speechless." She repudiated hesitantly after a prolonged and uncomfortable pause. Her tone denoted disbelief, as if she thought I was weaving tales to impress. Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. "From this land arise my parents, my grandparents, and myself. Though I have visited some realms, my loyalty persists to my homeland, the whisperer of my youthful years," continued the lady, striving to keep the conversation alive and highlight her position and prosperity. I responded with a calm and confident voice, attempting to shift the direction of the dialogue, "It is commendable to acknowledge love for one''s homeland. Would you, by any chance, know where I come from or in which corner my nation rests?" Despite the discomfort of mentioning my childhood, I sought to steer the conversation in a different direction. "Therefore, friendships are forged to intertwine dialogues and unravel the geographical position of a nation," she replied, leaving me astonished. I didn''t expect such a response, but her demeanor exuded certainty. She continued her explanation, "My spouse does not trace his roots to this land. He and his ancestors hail from the Principality of Chimeria, renowned for its bullfighting exploits. They joined this new nation through the path of expansion and wealth. My husband is a true matador." She spoke with pride and empowerment about her husband''s triumph. In the backdrop of my contemplations, something more unsettling was unfolding: the bull''s head, proud in its position as the presumed family standard at the threshold of the festive hall, a symbol rooted in bullfighting arenas, bewildered me as I discovered that the authentic family emblem was a crab. Twists in the events! The tapestries in the banquet hall presented the mentioned crustacean as the archetype, and although I initially interpreted it as a crab, it was undeniable that it belonged to the decapod family. However, I did not immediately give it the proper attention, not because I didn''t notice it, but rather because I didn''t immediately realize that it was the family emblem and not just a decoration. Its significance faded in the face of the imposing bull''s head that dominated the banquet hall, and its decapod nature was not palpable at first glance. If the lord of the castle, a fervent admirer of bulls, personified the male figure in this reverie, did the decapod emblem belong to his wife? Although commonly associated with the male, here it seemed that he leaned towards his beloved''s choice, preferring the consecrated and sanctified figure of decapods over the overwhelming presence of bulls. If the consort raised the standard of the decapods, logically, her spouse should belong to the Bovidae lineage, hehe. Though this connection seemed unusual, the plot intricately tangled, and I found myself unable to fathom such a fact or anticipate the why. It was not appropriate to inquire; sometimes, discretion prevails. Immersing myself in the mystery of the decapods would be an ineffable and grotesque experience. The decapods twist their grotesque anatomies; torn shells reveal slimy and putrid flesh. Their once nimble appendages now awkwardly contort, resembling deformed claws searching for prey in the dark marine underworld. Each movement raises the stench of rotten seafood, while their opaque eyes reflect the decay of marine life, a nauseating spectacle even for the most intrepid explorers of the oceanic abyss. But, what is the Principality of Chimeria? What nation is it? I cannot recall it due to the nebula shrouding my memories, but its mention does not feel entirely unfamiliar without a coherent explanation. Simultaneously, a frigid sensation, as if my blood turned to ice, seizes me upon realizing that such a term does not align with current modernity or geographical forefront but rather suggests a more historical era. "Would you honor me with unveiling the castle?" - I uttered with restraint, mirroring her sumptuous language. However, her response was, "No, I will show you something even more inevitable and spectacular, as we share good terms and a more tangible friendship." Although I ventured to explore the castle in the hope of lightening the conversation and, incidentally, unraveling the mysteries surrounding the fortress, the lady''s reply left me dumbfounded, with a blank expression. It was as if every hair on my skin stood on end, akin to a cat in a cradle. My state oscillated between terror and curiosity, like a feline perishing due to its foolish curiosity. Moreover, confusion about the new relationship forged with that woman overwhelmed my being. "Come with me, let''s go immediately to that circus," the lady exclaimed, revealing impatience and pride more noticeable than those dedicated to her spouse. The reference to the circus sparked confusion and uncertainty in my mind, generating a tumult of thoughts. I simply nodded, following the woman with composure. She took an oil lamp and a match before pausing at the edge of a non-Euclidean angle, defying the laws of conventional geometry, worthy only of a nightmare, woven with strands of sugar. At my feet, a locked drainage cover was revealed. Gracefully, the woman crouched down and pulled a rusty key from her bosom. She opened the cover and handed me the key with a playful expression, despite being a mature woman. We resembled two girls wrapped in a game of hide and seek. We descended some visibly dirty and unpleasant metal stairs, but I decided to proceed. Skillfully, she lit the oil lamp and kept the flame alive as we advanced down the steps. After firmly closing the metal grate from the inside, my vision plunged into the sewers, immersing us in a dark and mysterious environment. The sewers formed a gloomy underground labyrinth, a crucible where decay and disease amalgamated. Conceived to mitigate the growing urban impurity, these narrow networks embraced the flow of wastewater, industrial waste, and human detritus. The environment, stifling, was saturated with repulsive odors and unsanitary conditions. The lack of an adequate management system facilitated the spread of ailments, turning these sewers into a dark chapter in history, where public hygiene lay in a deplorable state. Under the faint light of an ancient and unreliable oil lamp, I wiped my hands on my dress after touching the repugnant stairs, marked by the shadow of sin. The woman continued her path like a sleepwalker, traversing sewage-infested waters teeming with white porcelain-like cockroaches. Her care for appearance and lineage seemed to fade in the face of indifference towards her current actions. Following in her footsteps, I inquired, "How do you know me? Why were you expecting me?" She responded with a friendly voice while holding the oil lamp with sweaty hands, "It''s a commandment," instilling in me a new fear... After a prolonged wait, the sewers expanded, multiplying their size hundreds of times, giving rise to a circus tent in red and white hues: it was now a circus. "Would you grant me the pleasant knowledge of your name?" I inquired disdainfully. "A pleasure, my appellation is Constance. Young lady, I wish to discover yours," she replied, standing tall and still exhaling sweat. After a few moments of hesitation, I responded, "My designation is Giselle." She paused for a moment and looked at me, with a slight sweat trickling down her forehead. "It''s an admirable name, little crab," I was left speechless and somewhat nervous. Little crab? What was she implying? Nevertheless, I let it pass, as we promptly entered the circus. It was a peculiar sensation; as if a grandmother was giving nicknames to her granddaughter, but for her, it seemed to be a geographical relationship. Chapter 24: Calamity The Empty Mirror Chapter 24: Unhappiness Venturing with certainty into the tent immersed in a bath of milk and crimson nuances, a twisted circus emerged from the sewer depths. The show unfolded in the Hades of the sewers, where the tent, saturated with decay and the filthy chaos inherent in those shadowy corners, maintained a subtle red and white glow, highlighting the resounding joy of a circus. Though the tent might be highly repellent, it still retained a delicate shine that enhanced the jubilant substance of a hemisphere. The cape, now somewhat blackened, boasted slightly muted colors. We crossed the entrance that expanded majestically, and Constance extinguished the oil lantern upon realizing that the circus was illuminated by hefty yellowish spotlights, whose intensity made moths fluttering around them contort and squeak, masochistic in the face of that blinding light. Under the seemingly antiquated spotlights, they defied logic by lacking any visible connection to a power source. Peering inside, I could discern a sort of yellowish pus that expanded and pulsated in its concavity. Constance produced two tickets for the circus performance; on them, the likeness of a clown adorned with vibrant colors and a red nose was spat out. The tickets decomposed, turning into confetti as if they had been approved and stamped. The confetti scattered over the murky waters of the sewer, soaking and vanishing instantly. In my position, I remained silent and continued after Constance with cautious and deliberate steps. However, during my journey across the deck that housed the ring, thus shaping the circus stage, I was unable to distinguish any ticket booth dispensing the precious tickets for the performance. The only tickets present were those Constance safeguarded, hidden within the folds of her attire, as if the circus clowns resisted becoming a farce for the public. The areas designated for gastronomic delight unfolded in the distance, showcasing a myriad of sweetsˇŞhash-covered marshmallows, ice cream with cookie chunks and caramel sauce, cakes with thick icing, and others, all delightfully infused with glucose. However, they held no mystery for me; I recalled Constance had already offered similar delights before. Moreover, the pungent stench wafting from the sewers, repulsive enough to strip any soul of its appetite, added to the displeasure. Constance sensed my aversion to sweets and chose to remain silent on the matter, merely continuing her march. It was evident that I was already weary of the whole sugar affair, which continued to invade my already disturbed senses. My gaze could only revel in the contemplation of sugar and decay; my sense of smell was besieged by the repulsive stench of the sewers, with a subtle amalgamation of tenderness. My hands resisted the seduction of touching surfaces soaked in monosaccharides, and my ears were assailed by the constant sound of thick drops falling on the drains. The incessant noise of corroded machines spinning cotton candy did not escape my perception. On the muddy path of the sewers, we advanced without concern for our garments and footwear, completely disregarding the filth that surrounded us. Constance seemed to pay it no mind or rather resigned herself to the grotesque journey. In my case, I tried to banish from my mind the splashing of water on my feet and ignored clusters of a gelatinous substance writhing on the ground, as if dancing, as if an amorphous conglomerate slid and coiled around my limbs. Even under the circus tent, everything remained unchanged. The surface lay submerged in murky waters and sticky appendages. Finally, we reached the stands where the light from the spotlights diminished significantly, creating a spectacle of nuances. We settled into the seats soaked with resignation, choosing a spot near the central ring to enjoy the show without being too close or too far. Despite the desolate appearance of the stands, they were actually occupied by scattered porcelain dolls. These figures, worn and aged, wore tattered and faded fabrics, with unkempt hair mimicking gray, though elegantly arranged. The porcelain composing the dolls, now cracked and aged, bears deep fissures resembling open scars. Their once smooth surface is veiled by a discolored and stained patina. Worn remnants reveal dry cracks and detachments, while a stale odor permeates what was once the essence of childhood innocence. Each fragment whispers a story of decay, turning charm into a grotesque display of inevitable decomposition. The paint adorning the faces of these dolls is merely a prudish display of dull and unpleasant colors, as if they had been applied by malevolent hands. A morbid being masturbating in the panties of a porcelain doll conceived as a friend for tender infants, creating a whore-like makeup. The dolls'' makeup slides over the porcelain like a mask whose grace has been dishonored. A thick layer of rough and uneven white chalk highlights the underlying cracks and wrinkles. The carmine red of the lips, instead of being seductive, appears as an open wound, bleeding incessantly. The eyes are framed by black lines dripping downward, creating an effect of black tears fused with a grayish shadow evoking despair. This makeup, instead of enhancing beauty, becomes a nauseating expression of decay, a silent scream of elegance corrupted to the grotesque. At least on the surface of their faces, where the porcelain is not shattered, as they gazed toward the spectacle. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. In a chromatic play provoked by the lights of the spotlights on the central stage, a bull emerges like a colossal giant, a privileged one among its kind, with a jet-black hue. Its imposing horns stand out against the rough skin, and its prominent muscles denote colossal strength. Its skin, as dark as midnight, reflects an intimidating presence. But the most unsettling is its countenance, painted with clown makeup in a distorted conception of laughter. The grotesque and disfigured strokes of the paint reveal a sinister smile, with the eyes highlighted in a disturbing tone. A nauseating amalgamation of brute strength and aesthetic horror, this bull embodies a disturbing duality. As I watched the bull trotting across the stage, I wondered uneasily if I was witnessing a circus show or a bullfight. From the sands of the bullring emerged a masculine figure, upright and robust, like a ghost dancing in the circus ring. His epidermis, chiseled by time, displayed aged hues but with a youthful countenance, and his dark brown eyes resonated with the depth of the night. A halo of darkness enveloped his short and shadowy hair, barely discernible beneath the attire of the bullfighter. Adorned in a classic suit, shades of gray and gold intertwined not to evoke elegance, but to project a grotesque and repulsive fashion. The jacket, more akin to a decaying insect''s cuticle, bore ambiguous stains suggesting the presence of a metallic shroud, while the lackluster gold lost its brilliance in a dull glow. The gray trousers, with disheveled creases, boasted indescribable stains, and the torn and stained black stockings added a faded touch, as if witnesses to the feast of hungry larvae. Instead of enhancing, the accessories contributed to the macabre appearance. The wide-brimmed hat defied fascination with its deformed shape, while a pungently scented bullfighting cape waved in the bullfighter''s hand, revealing frayed embroidery. Instead of boots with veins resembling sick arteries, he wore a pair of clown shoes that defied all norms of good taste: huge, bulbous, with twisted tips pointing upwards and covered in a viscous mix of garish colors sliding between indescribable shades. The soles, a mixture of rough and slippery textures, captured attention with chaotic and outlandish designs. Each step unleashes a pungent perfume, an unpleasant blend of rancid latex and sour paint, weaving a nauseating experience for any unfortunate witness. It resembles an affront to culture, an outrage to the bullring. Even I, as a spectator unfamiliar with bullfights, feel outraged, furious at such a vile affront. It gives the impression that someone mocks humanity, deriding its culture and heritage, laughing at its own filth. I perceive it in the torero''s lifeless eyes; I barely glimpse the hatred, the anger, the shame. His aversion is so intense that tears of despair and helplessness slide down his eyes, accompanied by a barely audible muttering of grinding teeth, even from a distance. Despite his anger-contorted face, he seems to be manipulated by metallic fragments that control and animate his expression, leading him to make horrendous gestures of smiles and exaggerated, clownish expressions. His face takes on intense shades of crimson, a red that paints his lips like a courtesan. A whore with cunt and phallus tinted in colourful tones, reddened by her own blood that slides due to the exaggerated gestures she is forced to perform. At this point, I cannot hold my gaze on such a disturbing scene, which ridicules and upsets, disfiguring the man into a prostitute, inducing the most inhuman cognitive martyrdom. That disformed appendage that treats everyone as its sexual toys, with which to masturbate. I would like to cover my eyes, I would like to run away and I would like to shed tears of dread, but the noblewoman beside me seems oblivious to the strangeness. She, Constance, is managed like a sex doll, a victim of the disformity. The aforementioned pitiful aristocrat was nothing more than a doll with which to overflow seminal fluids into her vaginal canal, I find myself unable to dress this thought sharply, for I perceive it as the purest disgust towards orgasm, feeling the sensation of vomit burning in my throat. That unfortunate lady was but a perishable phantom, a porcelain doll serving as a receptacle of the purest contempt, destined to satisfy lascivious cravings. Those two tormented souls were mere ceramic sculptures in the belly of that disformity, fearing myself dragged into unspeakable infamy. I could not allow that formlessness to take away my identity. I tried to safeguard my dignity as Constance cheered the performance. Her cheeks took on an exalted flush, her mouth moist with stimulation, yearning to be possessed and penetrated. Her countenance revealed an indescribable dread, an immaculate desperation, a pain that escaped all words. The nightmare exceeded my expectations as I watched Constance writhe between delight and tears, her eyes turned to a blood liquor as dark as midnight, akin to petroleum. With pearly saliva sliding to the floor and her genitals engulfed in vaginal fluids, the episode was becoming unacceptable. Anguish welled up in my being, causing nausea and nervous laughter to break out in a witch''s wail. On the set, the matador holds a torn and faded cape, soaked in stains of a viscous liquid of uncertain shade. The frayed ends are criss-crossed with strands of human hair, giving it a macabre appearance. A pungent stench, a fusion of stale sweat and rust, wafts from its folds, creating a nauseating sensation that invades the senses. This attire, stripped of any hint of elegance, becomes a grotesque manifestation of subverted bullfighting. The bull, charging like a copper colossus, observes the most disturbing and vomitous scene. The bullfighter, with the imperturbable gaze of porcelain dolls, begins his performance. He begins with the ballad of regurgitations, vaginal secretions, and as the bull exhibits a clown-like painted countenance, he displays a prolonged period of prowess in the ring. In the rough umbrosa, gutturals echoed like aphonic echoes from the very essence of brutality. Hoarse, piercing growls writhed in the blindness, forming a chorus of monstrous clamours that permeated the air with subtle revulsion. The howls, devoid of any hint of civilisation, tore through materiality, distilling an amalgam of visceral cruelty and grotesque despair. The howls, distilled with unrelenting rawness, fade into a twisted echo, revealing the raw essence of an untamed, grotesque nightmare unfolding in the subterranean abyss of sound, as if they had set their gaze upon me and banned the ring, leaving only the conclusion of the circus spectacle. In an unexpected turn of events, the diestro unfurls some colourful elongated balloons and, with the skill of a virtuoso, inflates them. He moulds a chromatic sword with these balloons, where the amalgam of colours is an unusual weapon. With mastery, the matador concludes his performance. After a charge by the clown, he firmly holds the balloon sword and stabs the bull. The balloon, with pathetic logic, folds over the animal''s rough skin, taking the bull to the ground to dissolve into a sticky lollipop that reveals its true substance: clown make-up. The bullfighter pays homage to the stands at the end of the show. Instantly, pre-recorded, canned laughter echoes in the atmosphere, not ordinary laughter, but the laughter of those who no longer inhabit this world, the hilarity of dead people. The bullfighter seems to fade away, adopting an inert posture, as if trapped in a syrup of make-up. Only his clothes remain, abandoned in the same place where he lay, a limp bullfighter''s costume. Moments slipped by as I experienced unwholesome, viscous appendages that lingered and churned around my being, encircling my person and around my genitals. It was as if a monarch was lasciviously sliding her voluptuous legs over me, longing to rub her huge tits on mine. The rubbing became vigorous, determined to rub her lubricated anus against my genitals. Her seductive tongue tried to lick my lips and the inside of my mouth, raising doubts as to whether this entity, this bloodsucker, embodied my own reflection in the mirror. The uncertainty lingered: was this disformity a reflection of myself? No, it couldn''t be, for to transmute me into a fluctuant of the satellites would imply that this disformity stood as my mistress, my favourite whore. This whole unusual encounter went by the name of Giselle. Chapter 25: Queen of Wands The Empty Mirror Chapter 25: Queen of Wands After the culmination of the circus show, immersed in primal brutality, Constance, at my side, collapsed in a substance resembling a viscous, mucilaginous liquid of clown make-up. It spilled onto the rubber seat like that of a condom, uliginous and nauseating, taking on the appearance of a worn and repulsive clown''s grin, exhaling the smell of a rotting corpse. The make-up, with its chromatic nuances gradually fading away, left behind only a whitish residue, similar to milk that has lost its freshness, rancid milk. This fluid gave off milky bubbles that burst, splattering the stands with ineffable disgust. Finally, the make-up disintegrated on the floor of the sewers, slowly dispersing like a gooey glucose yoghurt, or rather, a liquid that amalgamates with the sewage, evoking a kind of spilled sperm. The porcelain dolls, in their state of tense madness, remained impassive at the end of the performance. I feared that these hideous mannequins would come to life, giving me unpleasant and terrifying looks, and then expel repulsive contents such as semen from their mouths in an act of grotesque disgust. I was uneasy about the possibility of their perversion and lewdness manifesting itself, engaging in improper and dishonourable acts. My heart clenched with fear, I looked away to the sewers, where the waters were permeated with regurgitations. With hoarse voice and trembling steps, I rose from the damp seat and walked over the dark waters containing residues of impurities and vaginal fluids. My stomach almost rebelled at the repulsive scene, but I tenaciously maintained my grip on palate and tongue, adapting to the secretions that flowed around me. In the disorientation of my path and in the absolute solitude that embraced the circus, where taciturn porcelain dolls were my only company, I was left with only the path that led to the stands, to the central hemicycle where the execrable performance took place. There, I could see yoghurt-like liquids, make-up, pouring on the floor, while the bullfighter''s clothes were prey to flies and maggots, as if they were a feast for ghouls. Close to the rags, I spotted a card on the back, black in colour with white outlines that formed the silhouette of a bull. As I approached, I noticed how the letter stood unchanged on the filth. I bowed reverently to rescue it, as if it were a call for help, or perhaps it was seeking the shelter of this unusual deck of cards. It was then that I noticed that the bullfighter''s attire, which had previously been lit with a chromatic palette in repose, was nothing but scraps of human skin in an advanced state of decomposition, giving off a nauseating stench of blood and viscera. With dexterity and speed, I tore the letter from the mass of pulsating skin, which dripped with viscous blood, revealing itself as a grotesque costume made of human skin, a sort of repulsive symbiosis between living and dead flesh that threatened to wrap my hands like wide, pathetic sleeves. Holding the obituary with the engraving of a bull, enveloped in the gloom that blurred the skin or costume of the bullfighter, I was compelled to settle my person on an old wooden chair, whose creaking evoked the lament of a senile rocking chair. A board supported by four legs, like a mules or a cow, metamorphosed into a table, on which rested the dismembered head of a bull. Devoid of eyes and adorned with extracted teeth, it formed a macabre pendant around the horns, like a crown of secrecy. The bull''s tongue, torn out of its socket, lay in its mouth, the delight of maggots. The table, moreover, held an oil lamp, rusted and corroded by the dampness of the sewers, casting an inclement light on the scene. At that precise moment, a silhouette emerged, carrying an imposing witch''s hat, disproportionately large for her head, more akin to the headdress of a giant in oil. The hat, twisted at its peak, housed a feminine figure rising with bull horns unfurled, evoking the magnitude of imaginary colossi. These horns extended over the hat, tinged with charred hues, creating the impression of an apotheotic bull. The enigmatic figure rested on a stone throne with a raised back, flanked by columns supporting monumental candelabras. Candle wax slid over metal containers, emitting an intoxicating aroma, subtle as perfume in an Edenic garden. The wax, with a melancholic cadence, languidly dripped onto the ground, where the pillars, like giant witnesses, stood behind the horn-adorned figure. The terrain, crafted in an oppressive scenography of earth and sand reminiscent of albero, rose imbued with dust and the ephemeral traces of floating votive candles, resembling drops of blood suspended in the darkness. On the flanks of the chamber, only centennial tomes were discernible, resting with reverence on shelves of rotting wood. The spines of the books, in shades of brown and black, evoked the texture of a bull''s hide, while the yellowed pages hinted at a whisper, as if resonating in the aged blood of words. The environment, shrouded in dense darkness, obstructed my vision, allowing me to glimpse only the dusty albero, marked by footprints mimicking the silhouette of bulls in the arena. The rigid and horn-like structures recalled the footsteps left by clown shoes on a literary stage of intrigue and mystery. That figure with horns, as if adorned in a satin membrane whose unpleasant and yellowish hue shone with a unique gloss thanks to the cuticle that adorned it, was displayed in all its acme. The attire, resembling a clerical robe of reverence, enveloped both its limbs and body with solemnity, imparting an air of distinction and mystery. Atop its head, it bore bull horns, akin to a bullfighting crown that enhanced its presence in a majestic and enigmatic manner. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. In the skilled hands of this mysterious figure rested a garrocha, an implement adeptly used by picadors and garrocheros to challenge and tame the bravery of bulls. The garrocha, also known as pole-vaulting, stood as a form of bullfighting on foot, involving a daring leap onto the bull backed by a long pole equipped with a steel-tipped end. This noble art, executed with mastery by astute garrochistas, unfolded in rural tasks, where skilled riders adeptly guided the fierce cattle using such a distinguished pole. Not confined to the bullfighting scenario alone, the garrocha displayed its multifaceted role in the bull-handling, carried out by teams of garrochistas during the testing of brave cattle. Additionally, it played a crucial part in the derribo or takedown, an act designed to assess the bravery and charge of the bull, even being an integral part of equestrian competitions that celebrated the skill and grace of this age-old art. In every movement, the figure mimicked a dance between the daring and the elegant, shining as a true master in the art of the garrocha. The garrocha, resembling the shaft of a cane, rested with dignity on its abdomen, a steadfast support. It extended its arms in my direction, revealing a delicate skin and red nails of unsuspected elegance. With mastery, it laid on the table a deck of cards whose backs displayed the marble silhouette of a bull, echoing the already admired figure. The distinct woman, adorned with bull horns, showed restlessness and alertness, in stark contrast to Constance''s pride. Her experience and readiness echoed in the firmness with which she wielded the metallic garrocha, sharp at its end, ready to challenge any charge. Though devoid of fear, her demeanor did not unveil absolute presumption. "I am the Queen of Wands, the inexhaustible flow of desire unfolding with splendor. I embody the fiery cavern where creativity sprouts and burgeons. My hair is the sea foam gathered in a single wave. I represent generosity, thriving in every barren land, populating it with my works, a symbol of independence and freedom. Giselle, do not rush and keep calm; I have led you to the edge of your consciousness, not into a nightmare," she expressed with a calm and measured voice. At the brink of my perplexity, I inquired, "Who are you, noble presence?" evaluating the scene with my inquisitive gaze. "The marchioness, not the elderly one; simply a marquess taking advantage of this coherence," she replied with clear honesty. "Who entrusted you with this crossroads?" I continued my questioning with unease. "I was sent by you, my child," she replied with affection and tenderness. "For me? What do your lips say?" I tried to probe the situation with a hint of fear. "Giselle, the witch of pale horrors, was my emissary. Do you need me to name that cherrywood staff for you to find certainty in my words?" she answered promptly, without hesitation, her words echoing like echoes from a distant era. "No more. I have no desire to entertain such madness," I replied, my eyes on the verge of overflowing with tears. "Don''t be complacent. If you ever find me in the course of time, avoid engaging in dialogue with me. Otherwise, you will find yourself facing the fate shared by bulls in the arena," she warned with severity and puritanism. "Are you threatening me with death?" I inquired, a tight knot forming in my throat. "It''s not my intention, but you must settle the debt you now hold with me. There''s a pending promise you must fulfill. Are you willing to proceed?" she asked firmly. "What is my task?" I attempted to inquire about the mission without knowing the reasons or consequences and without glimpsing an exit. "I need you to deliver the Homo neanderthalensis. Bring it in the company of that smoker if you wish, and in return, I will grant you motherhood. Additionally, I will honor my word by providing you assistance. Thus, your promise will be fulfilled, but you must hand it over to me," she explained in a tangle of inscrutable words. "Homo neanderthalensis?" I asked with intrigue and horror. "Yes, deliver it to the smoker after sealing it in colorless and nauseating appendices. You don''t need to keep all these details to yourself; just remember to take it out of the castle," she looked at me indulgently, her strands of blood-dyed hair barely perceptible under tension. In response to such a gesture, I could only nod in agreement. "Very well, turn and carefully place the arcane you have snatched from the skin on the table," she said as I diligently attended to such instructions. As I deposited the letter, my eyes met the sight of a jet-black bull, suspended in the ether, defying gravity, its head hanging inverted from the branches of a cherry tree. This lordly entity seemed rooted to the ground, yet simultaneously reached for the skies, tethered by a leg like cattle in a butchery. A rope secured this extremity, while the radiant sun bestowed a celestial halo behind its forehead, endowing it with a unique sanctity. A cherrywood shaft, upright as support or shadow, formed a "T" with the suspended figure, identifying it with the Tau letter. This representation symbolized meditation and renunciation through isolation and introspection, a testament to humanity choosing to distance itself from the mundane in pursuit of introspection. The letter hinted at stepping away from the tumult of the world for a moment of reflection. In an immediate reply, the answer was a resounding NO, though acknowledging the possibility that in the not too distant future, it might be considered. "I, am The Hanged Man, devoutly believing that imagination and inaction provide the most fitting answers to certain dilemmas. I remain in a spiritual state where the lack of knowledge becomes a sacred element. My existence resembles a pendulum swinging between immobility and punishment. I conceive that destiny is an egalitarian path for all." The marquess, with horns akin to those of a bull, shared her perspective as one unravels the meaning of the suspended bull. After this reflection, portraying me as a lady hanging from a plum tree, the supposed oracle shuffled the cards and laid them reversed on the wooden table. Then, she urged me, "Raise one of them, don''t contemplate, just do it." Following her guidance, I chose a card and turned it towards the ether; it turned out to be an Ace of Wands. The woman expressed, "The forest responds to the title ''Ace of Wands,'' that is the anomaly guiding such a forest, unraveling what you yearned to discover about its authenticity and the singularity governing its peculiarities and eccentricities.ˇ± Chapter 26: The Marquise The Empty Mirror Chapter 26: The Marquise In the shadows of lugubrious fashion, the yellow robe twists like a mass of decomposing pus. Its fabric, akin to the viscous consistency of an infection, adheres to the skin with repugnant affinity. Each thread seems to exude a bittersweet stench, saturating the air with a nauseating odor that conjures images of decay and decomposition. This nightmare garment, in its essence, embodies aesthetic horror in its most grotesque form, as if a glutton for pus had woven the threads of aberration on an infernal loom. Meanwhile, I averted my gaze from the marquess''s countenance, sensing that direct eye contact would unleash a repulsive metamorphosis, plunging me into a kind of madness in indescribable pus. I allowed myself only to contemplate the shadow unfolding on the arena sands, outlining the magnificence of torrential horns. The horror lay in the fact that the surrounding satellites eagerly sought to deposit their attention on that pulsating pus, generating a gelatinous mass resembling the grotesque makeup of a clown. That woman, adorned with bull horns, did not share my bed, yet we wove a gruesome bond. However, I feared that the marquess''s formidable power, capable of releasing me with a mere blink and snatching the coveted artifice for herself, might be a misguided omen. For something more horrendous lurked hidden in the clown''s coffin, as I listened with a bowed head to the woman''s narrative of the Ace of Wands. "I, the Ace of Wands, emanate a fiery and powerful fire that fuels action and creativity, initiating a nascent path brimming with fervour and resolve. My mission is to inspire and encourage others, instilling passion and leadership in every endeavour I undertake. My presence embodies the courage to face challenges and the confidence to pursue dreams with vehemence. I am the flame that ignites the spark of change and innovation, always ready to unveil new horizons and explore limitless possibilities". The noble Marquise, crowned with bull''s horns entwined in braided viscera, deciphered the characters on that card, bearing the message of the Ace of Wands. On the stage depicted, the hoof of a cow, deformed like a hand eaten away by gangrene, slithers through the thick mud, resembling the torn appendages of some aberrant monster. From a firmament saturated with bile, it seems to expel an opportunity by clinging to the rod that emerges as a male member, an ever-rotting tumour. The card exhibits torn membranes floating in the pestilent wind, symbolising spiritual decay. In the distance, to the left, lies a deformed castle, a chimerical illusion of opportunity disintegrating into a fleshy nightmare. The ground, riddled with pustules, is watered by the broth of germs and bacteria, transforming it into a bed of putrefaction conducive to the hatching of the most nauseating weeds. "I wonder, with astonishment, what relation the Ace of Wands maintains with the forest that surrounds such a sinister castle" - I questioned the augur with perplexity. "The representation of that deformity in the forest, its name, its end and its progenitor" - she replied as her countenance was hidden behind that witch''s hat, which resembled a bitumen-like fluid writhing and splashing on the yellow robe like purulent lymph. Such a revelation revealed that the hat, instead of fading into a black hue, displayed its true colour palette: a yellow that evoked an oozing broth of pus. This hat revealed the horns, which were shedding a viscous black liquid, now impregnated with lactose-white, as if unpainted, nay, as if they were returning to their original hue. "How did you unveil such a peculiar singularity in the forest?" - I inquired, delving into the Marquise''s knowledge. "Because once upon a time I was also a Kaiser of clubs" - she replied with a nostalgic tone that fluctuated, veiling her emotions. Unfathomable feelings that, when he tried to unravel them, unleashed a throbbing headache. But... But his words, too, what did he mean? "Who is the Queen of Wands who gave birth to such an unusual anomaly? Who is this shameless, depraved woman who unleashed the Ace of Wands in the forest? What is her name?" - I asked with vigour and imperturbability. "It''s you, Giselle, it''s you" - she replied to my questioning. "I understand" - I sighed as my eyes rested on the clay floor with an unfathomable melancholy, and then asked: "How can I make amends for the affront of the Ace of Wands? What must I do to redeem my sin? "Nothing, just do nothing and forget it. That is the simplest route: don''t interfere and give it up. The second alternative is to remember it and accept it, but this path is more painful and difficult" - he instructed clearly. "I don''t want to follow either of those paths, I don''t want to give up, but I don''t want to remember either.... Is there another option?" - I asked without a hint of hesitation. "Indeed, there is such a path, but then you will be transformed into Giselle, abandoning the naivety that initially entered the lush forest. If the easy path presents itself, its counterpart proves arduous. This is the most dreary and lonely path, where you are helpless, unaccompanied, while the vermin roam furtively, watching over their progenitor" - she said with a cadence in her voice. "I do not long for solitude, I am gripped by fear, but I am also terrified of company. It frightens me, very much frightens me." "It has been evident from the moment I crossed the threshold of this castle. Fear of youth, fear of existence, fear of pain, fear of joy. What are you afraid of, my child?" - he inquired affably. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. "I fear reality, for my heart longs for fantasy," I whispered with a shrug. "Where dwells that Marquise of languid complexion? Not everything is revealed at the first glance, not even at the second, whether by looking fully or out of the corner of one''s eye. That it is a delirium does not imply its lack of authenticity," he said, giving me a sympathetic glance. "How can a world of chivalry and wanderings materialise?" - I asked, longingly. "You know that more deeply than I, more than anyone; you are the architect of longing," he replied, possessing a vast understanding of my yearnings, and then added: "Often people are overwhelmed by various options and solutions to a dilemma. Despite having multiple alternatives, they tend to opt for the first one presented to them. Tell me, what is your original choice, what was the initial choice I offered you? - he questioned with an eloquent gesture of his hands. "To be Giselle" - I replied, wrapped in a halo of indecision. "Behold, all lies in perspective and inception. Dissonances always find their abode in the extremes, regardless of the corner of the universe" - he murmured in a voice of regret, as if purposely revealing his feelings. "What entities are these dissonances?", I asked with fear and interest. "It is not a matter we should broach in this reading, especially when we are the object of morbid gazes and darkness rules the world." "Can''t you unveil it to me, is it a matter of such gravity? And what about the cenotaph where I rest in lethargy?" - I inquired with renewed confidence. "I have no power to express or perform any act, for the preservation of your welfare and the stability of your sanity. Moreover, he completely ignored the term ''cenotaph''. If it has anything to do with this reverie, I can''t even glimpse it. To attempt to do so might transform me into a formless mass or a beast without discernment, deformed and repulsive. I cannot unveil or explore beyond what has already been mentioned" - he clarified, minimising my expectations. "Can humans really endure so long without the sweet repose of night?" - I questioned with astonishment. "I doubt that sleep deprivation can be prolonged, and even more so if there is the possibility of domination manifesting during the day if you give in to lethargy. Although rest would be the wisest option, it would only make you submissive" - he stressed before adding, "You are trapped in a nightmare because you lack limitations and reference points". "What do you mean by limitations and benchmarks?" - I inquired at his singular assertion. "Limitations, for you are granted absolute free will, but your freedom is rather a whim employed as a tool of excessive and lascivious debauchery. We lack reference points due to the absence of authenticity; it is a creation of your imagination, a clown named Giselle, a faded Marquise" - I explain, leaving more questions than answers. "What do the pale horrors mean?" - I ask for the first time, directing my gaze towards that enigmatic description. "They are what they indicate: pale horrors, grotesque albinos spawned by a courtesan. That''s all I know; you know more about pale horrors than I do. Again, you know more than I do." I questioned the illustrious Marquise about the Principality of Chimeria, longing to enrich the notes which Constance, in the course of our conversation, had barely hinted at. "Spare me, good gentleman, your words and enquiries on subjects as broad as universal history; they are elementary knowledge which do not justify an explanation, at least not at the outset. As for Chimeria''s lament, I have no erudition to back it up either. Such an enquiry would be like wasting a superfluous interrogation before a genie of the lamp; and in the second case, it would be tantamount to imploring the unattainable from a prophet," said the Marquise, leaving me absorbed in her words. If Constance regarded Chimeria as trivial, it should not be an enigma of importance. Besides, even the Marquise did not seem to possess any further information about the disaster alluded to. "Intrigue my spirits, who is Constance indeed?" - I asked fervently. "Constance is nothing but a circus doll. That is all she needs to know. She is insignificant; she personifies only the essence of misfortune," she replied imperturbably. "And who is this diestro in the bullfighting of the fiesta brava?" - I inquired, guided by the intuition of a layman in such matters. "He is a miserable beggar, a tortured soul, with lips soaked in vaginal fluids" - she expressed sternly, before adding: "Can''t you already perceive the disparity between us? Between experience and the intuition of a layman? But rather than a difference, it is a disconnect that separates us." "Are you a prophet?" I asked, undaunted and irreverent. "No, I am not among the prophets. I have only the heavens beneath my feet. Prophets always meet their end in flaying or some other horrible fate" - he said with certainty in his words. "Why does Constance call me ''little crab''?" - I inquired, distressed by the enigma. "It''s an outburst, an upside-down lobster, pale among the tangled seaweed. Grotesque dance, its shell, a banquet of chimeras. Defiant legs, like illusions of terror, in an ocean of darkness, where error is sovereign. Its claws torn, in a desperate effort to elude a cruel and violent destiny. Their shells sullied by hidden secrets, their legs twisted like tumultuous verses amidst dark fluids and despair". "Am I, perchance, the living embodiment of vengeance for the bulls?" - I whispered, while my limbs trembled slightly, and my heart throbbed with fury and melancholy. The lady, invested as a Marquise, scowled disdainfully, barely distinguishable amidst the cloud of dust that rose in the atmosphere. Though she lacked tangible proof of my singular line of thought, I would assert without hesitation that, behind the veil of leaves and the hat that shaded her countenance, her eyes must have been filled with fear and despair at my accursed words. A spasm of revulsion at her yearnings and purpose of existence, yet despite my expressions and my agitated breathing, the lady seemed to struggle to maintain her composure, as if she would rather tear out her eardrums than face the grim reality of what the future held for her. With an imperturbable and rigid attitude, the lady executed a refined hand gesture, offering once again the deck of tarot cards. The cards lay scattered on the table, most of them turned over, their symbols soiled by dust, with only one set breaking the pattern, revealing my destiny or perhaps a simple ruse intended to define my essence. The Hanged Man and the Ace of Wands stood before me. The Marquise continued: "It seems that we need not hide one of your cards any longer, so for my hand it will be turned over", then revealing the Two of Wands. As a modest merchant, she lacked a keen discernment of the probabilities and meanings inherent in the tarot cards, as well as their intricate interweaving. Nevertheless, I clearly perceived the unusual succession of the cards as they were interpreted. I was particularly struck by the appearance of the Ace of Wands followed, in rapid sequence, by the Two of Wands. While not an impossible or even improbable phenomenon, it was certainly unusual. Perhaps a mere coincidence, but in this world, in this place, it seemed that no event or sequence was mere chance. This impression disturbed me, especially in relation to the last letter revealed. Chapter 27: Hunger on trial The Empty Mirror Chapter 27: Hunger on trial I had the feeling that the tarot reading was coming to an end; my intuition suggested that only those three cards would be revealed to me, at least for the time being. The interpretation seemed clear: the first card, The Hanged Man, symbolised my past; the Ace of Wands embodied the present; and the Two of Wands, by implication, outlined my future. Something hinted to me that The Marquise would not completely reveal the meaning of the cards, but that they would be a reflection of my own identity. "I am the Two of Wands" - the Marquise began, her voice ringing with authority and mystery. "I represent the strength, boldness and confidence that nestle in your being to undertake new projects. I convey to you the message that this is a propitious time to seek allies, suppliers or subordinates to help you achieve your goals. If you find yourself facing a complex situation, you will find the solution through patience and perseverance. The effigy offers us the vision of a man, situated on the top of a castle, holding a tiny globe while his gaze embraces a vast panorama to his right and an infinite sea to his left. The illustration reveals that the globe symbolises a world, indicating that the world is at his disposal and that great potential unfolds if he extends his horizons to embrace wider experiences. This represents the balance and skills required to maintain mastery of the situation. In the lower left corner, roses and lilies stand, emblems of longing and chaste thought in concord. The basto, which he holds in his left hand, symbolises the harmonisation of passions in order to direct them properly. He understands his ambition and discerns what steps to take. He wears an orange tunic, which denotes an energetic attitude towards life, and a red hat, which symbolises a passion for adventure. The image printed on the letter astonished me, for this time it was not the figure of a usurping bull, as was customary, but of a man, a human. It was as if the future held in store for me the destiny to become one, to become a human being. The tarot reading concluded, and the Marquise, with her distinguished gesture, gathered the cards on the table, arranged face down. She deftly shuffled them before revealing the dark side of the deck, which displayed a shadowy engraving of a bull, thus concealing the sequence and arrangement of the cards. He then placed them at one end of the table, away from the centre, and continued his speech: "The motives of your nightmare and its genesis are alien to me, distant even from the tangible realm and the Ace of Wands, its architect. Nevertheless, there is a path of escape in sight, a path by which you might yet elude this nightmare." "What is that path?" - I inquired, my heart racing and filled with longing. "The way to detach yourself from this confinement is to imbue it with the presence of the Ancient Hunger," he replied almost immediately. "The Old Hunger?" - I inquired, feeling a shudder in my chest. "Yes, it embodies the essence of the Famine that was humiliated in Chimeria," he said with a hint of disgust. "I understand. But where does this Ancient Hunger rest?" - I questioned, not wishing to inquire into the significance or root of such a "Famine", nor into its implications, nor into its strange connection with Chimeria, aware that the Marquise would not reveal those tangled secrets, however much I might require them. "I carry it right here, so you don''t need to look for it. However, there are aspects you must apprehend," she whispered, barely audible, letting out an immediate sigh. At that instant, the Marquise pulled from her yellowish robe a choker. It exhibited the shape of a grotesque and harrowing jaw, as if it had been ripped from the jaws of a ravenous beast. It was made of rotting, contorted flesh, with fleshy membranes hanging from its margins like shreds of torn skin. Winding black veins snaked along the surface of the choker, as if taking on a life of their own. The teeth of the jaw were hideous, with jagged, splintered outlines that resembled clots of curdled blood. Some were crooked and disfigured, while others were sharp and pointed like razor blades. Constantly, fresh dark-toned blood dripped from the cavities between the teeth, forming small dark pools at the base of the choker. With false teeth of blackened gold embedded between the natural teeth and gums of the jaw, they exuded a sickly, sinister glow, as if imbued with the very essence of insatiable hunger. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. "Its name is ''Hunger on trial'', but it is only the tip of the iceberg in terms of its story. To delve into the narrative of this cursed object would be redundant, for your knowledge of the arcana of witchcraft is still scant" - he mused as his fingers caressed the gums of the choker. "Witchcraft," I whispered, puzzled. "However, you must delve into the intricacies of both its beneficial effects and its dire consequences, as well as the curses and blessings that the Famine unleashes upon you," he continued, ignoring my stupefaction at the evoked sorcery, and then went on: "I will lay it out for you in the most accessible way possible, stand by, and listen carefully. I will first relate its blessings, and then its curses. The blessings he bestows are three: 1. Devourer of Souls: The choker boasts the ability to absorb not only the spiritual energy of those around it, but also their souls. Each time it is activated, it emits an insatiable desire that draws in the surrounding souls, imprisoning them in its bosom. Its abilities are unleashed by the gleam of the three golden teeth in its jaw. The left fang symbolises the act of consuming souls, with a less than 50% chance of assimilating them and absorbing the opponent''s spiritual energy. 2. Voracious Bite: The choker triggers a "bite", reflecting its appetite, as a passive effect on the central tooth. The piece unleashes a "bite" on hostile enemies, with a greater than 50% chance of devouring the flesh. 3. Carnal Corruption: The necklace''s right-handed prong exerts a corrupting influence on the opponent''s body, distorting its flesh and transmuting its appearance into a sinister caricature of its original form. The complexion turns livid and clammy, the muscles swell and twist, and the eyes take on an unwholesome, ravenous glare, with less than a 50% chance of success. The effects, so far described, seem as astonishing as they are real. No wonder it is among the most powerful artefacts in my arsenal. However, you must be cautious. This device acts mostly automatically; in the face of a threat, it will unleash its abilities to protect its wielder. However, you must direct its actions with the power of your mind alone, as if you were a thaumaturge. I recognise that this is a lot of information to assimilate, but you possess a strange connection to your identity and how it reverberates in the world, no matter the dimension. I massaged my temples with my fingers, struggling to assimilate what the Marquise had unveiled to me about "Hunger on trial". The overwhelming magnitude of what had been presented left me stunned. Nevertheless, with an effort, I curved the corners of my lips in a forced gesture of understanding, prompting her to continue, this time with the curses associated with "Hunger on trial". With my heart frozen in the deepest terror, I found myself plunged into an abyss of unfathomable anguish as I received the curses of the ''Hunger on trial''. Such curses, oh, how they weighed upon the soul: the ''Increase of Appetite'', an indomitable maelstrom that assaults both the body and spirit of the hapless wearer. The insatiable desire to satiate both physical hunger and the very essence of existence drove the wearer to a desperate, even self-destructive, search for satisfaction. The relentless compulsion to consume, whether earthly delicacies or sensory experiences, became a devouring frenzy that threatened to consume the wearer in its entirety, as a hungry wolf devours its prey to the bone. And if the breath of life faltered, if nutrition failed, the wearer himself would be condemned to be his own feast, devouring himself in a macabre dance of self-destruction. My insides twisted in a knot of horror as I listened to these dire words, my body trembled like a leaf in the wind of woe, and my lips, numb with fear, barely managed to articulate a sound. My eyes were blurred with tears that threatened to overflow, obscuring my vision with a veil of grief and despair. And yet, in the midst of this whirlwind of terror, the woman''s voice persisted, like a beacon in the darkest night, guiding me through the shadows to a glimmer of safety. "You must be cautious in the use of such a device," his words echoed in my ears, penetrating deep within me with a warning laden with ancient wisdom. "Though the chances of being devoured by the necklace are less, there is a latent risk, ever lurking like a beast on the prowl. But fear not, my child, for you are protected in this nightmare that consumes us. Fate claims you alive, for there is still a part to play in this macabre game. So, though the shadows threaten to engulf you, remember that you are not alone, that there are those who watch over you even in the darkest depths. Hearing these comforting words, a sense of warmth flooded my being, dispelling the fog of fear and bewilderment that enveloped me. The tenderness in her voice as she called me "my child" enveloped me like a motherly embrace, offering me a refuge in the midst of the storm, a sense of belonging that I had unknowingly sought for so long. Though I had never known the warmth of a mother before, in that moment, under the protective blanket of her words, I felt welcomed, loved and, for an instant, at peace with the tumultuous world around me. "I understand. If I am to follow the path of my judgement, then, being a choker, must it rest on my neck?" - I inquired, still troubled by uncertainty. "Yes, it must be girded round your neck," replied the Marquise. With these words, she handed the choker into my hands. I examined it carefully and apprehensively before I placed it slowly around my neck. Its width, like a human jaw, made itself felt, imposing itself on my skin with an ominous weight. With no choice, I adjusted the black leather strap behind my neck, leaving a gap to avoid suffocating. It was then that I felt a trickle of dark, tar-like blood drip down my chest. The choker was more reminiscent of a canine collar than anything else, stirring in me associations of ancient practices and unspeakable dalliances. Its design seemed to attempt to stifle hunger under the guise of lust. "The pain will be mild, fear not!" - assured the Marquise, as the gold, denture-like prostheses clamped onto the top of my neck. It was as if they were trying to squeeze my jugular vein. I felt the gold embed itself until it almost reached my windpipe, making me squirm as I felt the strap squeeze me and my dermis redden slightly. At last, I expelled a clot of dark blood, similar to that of the collar. It was a fluid that established a grotesque bond with my being. The pressure of the leash eased and the jaw seemed to contract subtly. It was then that I noticed that the shape of the jaw became more feminine than masculine. This transformation led me to question the reason for such a change, especially if the Marquise had been its previous wearer, in her words. However, her nervousness about the metamorphosis added to my puzzlement. Although, being an expert in the arcane arts, I had a sneaking suspicion that her restlessness contained a coded message. "Beautiful you look with such grotesque artefacts that they even make me envious," the lady joked, as I stifled a cough. "Your reason is on the edge of the abyss. We have had a prolonged dialogue, and your sanity is failing. You must leave, you must return to the whirlwind and shake yourself free of it. The choker is the key to escape this ordeal. If you can get ''Hunger on trial'' to eat ''it'', you may find a route to salvation" - he said, as he waited unperturbed for it to fade away. A halo of melancholy fills me as I contemplate his departure. Though fleeting, our encounter was between horror and enchantment, and she was present to me. That treasured a value beyond all other considerations. I could have revered her completely if she had agreed to stay, but such a prospect faded into the distance. It was about to fade, and though her goodbye plunged me into disappointment, for the first time I longed for reunion, a hope that fueled my determination not to give in. I asked, "What is your name? Have we sealed a friendship?" Chapter 28: Hanging Gardens The Empty Mirror Chapter 28: Hanging Gardens "It is not permissible for me to reveal my name. It would be dangerous, both to the nightmare and to you. As for your second question, for now we share a common purpose. We are friends in this endeavour, so do not cease in your efforts to safeguard life," she replied, as if she agreed that she must share every ounce of wisdom and guide me as far as possible before her imminent departure. "Are you aware of the name of this reverie?" - I inquired undaunted. "Yes, I know it. It answers to the title of Hanging Gardens," he replied, as a grimace of distaste contracted his lips. "Then, ''Hanging Gardens'', must they be suspended over something? But disgusting sewers and an unreal circus tent are far from evocative of a garden," I questioned in delirium. "You haven''t really reached the Hanging Gardens yet. That was only the transition between the tangible world of As of Wands and the Hanging Gardens. "I am deeply grateful for your help, Marchesa" - I pronounced in our last colloquy, as the lady faded before my eyes, and her voice, or what seemed to be her voice, faded with these words: "Hunger on trial will accompany you even in your nightmares. The day will come when you must restore it to me. Until then, goodbye... Clown". I awoke from my lethargy, like a farce woven on the loom of a nightmare. The Marquise foretold it, and there it was, the necklace, that voracious choker, still imprisoning my neck. Hastily, I rose to scrutinise my surroundings and glimpsed the bullfighter''s suit, made of human flesh, lying on the floor, more dismal than a card of the arcana. There was no trace of other cards; they had disappeared, leaving only the knowledge and the artefact "Hunger on trial". Around me, only the porcelain dolls kept me company. I resolved to leave the circus tent. As I wandered among the rides and games, I came across an array of fairground amusements: ring toss, target shooting and games of skill, all offering prizes to contestants. However, such rewards consisted of grotesque balloons, like lungs blackened by tobacco. In addition to these distractions, there were also simple mechanical rides, such as carousels, swings and small roller coasters, attempting to instil some excitement into those present. Unfortunately, everything was decaying, with pieces of rusted metal crunching under our feet, as if the very essence of metal was decaying before our eyes and innocence. Among the attractions, there were also tests of skill, such as those of strength, which I decided to avoid at all costs, especially after the bullfighting festival. In my wanderings, I was astonished by the lack of a labyrinth of mirrors, for I found no object that could reflect reality; not the metal, which had surrendered to rust, nor even the water, which flowed black and murky through the sewers. As I continued, I reached the far end of the circus, where I discovered empty cages that, instead of housing the beasts of the show, seemed destined to confine the clowns of this sinister place. Later, I came to the preparation area, where the performers metamorphosed and prepared for their feats. These dressing rooms may have boasted mirrors, chairs and coat racks, but I could make out no reflections, and the circus garb was little more than a pile of flesh besieged by flies and maggots. The pestilent aroma and the whitish fluid exuded by the fleshy mass suggested a grotesque and repulsive sight. I also spotted the make-up altars, where the artists applied their pigments before going on stage. While these altars may have been furnished with magnanimous mirrors and glittering luminaries, the reality was different: the light flickered intermittently, casting flashes in a yellowish hue. Make-up, instead of beautifying countenances, lay scattered on walls and floor in a cacophony of lively and cheerful tones, which only provoked disgust and dread. The wardrobes, meanwhile, overflowed with pus and other gelatinous, pungent substances. The rehearsal spaces, where the performers practised before facing the audience, in this nightmare scenario looked more like sewers leading to an even more disturbing corner. After what seemed like an eternity, the sewers seemed to come to an end, moving towards the show like a snake emerging from the earth, mouth and tongue crawling like purulent carpets. Then, we found ourselves before the infamous place known as the heart of the nightmare, Hanging Gardens. As one enters this desolate place, it reveals an arid, mist-shrouded land, stretching to the very reaches of the heavens, barely allowing the majestic silhouette of a colossal building, like a monument in an ancient city, to be glimpsed through the mists. The atmosphere becomes more sombre and suffocating as you go on. The mist thickens to the point of barely glimpsing beyond a few steps, enveloping everything in an ethereal veil that distorts the perception of what is real. The ground, once covered perhaps in dust and ashes, now shows deep cracks that run like veins in the skin of a corpse. The terrain becomes uneven and treacherous, with hidden chasms and rocky promontories lurking for those who venture beyond the limits humanity should know. The contorted ruins and remnants of ancient structures are more noticeable here, emerging from the mist like specters of a past buried in oblivion. Fragmented columns and crumbling arches stand as witnesses to decay and abandonment, their forms distorted and eroded by the passing of time and human indifference. This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. The silence perpetuates itself, but is now permeated with an air of longing and unease. The wind murmurs through the cracks in the rock, carrying with it distant echoes of a lost and lamented past. Shadows contort and dance in the mist, taking on grotesque and twisted forms that defy all reason and understanding. As he wanders deeper into this desolate landscape, the sense of being watched increases, as if faceless eyes were ever watchful from the threshold. Each step seems to distance you further from the known world and bring you closer to the abyss itself, where something lurks on its twisted throne of nightmare. This arid, mist-shrouded land is a place of despair and desolation, where the sinister power of the rockers manifests itself in every shadow and every whisper of the wind. It is a distorted reflection of the horrors that await beyond the orchards, a grim reminder of the true nature of the world in which those who venture into the gloom dwell. In the ether of that rapturous silence, where the mist took on deeper and deeper shades of grey and my footsteps became my only cicerone, I perceived a succession of strangled moans, like the most abject and heart-rending torment conceivable. They emerged from the bowels of the blackness, like a barely audible wail stifled by a throat corroded by stomach acid. As I slowed my gait, I felt something slimy cling to my footwear. I stepped back instinctively and discovered the source of the hideous groan of agony: a wretched creature, an amorphous mass crawling painfully on the barren ground. Its twisted and disfigured body seemed to have been sculpted by dark and sinister forces, leaving behind scars and deformities that spoke of perpetual torment. The spawn''s limbs hung heavily, twisted and uncoordinated, like useless appendages in search of something unattainable. Bones protruded through the flesh at unnatural angles, as if about to give way under the weight of its own monstrosity. The creature''s countenance wore a perpetual expression of pain and suffering, its eyes sunken into empty sockets and its mouth twisted into a rictus of agony. Its piteous moans and incomprehensible whispers filled the air, a symphony of pain and despair that seemed to echo in the darkest recesses of the twisted crown of the gardens. As the execrable being moves over the ground, it leaves a trail of devastation and desolation in its wake. Rocks splinter and crumble under its immense weight, while its presence seems to distort nature itself, transforming everything in its path into a pale shadow of its former splendour. Despite its endless suffering, the being presses on, desperately seeking a way out of its eternal torment. Its empty eyes scan the horizon for some sign of redemption, only to find a twisted, desolate landscape that mocks its anguish. It is a creature of nightmare, a manifestation of the darkness and despair that lurk in the darkest corners of the mutation domain. Its perpetual suffering is a grim reminder of the horrors that await those who venture too far into the darkness, and its presence is a harbinger of death and desolation for all who have the misfortune to cross its path. It was then, as I contemplated their wretchedness with pity, that compassion vanished from my face as I watched those adipose trunks of bone and livid flesh begin to rise with an enormous weight, reminiscent of an elephant''s shrivelled trunk. They swung menacingly, but lacked teeth, yet threatened to crush me into a pile of flesh and bone, as if I were ground meat, only to be slowly devoured by aged gums. Although the creature did not look particularly robust, its size was impossible to ignore, reaching at least five metres in height if it were upright. Its trunk, proportional to its obese body, posed an imminent threat; a single blow could render me unconscious, a victim of body horror. So I rushed away, feeling a stinging fear, and tried to use the "Hunger on trial" device. The words "bite" kept flashing through my mind, my eyes squeezed shut and a lump in my throat, wondering if "Hunger on trial" would obey my commands or bite my head off. I felt tormented. It was then, sensing a squeeze on my neck from the choker strap, that I opened my eyes and saw a flash of gold coming from one of the teeth in the collar''s jaw. The central tooth glinted slightly with blackened gold. Without warning, as if in a hallucination, I watched as the creature on the ground was devoured in one bite, dismembered in half. Its foul carcass was left as the only vestige, the outlines of its teeth outlined on the missing flesh, as if it had been bitten and mutilated. The creature liquefied into a brown goo, instantly devoured by Hunger on trial. The choker had consumed the aberrant creature without hesitation. I felt protected and confident for the first time, as if Hunger on trial could be a decisive ally, though I remained alert to any change in appetite. After the creature''s defeat, the choker seemed to feed and digest it, which meant that the next time I used the bite it would be stronger and more accurate. However, as a side effect, I felt a growing hunger and my stomach begged for food. As I touched my belly, I realised that nothing seemed to be edible to a normal person. I could not feed on aberrations like Hunger on trial did. I had to find a way to satisfy my hunger before it betrayed me and devoured me first. As I searched for a solution, I remembered with luck that the first creature I encountered was slow. Had it been faster, I would have been dead by now, or perhaps "Hunger on trial" would have activated immediately and saved me, though I wasn''t sure. So, with no choice, I continued my wanderings through the mist until I finally reached the majestic structure known as Hanging Gardens, a monument of a singular nature. However, it was not exactly a hanging; although in the distance, shrouded in the dense mist, it seemed that the monument''s pinnacle was suspended above the heavens, this perception faded as I approached. Given its magnificence, it was unlikely that it was indeed hanging; rather, the garden seemed to ''overhang''. Perhaps the insistence on the hanging was not about the garden itself, but about something more creepy that lurked between the steps of the structure. Hanging Gardens were a twisted, grotesque wonder that defied all logic and understanding. They stood in a series of ascending terraces, each supported by an intricate web of tangled roots and twisted stems that choreographed a chaotic choreography between what is hanging and what has fallen. Each terrace was covered by a dense layer of decaying earth, an amalgam of rotting sludge and decaying organic matter that nourished the grotesque, twisted and contorted life forms that loomed over them. The roots of the plants intertwined in an indecipherable skein, forming tortuous passages and dark tunnels into the innermost depths of the gardens. The terraces were connected by narrow staircases and walkways, constructed of marble and charred skeletal remains. As one ascended into the Gardens, the structures became more unstable and twisted, with passageways that narrowed and twisted at impossible angles, challenging those who dared venture through them. The light filtering through the dense vegetation creates an ominous gloom, barely enough to illuminate the twisted contours of the plants and the creatures that swarm among them. The air is permeated with a smell of rot and decay, a mixture of rot and decay that clings to the throat and clouds the senses. Barely visible, the pinnacle of the gardens presents itself as an altar, an offering of sorts, indicating my mission to reach it. A satellite awaits my arrival, with twisted columns and distorted arches rising into the cloudy sky like the fingers of a petrified giant. Chapter 29: Cursed Nightmare The Empty Mirror Chapter 29: Cursed Nightmare The floor of the foundations is covered with a thick layer of moss and lichen, growing profusely between the cracks in the rock and the hollows of the twisted structures. The moss, a dark, unhealthy green, is dotted with black and purple patches that seem to move and writhe as if alive. However, in contrast to this horrendous landscape, stairs are the only way to ascend to the gardens. The steps are made of polished white marble slabs, smooth to the touch and gleaming in the sunlight. Each step is meticulously carved with clean, elegant lines, creating a uniform and harmonious pattern that invites the traveller to ascend with grace and dignity. The staircase handrails are carved from solid white marble, adorned with intricate detailing that evokes the majesty of ancient architecture. Every detail is carefully crafted to complement the natural beauty of the white marble and provide a secure grip as you ascend the stairs. In Hanging Gardens, the scene is plunged into a perpetual dusk, where the skies twist into shades of sickly purple, evoking the decaying viscera of a forgotten corpse. The sun''s last gasps bleed into a rusty orange sea, resembling the sticky secretion of an infected wound, while the clouds, swollen and deformed, float like malignant tumours on an ocean of pus. The pools of stagnant water reflect an unfathomable and disgusting abyss, like mirrors that return the gaze of the ineffable. In this perpetual dusk, the colours twist and contort in a macabre dance. Green corrupts into a putrid hue, akin to the vomit of a dying being, while blue fades into the darkness of madness, retreating like the cold, lifeless skin of a corpse submerged in the depths of a dark, pestilent lake. The distant screams of unknown creatures intertwine with the howling of the wind, creating a symphony of terror that pierces the soul and leaves an indelible mark on the sanity of those who dare to contemplate this grotesque travesty of beauty. Thus began my ascent to heaven. Ascending the majestic marble steps of what were once the Hanging Gardens, one could see through the thinning veil of greyish mist that undermined the view. To reach the heights of these gardens, it was necessary to walk along several terraces before reaching the staircases that linked each of the individual gardens, thus erecting a single garden as a monument destined to astound mankind. However, in this setting, rather than a fantasy scenario, it resembled a nightmarish chimera. After ascending for a few moments, the passage of which I cannot pinpoint due to my attention to my surroundings and the constant fear of being surprised by "Hunger on trial" as my mind wandered, I finally reached one of the projected terraces in the lower layer of Hanging Gardens. The marble surrounding the orchard was soaked in dried blood, a hue so intriguing that it was almost mistaken for the dark ink of a pen venturing to inscribe itself on a reverie filled with gastric juices spilled across the gardens. On the terrace, the marble pavement merged with the stairs, giving the impression that all the architecture of Hanging Gardens was chiselled out of the same material, as if it were still in the throes of its sculpture. Or at least, such was the impression that assailed me. There were some plants that quickly and satisfactorily surpassed my expectations. In the most hidden recess of sanity, where shadows entwine their appendages and the air is permeated with the nauseating smell of decay, rests the "Cursed", so I have christened her, with guilty pleasure. It is a twisted creature, spawned in the dark bowels of nature. The stems, stout and bulbous, stand like fingers contorted towards the zenith, each wrapped in a wretched epidermis, throbbing and writhing in perpetual agony. From them, razor-sharp blades sprout, distilling a white, viscous liquid that slides like tears of torment. Each leaf is impregnated with lethal spores, tiny messengers of despair that fill the air with a suffocating dust, a deadly mist capable of suffocating even the most intrepid of hearts. The flowers of the "Cursed" are like livid wraiths, their wilted, tangled petals unfurling to reveal a core as dark as jet, a mouth of darkness that exhales a mist of doomed spores. These spores, like miniature demons, cling to any creature that dares approach, piercing their flesh and corrupting their spirit until they become submissive slaves to the "Cursed". I drew from my attire a faithful ally, the white-bladed dagger of Ace of Wands, which seemed to have amalgamated with me, but I could not wield it until I had summoned the verve to slay once more. With my arm outstretched, forming an arc with my elbow, I kept a prudent distance between the "Cursed" and myself, with the dagger threatening such a creature. I progressed with slow steps, vigilant to prevent its spores from escaping and infiltrating my nostrils and internal cavities. Since these spores warned of its advance as those livid leaves unfurled, I approached and caught a glimpse of the plant''s interior, as if it were the human body stripped of its bones. This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. The most horrifying thing about the "Cursed" lies within, where twisted and deformed organs resemble the entrails of a doomed monster, an affront to the anatomy of the human body. At the centre of its plant, adipose pouches lie encased in a slimy membrane, pulsing with a sickly throbbing. Within these pouches, pale, grotesque flesh writhes, as if it has a life of its own, begging to be released from its prison of flesh and bones. The blue veins, like signs of nobility, contrast with the ridiculous humanity of the plant. With no escape, I approached, raising the knife above my head to reach inside. The creature was lush, reaching above my waist and requiring almost the entirety of my arm to penetrate it. Steadily, my sweaty hands gripped the knife, and I felt the blades resist as I pierced its flesh. Despite the shuddering of the plant, I continued without hesitation. After an exhausting effort, I stopped my hand, feeling the muscles groan with tension. I observed the knife covered with a translucent membrane, revealing an interior ready to be consumed. Yes, it was. Suddenly, a soft voice, like that of a messenger, whispered: "Blessed of the Old Hunger, blessed". Undeterred, I pulled out the fatty, organ-like pouches, and with knife in hand, I opened the membrane completely. The pale white flesh, criss-crossed by blue veins, looked appetizing. Although in retrospect it might look disgusting, at the time I didn''t care. Blessed or not, my mind was made up. I took a piece of meat in my hands and began to eat it greedily. Contrary to its appearance, its taste was not unpleasant, but rather similar to that of raw meat, with a subtle hint that did not linger on the palate. I devoured the entire fleshy pouch and proceeded with more. I ate and ate my fill, aware that the feeling of satisfaction would be short-lived due to the effects of wearing the "Hunger on trial" choker. The plant, now crestfallen as a symbol of its impending death, stood as the only presumably living entity in the barren landscape of Hanging Gardens. All around it lay only withered stalks and contorted vegetation, neither suitable for sustenance nor posing any immediate threat. At this point, however, it was hard to classify them merely as "plants"; I preferred to label them as creatures. My newly christened "Cursed" stood as my main source of nourishment as I wandered through Hanging Gardens. I wiped the blade of my knife and continued my journey, with the blank steel as my guide. The vastness of the terraces truly amazed me, for although I advanced at a leisurely pace, each terrace level seemed to stretch on indefinitely. It was not until I glimpsed the stairs that I realised the terrace was on the verge of collapse. I leapt to the surface and clung to the edge of the steps to reach the next platform. There they were again, more of those creatures I fed on. Although they seemed to sway slightly, they were still essentially plants. However, the real danger lay not in their apparent immobility, but in the spores that could be lethal even inadvertently. Realising that this resembled a plantation of such "Cursed", I was not willing to take that risk. Among the ruins, hidden on the terrace on the verge of collapse, I was compelled to resort to "Hunger on trial", as it was not possible for me to annihilate them by my own means. Extracting sustenance was a dire risk, given the plethora of spores and the inherent danger they carried with them. While I could not pinpoint the severity of the exposure, it was possibly not so lethal, but pernicious enough to leave anyone defenceless and exposed to other amorphous creatures. With a calm mind, I directed Hunger on trial''s actions towards the left tooth, devouring the entities, though I doubted if they possessed souls; surely, it would annihilate them, being the only vulnerable point on the choker, so a bite would be useless against its multitude, wasting a crucial ability in a futile manner. Then, the left tooth of the choker glowed slightly with darkened gold. Watching from my hiding place in the ruins, I witnessed the "Cursed" twist and wither, leaving behind only a pale liquid seeping through the cracks in the ground. It had taken effect and "Hunger on trial" had satiated their appetite, foreshadowing that I would soon be forced to feed again. I ascended the stairs, clinging to them to reach the terrace, and continued my wanderings. I had quickly crossed two terraces and was filled with excitement, although I didn''t know how many gardens I would have to cross, but I was not discouraged. To access the next terrace, I climbed more stairs and walkways until I reached a garden. More and more vines and slender, misshapen stems lay dying around it, and I gleefully spotted one such creature in the distance, a "Cursed". This one, however, seemed to be alone, as it had been the first time I had encountered one, so I conceived the intention of extracting its flesh. I approached with determination, perceiving how this entity seemed more imposing and corpulent than the others, but without being able to gauge its size. Its figure, moreover, exhibited an even more pronounced and aberrant deformity. Nevertheless, with firm steps, I approached it until I was only a few metres away when I watched in horror as it began to contort itself. I halted my advance and watched in horror as those grizzled, fatty bags tore open, giving way to a grotesque insect-like creature, at least two metres in wingspan. Moreover, its corpulence was notorious. One would have thought that the membranous layer was nothing more than its placenta, and its pale flesh, the being itself. I almost vomited as I witnessed how from that cursed being emerged a hunched insect of colossal dimensions, encompassing all the space around it. At close range, the entity seemed to exceed even my height. The insect, deep black and lacking visible eyes, seemed to detect my presence. Despite my efforts to suppress nausea at the sight of my macabre meal - I had devoured an insect foetus with a hairy, fatty proboscis - I was compelled to flee as I felt vomit rise in my throat, being swallowed by my own being. I then took flight with no clear destination, aware that the entity was beginning to stand upright and spread pale, membranous wings. Faced with such a spectacle, I knew that it would soon catch up with me if I decided to take flight in pursuit of it. I stopped my escape and watched as the creature''s fragile wings struggled to support its lumpy, misshapen body in the air. Aware that I had no choice, I immediately determined to unleash "Hunger on trial". Mentally projecting the attack, I witnessed the insect creature being torn from top to torso by the bite, collapsing as its wings quivered and contorted after being mutilated. Though uneasy about resorting to "Hunger on trial" again, at least I was safe. I didn''t even bother to contemplate the creature''s final form until I was paralysed when I spotted another identical insect coming towards me from between the terraces. From the lower part of the terraces, the insect flew heavily, leaving me almost immobilised as I watched its imposing figure. This time, it did not appear to be two metres tall; it was even bigger, a crescent at least four or even five metres in wingspan, approaching with its membranous wings and grotesque physical form, unleashing horror in my mind. Chapter 30: Carnal Corruption The Empty Mirror Chapter 30: Carnal Corruption It inhabited an abomination that defied comprehension. This creature, this being warped by corruption, writhed in the gardens like a twisted manifestation of agony itself. Its body, coated in a layer of loathsome goo and deep blackness, seemed to be an aberrant fusion of rotting flesh and placenta. Every crease of her skin was an open ulcer, exuding a nauseating odour that corroded the senses and drowned hope in a sea of despair. From the depths of his grotesque, fat, hairy trunk flowed a stench of death and decay. Its mouth, an endless passage to annihilation, unfolded like a doorway to the abyss, revealing tiny but sharp teeth, like needles of doom, tearing flesh with merciless ferocity. Its yellowish, purulent saliva dissolved the remains in an agape of degradation and torment. Its legs, long and shredded, staggered under the weight of its own depravity, fracturing with each step as a metaphor for its ruin. Here and there, holes and tears exposed throbbing flesh and gnawing bone, like wounds that refused to heal. Its wings, membranous and stained with vice, were dotted with bulbous veins that seemed to throb to the beat of a dark and diseased heart. The edge of each wing was adorned with grotesque filaments, which fluttered in the air with a plaintive moan, carrying the weight of its deformity with a macabre grace that chilled the blood in the veins. In the depths of his being, where the eyes should dwell, he found only skin. A hollowness that devoured light and hope, trapping those who dared to look into an abyss of endless desolation and despair. I began to run, but despite its slow appearance, it seemed that it would soon catch up with me. It was only a matter of time before, with its trunk, it began to digest my corpse inside its entrails and stomach. As my feet moved with the haste of a runaway rider, I felt my limbs yearning for rest, every muscle clamoring for respite. With my heart galloping in my chest, my anxious gaze fleetingly captured the flight of that insectoid-looking creature, ascending from the lower terraces with a silent lurking menace. Although that aberrant being danced in the lower levels, I opted to return to the previously conquered heights, longing for the shelter of the vines as a shield against other hungry creatures. Beneath my feet, the marble, undaunted witness to history, gave way in its eternal repose, crumbling with sudden clatter, as if the very firmament itself was hurling its fury upon us. The creature, with a sinister whisper of flesh and membrane, collapsed upon the terrace that held me, its crushing mass shaking the ground to its foundations. I feared the marble would yield to the onslaught, and in a death rattle of despair, I clung to the edge of the staircase, swaying precariously in search of the next balcony that offered shelter. Once there, my eyes captured the desolate spectacle: the monstrosity, its legs battered by the impact, crawled with the solemnity of a wounded titan. Its imposing dimensions evoked the stamp of a giant, while its wings, flapping with the desperation of the agonizing, marked its advance towards me. It was then that the truth was revealed to me: these grotesque creatures, far from possessing any majesty, were deformed manifestations of an unstable and chaotic anatomy. Their limbs, unequal and asymmetrical in their composition, barely supported their corpulence, fragile columns subjected to the weight of their own monstrosity. Although their appearance denoted evolutionary misfortune, their nature remained that of merciless beasts; even in their misfortune, they kept their potential danger intact. In a fateful instant, its dark, slimy flesh underwent an unspeakable metamorphosis, engendering translucent membranes that erupted from its spine, tearing bone and tissue in its frenzy to give birth to colossal wings capable of supporting the weight of its aberrant being. As it writhed in agony, it seemed to sculpt its own limbs, mutilating its original form in a process that emanated a painful wail. At last, his countenance, or what was left of it, was subjected to a grotesque transfiguration. Flesh swelled and sank into his own skull, giving rise to a pair of adipose, hirsute appendages, similar to those already hanging from his face. In an instant, it seemed to lose its insectoid appearance, becoming an amalgam of putrefying flesh, raised on innumerable pairs of translucent, veiny wings. The deformed and obese mass exhibited three greasy and corpulent trunks, which contorted and undulated with repulsive elegance, surpassing in wingspan the body itself. The disproportionately large wings gave the creature a grotesque appearance, resembling a titan spawned from rottenness, towering over the blackness of death in macabre contrast. The creature was approaching with a stealthy pace, furrowing the air low to the ground, leaving behind a plaintive wail that echoed from an abyss of teeth that resembled a tunnel of livid gums, exhaling saliva and pus. In a vain attempt, I resorted to the "Hunger on trial" bite tactic against her, but my effort proved fruitless. I was not properly prepared and missed the direction of the attack. A flash of gold in the center of the choker denoted the attempted bite, but the creature dodged it with innate instinct. It was then that it dawned on me that the creature initially sighted in the vicinity of Hanging Gardens was one of these insectoid abominations. They did not seem to possess any intellect, but were driven solely by survival instinct. They mutated and transfigured themselves into grotesque forms, causing their flesh to coagulate and collapse upon itself in a process of evolution, or rather, deviation from their original anatomy. This was an invariable sequence until they were reduced to their most disfigured and inert form. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. I began to quicken my steps to the utmost, as the loathsome flapping of wings echoed around me, and my eyes witnessed its adipose trunks widening and waning, crushing its own limbs under the heavy corpulence. The marble beneath our feet seemed to yield to the titan''s weight, and as the terrace cracked, I made out a corridor or hallway that unfolded over a staircase. Its structure defied conventional Euclidean laws, adopting angles that defied human comprehension. Nevertheless, I ventured across that marble pathway, with a vaulted ceiling, which seemed to be reserved exclusively for mortals. But behind me, a nauseating, carnal sound echoed, as the creature deflated and slowly returned to its original figure, dragging its bulkiness upon itself to cross the passageway, pulsing and writhing. I advanced along the corridor and watched as the insect underwent a metamorphosis, rising on legs that bulged and grew stout. Its wings, deformed and truncated, lifted it higher and higher, while its three trunks, long and strong, remained erect. Suddenly, it swooped toward the terrace where I was standing, dodging down the aisle and almost catching me with its long, stubby trunks. It was then that something even more horrifying seemed to emerge from the gardens. From the corners of the garden sprouted a wave of creepers, with bulbous and colossal stems, a twisted and grotesque weed that writhed in macabre decay and putrefaction. Their stems, bulbous and of a sickly, repulsive yellow, seemed more suited to the entrails of a dying man. They coiled like insatiable trunks, exuding a viscous and repulsive liquid, typical of the most abysmal creatures. From every pore of their repulsive surface a sticky substance gushed forth, a grotesque mixture of pus and viscous liquid that snaked greedily like snakes over corpses. Each time they approached, a stench of death and decay invaded my senses, leaving me dizzy and trembling with revulsion. The stalks, thick and slimy like gangrenous intestines, were covered with razor-sharp thorns, dripping with a saliva that corroded the skin and poisoned the soul. From the depths of Hanging Gardens they emerged with overwhelming momentum, lashing out at the giant insect. They choked it from thorax to abdomen, as it seemed to exhale moans of pain and anguish. A sticky, bloody liquid seemed to flow from the creature, as if it was being slowly torn apart. The vines, imbued with an apparent collective intelligence, began to wrap around the insect, tearing it apart from the base of its body. They grabbed its wings, legs and trunks, flipping it over completely and exposing its viscera. The plant looked resentful and reduced the offal to an amorphous mass of viscous fluids and torn flesh, with veins exposed. I was captured and became aware of her character, certain that she was trying to snatch me Hunger on Trial, that thief longed to confiscate the choker and then strip me of my inner substance, leaving my sheath like that of a corpse, with the nervous system exposed. She seemed to have a fascination with human nervous systems, for it was that which she took greedily in that paradise. Like the lurking reptile, these treacherous vines embrace you in their lethal grip, stripping you of your possessions and bleeding you of every last spark of hope. They attack without mercy, clutching at your throat with unearthly vigor, drowning your cries in suffocating silence as they drag you down into the endless abyss. I could not break free, plead for help or even avail myself of "Hunger on Trial", for my mind lay shrouded in a misty veil as I was increasingly subdued. Suddenly, the ivy thorns slowly burrowed into my flesh, piercing my thighs and ribs, unleashing a slow trickle of blood. Each drop that fell on the opulence of the bulbous frond seemed to be a tribute to nature itself. Then, the ivy began to carve a passageway around me, the size of my own being, a corridor that stretched into the gloom, curling into sturdy walls and a ceiling that pulsed with a horrifying malignancy. In spite of everything, what I feared most was far away from that passageway, away from the spikes whose effects on my being were an enigma, and away from the anguish that grew as the corridor gradually narrowed, imprisoning my body with yellowish stalks. I felt suffocation and dread, gradually losing my senses, unable to see a way out. My being was progressively compressed, my breathing became painful, like an ordeal, while the pestilent air became hot in my lungs. Every movement was tinged with terror and torment, while the vines raised walls of thorns around me, confining me in a passage of affliction and despair. Every murmur of the wind echoed like a sarcastic laugh, every shadow a lurking menace, as I struggled to keep my wits about me in the midst of this living nightmare. In this earthly avernus, claustrophobia became my only confidant, whispering in my ear with words of madness and despair as I sank deeper and deeper into the jaws of these cursed vines. In this nightmarish realm, the only escape seemed to be death, but even that was beyond my reach, eternally trapped in this hell of twisted foliage and everlasting torment. I feared too much that, before the final sigh, madness would take over my being in this martyrdom. That ivy, with its serpentine tentacles, seemed to plot the theft of the "Hunger on trial" choker from my yoke, like a vile plunderer. However, the greatest of my apprehensions resided in the supreme fear that, from my spilled blood, would sprout replicas in flesh and blood of my own being, as if nature, in its eagerness for preservation and perenniality, so decreed. Each drop of my lymph, upon touching the ground, engendered a Dantesque echo, a demon similar to my person. The vicissitudes and misfortunes, if they are mismanaged or remain incomplete, only grow and multiply, instead of finding their end. The drops of my own blood, scattered in the fight, and their propagation, marked a cycle of multiplication. Suddenly, my nose, like a clown''s, began to bleed, acquiring the crimson hue of tragedy, bloody noses. My eyes were amazed at the expansion of the scarlet stain, almost as if an act of creation was unfolding before them. My understanding barely touched the comprehension of such a strange event, but I sensed that a revelation was brewing in my mind, as if hunger itself was being judged at that instant. Suddenly, the central tooth of "Hunger on trial" glowed with gloomy golden tints and the ivy that imprisoned me fell prey to the devourer. Thus freeing me from its oppressive embrace, I felt the anguish of claustrophobia slowly fade away. The ivy retreated, and I, prostrate on my knees, stood up hastily. My throat, seared by the choking strangulation, burned with impetus, and the touch of invisible hands lingered on my neck. Struggling to catch my breath, I expelled phlegm to the floor with fatiguing effort. I extended my right hand delicately, elbow slightly bent, and formed a fist, clenching it with the strength of the damned before releasing it in an opening gesture. Blue veins stood out on my right hand as I invoked in a low, precise voice: "Carnal Corruption." As I uttered such words, the right incisor of "Hunger on trial" glowed with a golden, blackened glow. The ivy that imprisoned me began a metamorphosis, adopting a grotesque figure of clots, sores and twisted flesh. Black, disgusting veins pulsed on its surface, distorting its original essence into a sinister parody of itself. Chapter 31: Rotten on the inside The Empty Mirror Chapter 31: Rotten on the inside The epidermis that emerged around it took on a livid and sticky hue, while the muscles swelled and twisted, as if enclosed within a human body undergoing grotesque transmutation into a fleshy and detestable anatomy. The plant swelled rapidly and exploded with a dull sound, unleashing a shower of sticky, translucent saliva. The impact threw me face first into a wall, leaving me dazed. As I struggled to regain my composure, I spotted some vines receding, descending toward the terraces of Hanging Gardens. I stood upright, fully aware that this creature was indeed a hive mind. Not even a siege on the scale of "Hunger on trial" would be enough to completely eradicate this entity. It was only a matter of time before it reemerged with impetus, like rampaging ivy. It was a cyclical release, adorned with a macabre crown of decapitated heads. After that torment, I curved the corners of my mouth upwards, when my individual being was on the verge of ingestion. Perhaps I should ascend spiritually, for the gap between self and other engenders feelings of superiority, inferiority, pride, fear or longing for recognition. But such considerations were irrelevant to me, for I had already emancipated myself from the cycle of my birth as I wiped the blood from my nose with the sleeves of my dress. I am like a lymph spill that engenders more chaos with every drop that kisses the ground. After the harrowing contest, I was compelled to wander once more among the ancient balconies of Hanging Gardens. Realising that I was still on the threshold of the lower balconies, I had no choice but to proceed. The greatest distress, however, lay in the difficulty of discerning which balcony I was actually on. The gardens themselves were crumbling before my eyes, and the transition from one to the other was indistinguishable. At first, I conceived that this dilemma might be revealed in the staircases linking the various sections, but the monument flouted architectural convention. Impossible angles and geometries, such as the corridor that arched and twisted in unlikely directions, revealed a complexity that defied logic. The marble staircases, rather than being mere crossroads, resembled intricate veins, scattered and deformed within the structure of the gardens. I resolved to stop and rest, observing how in the distance the creepers seemed to hide in the cracks of the walls, wary not so much of my presence, but of the potential of Hunger on trial. They kept their distance, as if waiting to gradually regain their lushness. The assault of "Carnal Corruption" proved to be excessively effective, leaving it incapacitated for an indeterminate amount of time. Throughout, I sensed that "Hunger on trial" had been the protagonist of this journey; without that choker, she would have perished even before reaching Hanging Gardens. I harboured no doubt that the amorphous entity lurking outside the garden could annihilate me in my present state if I did not wear such a choker. For now, the blessings outweighed the curses attached to the artefact, but even so, the Marquise''s words of warning lingered in my mind. I still feared the abilities of Hunger on trial. It was precisely this fear that prevented the creeper from killing me outright; its purpose was to strip me of the choker before ending my existence. Had it so wished and chosen to cut me down without delay, it would have done its work in the blink of an eye. However, I sensed that I would not meet the same fate in a future encounter; surely, on that occasion, the human-skin-clad plant would eliminate me in the most gruesome manner conceivable. "Hunger on trialˇ± kept it at bay, as if it were my fiercest antagonist, constantly stalking me, and waiting for the right occasion to snatch a kiss, which would be both my last and my first, marking the end of all things, plunged in suffocation. Wrapped in a billowing purple cloak, which stood like a banner, I wrapped myself in it in an attempt to rest, though not to surrender to sleep, for this was a nightmare, but to catch my breath. It was fortuitous that this silken cloak did not impair my mobility. After a few minutes, or perhaps intervals in hours, of rest, I rose to my feet to continue my wanderings through the gardens, meditating on the imperative need to be more cautious and precise in my use of "Hunger on trial". During the giant insect''s harassment, I found myself powerless to avoid it, and unfortunately, in a state of paranoia, I botched the attempted bite, wasting a priceless skill. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. In truth, I was in the most profoundly inexperienced in such circumstances. My knowledge was nil and my resources to remedy such a situation non-existent. I did not have the luxury of practice or instruction. I was completely ignorant of the nature of that fleshy jaw-shaped choker. I could only hint that the whole thing oozed a hint of witchcraft, as the Marquise implied, though perhaps she only mentioned it to facilitate my understanding. For the moment, I could only call it what it was: witchcraft. But what was to be expected of me, a mere merchant? As I wandered into the barren grasslands of the adjoining garden, I noticed my vision blurring and my ears ringing with dizziness. When the faintness hits me, I feel as if the world is dissolving around me. It all starts with a strange tightness in my belly, as if my insides are twisting in knots. My thoughts become fuzzy, as if I''m gazing through a dense blanket that distorts every detail around me, even more opaque than the haze of Hanging Gardens. Every movement becomes a fierce battle against a lurking vertigo, ready to strike me down at any moment. The ground beneath my feet seems to shift, as if I am on a raft in the middle of a raging sea. My senses become confused, sounds fade and lights flicker whimsically. My legs falter, and I am compelled to cling to any nearby object to keep myself upright. Every step is uncertain, as if I am walking on unstable, slippery ground. Nausea grows within me, threatening to surface at any moment. I long only for a refuge to rest in, yearning for calm as the vertigo fades, but the world continues to spin wildly around me. Without a foothold, I find myself prostrate on the ground, stroking my temples in a futile attempt to pull myself back up, the purple cloak outlining the curves of my waist and backside. As the anguish in my chest embraces me, each inhalation becomes a gruelling struggle. An invisible weight rests on my chest, crushing my lungs and depriving me of vital breath. Each breath becomes more painful than the last, as if trying to fill my lungs with dense, leaden air. My chest constricts, struggling to expand with each inhalation, as my intercostal muscles struggle to cooperate in the breathing process. Oxygen seems elusive, as if it slips out of my grasp with each attempt to reach it. Panic begins to take hold of me, making my heart beat fast and hard. I am trapped in an endless cycle of suffocation and despair, struggling to maintain serenity as my being craves the oxygen it needs to survive. Each inhalation becomes an arduous climb up a steep hill, where air becomes scarce and dissipates, leaving me with the sensation of not filling my lungs enough to feel full. It is a terrifying experience of helplessness and claustrophobia, as if my being refuses to function properly, desperately craving the vital oxygen that escapes me. Extreme fatigue engulfs me, turning every movement into a monumental challenge. I drag my body like one traversing a desert wasteland, each step heavier than the last, as my muscles protest under a lead-like weight, reluctant to engage in any activity. Each blink requires a superhuman effort; my eyelids weigh as if forged from lead. My thoughts become hazy and scattered, as if trying to break through a thick wall of fog. Keeping my eyes open becomes a strenuous and challenging task. The mere act of raising myself off the ground becomes a monumental feat, with every muscle protesting against the effort required. My body seems enveloped in a blanket of exhaustion, and every step I take feels as if I am trudging through a dense slough of fatigue. Fatigue, that relentless intruder, spreads like a dark shadow across every fibre of my being, anchoring me in a state of perpetual lethargy that threatens to plunge me into the arms of nightmare in any corner of the world. My mind, shrouded in a dense, soporific haze, fights an unequal battle against the onslaught of a sea of fatigue that tries to drag me into unconsciousness. It is an overwhelming sense of weakness and exhaustion, as if I am facing a colossal and implacable force lurking in ambush, eager to eat my essence completely. My yearnings are reduced to the search for a peaceful refuge where my strength can be regained, yet fatigue lingers like a sinister spectre stalking me on every path I take. My hands, trembling and trembling, reveal the blue veins that snake beneath my pale, delicate skin, while my eyes, misty with grief, shed tears of discomfort. Hunched almost all the way down, with bated breath, I am ready to move forward once more, like a spectre wandering the haunts of a flawed princess, already destined for eternity before the prince had even placed his lips on her mouth, as if sealing the fate of a corpse. How I wish I possessed some recourse beyond the relentless "Hunger on trial"! Though she was my supposedly faithful and powerful ally, constant recourse to her service became impracticable, risking her possible betrayal. I envied, with a certain longing, to be able to wield a weapon more suited to the circumstances, for the knife with its pristine blade was of no use in that inhospitable environment, even more so as it was a razor with a blunt and primitive edge. Its efficacy was limited to piercing the throat of some son of a bitch to the threshold of death. All this, I reflected, while an inner fire consumed my insides. In the deepest, gloomiest recesses of a desolate garden, amidst pools of stagnant water and forgotten thorns, stands a herbal monstrosity that defies all sanity and logic. Its stems, twisted and sickly, like threads of withered silk, undulate like misshapen jellyfish, eager for unnoticed prey. Covered in a viscous, repulsive mucus, their translucent surfaces catch flashes of light, emitting a stench that evokes the very breath of the grim reaper. The flowers, grotesque deformities of nature, hang from the stems in repulsive clusters, their wrinkled petals exuding a dark, sticky liquid, more akin to human saliva. From time to time, they let out an agonising moan that chills the blood of those unfortunate enough to hear it. The leaves, split and delicate as paper, translucent as glass, emit a faint, spectral glow that defies the laws of nature. Stained and decayed, they seem to take on a life of their own, as if possessed by an evil will. Across their surface, a tangle of dark, blackened veins weave, each one swollen and throbbing, as if on the verge of an eruption of disease and putrefaction. Inside the bulbous sacs hanging from the stalks rests a repulsive, viscous substance, similar to the fluid of a diseased creature. Its transparency reveals a gelatinous texture that makes the viewer nauseous. I took one of those bags of mucus and opened it with the white edge of the razor. It almost resembled water, but its unctuousness suggested a denser consistency. Imagine the taste of saliva as a warm, viscous liquid that has sat in the mouth for hours, with a bitter, metallic aftertaste that leaves a sticky sensation on the tongue. It is a sickening experience that urges a quick rinse of the mouth, evocative of the decomposition of indigested food and waste. Would you agree to swallow my saliva if I asked you to? Chapter 32: Poison The Empty Mirror Chapter 32: Poison As I swallow the saliva, I feel its wetness crawling down my throat, a warm liquid that flows with an uncomfortable parsimony. Occasionally, a subtle, barely perceptible taste intertwines with my own, reminding me of his presence. It is an intimate but strange sensation, as if I am sharing part of my being with another, if only for a fleeting moment. I throw the debris to the ground like someone who throws dead skin. The plant or creature, barely visible, rises to my knees, an organism that resembles a spectre but acts as a liquid source to avoid perishing of thirst, absorbing its tears, nourishing itself with its saliva. When the fever takes hold of my being, I experience an inner burning sensation, as if I am consumed by a fire that springs from the innermost recesses of my being. Every pore of my skin is drenched in sweat, which emerges in ceaseless cascades, clinging my clothes to my body like a second dermis. My mind is shrouded in a veil of delirium, as if sailing through an ocean of confused and fragmented thoughts. Words blur in my mind, losing their meaning and becoming a cacophony of empty, disconnected sounds. My thoughts drift and fade, as if floating in a dense mist that refuses to dissipate. The world around me becomes veiled and distorted, as if I were looking through a fogged glass. Shades intermingle and fade into each other, forging a palette of murky, gloomy hues. The sounds come to me like distant echoes, distorted by the fever that thunders in my ears like an unbridled torrent. Delusions wrap me like a leaden cloak, dragging me into a state of confusion and disorientation. I can''t discern between reality and illusion, and every moment seems to slip through my fingers like fine sand. I feel trapped in an endless maze of chaotic thoughts and tumultuous emotions, struggling to find a path to clarity and lucidity. Every time I brush my tongue against my teeth, I taste the metallic tang of blood in my mouth, reminding me of the insidious presence of an ailment. My gums feel swollen and sensitive to the slightest touch, as if they are on the verge of rupturing with every movement. As I brush my teeth, my fingers are stained a glowing red, as if I am tracing a macabre painting in my mouth. Blood gushes from my gums like a thick, dark spring, intermingling with the drool in an unsettling way. The metallic taste sharpens with each rinse, leaving a bitter, lingering aftertaste on my palate. The sensation of discomfort spreads throughout my oral cavity, leaving me with the impression that every bite is a painful outrage to my bleeding gums. The latent pain seems to resonate in each of my teeth, incessantly reminding me of the presence of some insidious ailment. Irritation and bruises seem to surface on my hands, on my neck, as if marked by some shadowy and mysterious force. I watch in horror as the purple and bluish marks spread like ink stains across my body, with no apparent cause or memory of any trauma that might justify them. Each ecchymosis is a silent witness to the fragility of my being, as if I am being singled out by an invisible and merciless hand. The bruises are painfully sensitive to touch, as if they are burning beneath the surface of my skin, relentlessly reminding me of their presence with every movement and touch. In the confinement of a constant observance I find myself, each new contusion, in anticipation of a greater evil, sows in my being a pang of dread and anxiety, a questioning that gnaws at my being as to what else lurks in my dermis under the sombre sway of a mysterious ailment. The cardinals, haughty emblems of ignominy and suspicion, stand like labarums of an affront, as if they were heralds of the oppression of an enigmatic and implacable force. I wonder if I will one day manage to break through the barriers of this nightmare that consumes me, or if my fate is inexorably sealed by the calamity that seems to be voraciously preying on my existence. I have come to the fatal opinion that I have been poisoned, though I do not know the exact origin of this pernicious substance. I sense that Hanging Gardens are poison in themselves: the plants, the creatures, everything in them. My lungs, clogged with spores, I knew it when I spat out a clot of blood, fearing that some monstrosity was breeding in my guts, some grotesque and nauseating insect. The foetuses I ingested and the saliva I swallowed could be the carriers of the poison. They were no ordinary beings; they were, rather, chemicals incarnate. This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. Following the concept of poison as a chemical mixture that, in certain doses, can take life or disrupt health by interfering with vital processes, I have been poisoned. The most terrible thing of all is that the poison spreads rapidly through my organism, deteriorating it from within with these harmful substances. I cannot do without food and drink, even though I am aware that these substances cause purple and blackish stains on my skin. I am sentenced to swallow poison. Wriggling in my torment, I persisted in my pilgrimage through the gardens in search of help. The barely hinted bruises marked my neck with a faded purple tinge. I was thankful that my soul had not yet left my body, though at the edge of hades I believed me. Perhaps, if they could find a tonic to nullify the poison, it might snatch me away from my dismal fate, but I was utterly ignorant of the path to such a remedy. Aware that this was no time to give in to my appetite, for if I did, "Hunger on trial" would devour me in one bite. I decided to seek sustenance, spotting in the nearby gardens one of those creatures known as "Cursed". However, it was not a single presence, but at least three such organisms. Although, for the moment, they seemed harmless, except for the insect gestation that infected them and the spores that spread one of the ailments that afflicted me. I had only the option of veiling my lips with the purple cloak to prevent any more spores from finding asylum in my lungs. With cautious steps and holding the silk to my lips, I drew the dagger from my attire and resolutely began to stab the creature''s insides again and again until it was slain. With bowed head, I pulled out one of those bags full of livid flesh and, with the knife''s edge, opened its belly, distancing myself from the procession of the other specimens. As I bit into the pale flesh, each mouthful flooded me with fear, making me feel like a submissive canine, while the other Cursed remained undaunted behind me. I wondered if the masters of poisons were cursing me at this moment for blaming my afflictions on poison, when it might not be poison itself. But they are as unfamiliar with the situation as I am, and the ailment that spreads, though they are as yet unaware, will be an omen that will make sense later, much later. At the epicentre of my spot, a pond or pool appeared like a jotun forgotten by the passing of time and lack of clemency. Its face, veiled by a layer of greenish, sticky algae, barely allowed a glimpse of its abyss. The aura, dense and charged, seemed to be the only witness to the mute agony unleashed in this forsaken corner. The liquid, if it deserved such an appellation, gave off a foul, pungent stench, a nauseating amalgam of decay and stagnant dampness that enveloped the surroundings in a suffocating embrace. Each inhalation was an invitation to disgust, a sensory experience that left a bitter aftertaste on the palate and an uneasiness in the belly. On the banks of the pond, a carpet of black, sticky mud unfolded, where insect carcasses and decaying animal remains intertwined in a dismal feast for maggots and grubs. The water itself, with a hue that defied description, seemed to exhale a tangible darkness, suffused with the shadows of those who dared to come too close and never returned. With trembling steps, I watched in horror as a creature of unknown appearance emerged from the abyss, at a most inopportune moment for me. In that instant, I loathed it vehemently. From the depths emerged amid groans of anguish a kind of dry cough, sickly as the last sighs of a dying man, a creature of colossal proportions. The mere glimpse of its torso was enough to draw all eyes to the firmament, the size of a residence if it were to rise fully to the surface. Its bulging head stood like a grotesque manifestation of vast orifices. The mere contemplation of this congregation of openings awakens a visceral revulsion in my being, as if my skin were invaded by a horde of execrable entities. Every time my eyes fall on that macabre pattern of holes, I feel my epidermis bristle and an icy shiver runs down my spine. It''s as if something inside me stirs, a discomfort that sinks its roots deep inside me. Unable to look away, a strange morbid fascination compels me to take a closer look. A being devoid of eyes and mouth, just an uneven surface covered with orifices and fleshy cavities. Each bulbous protuberance looks like an amalgam of cysts in perpetual fermentation, exhaling a sour and nauseating aroma that seeps into my nostrils and oppresses my throat like a noxious substance. From the holes and cavities ooze a black, viscous substance, like bitumen or a kind of coagulated blood, as if they were the tears of a being sentenced to an existence of eternal decay. The skin, the scales, if such an abomination can be so called, is an embodiment of repulsion itself, like plaques of corruption rooted in a being forgotten even by existence itself. Each scale is a testament to decay, twisted and warped, as if moulded by the very hooves of despair, thick and slippery. The texture of this being is an outrage to the senses, an amalgam of roughness and softness that seems to pulsate with a life of its own. Wrapped in a viscous, sticky mucus, these scales cling to everything they touch, an existence nourished by the gloom that surrounds them. The hue of these scales is a parade of horrors, a palette ranging from anaemic green to the deepest black, a sickly deformity that writhes and feeds on the rot beneath the waters. Each movement seems to be accompanied by a dull, repulsive creaking, as if the flesh itself were lucid and resisting its own decomposition. The pale, sickly hue of the flesh exudes the essence of affection and corruption. Every inch of this amorphous mass seems saturated with an evil energy, a dark force that awakens primal instincts of revulsion and terror. Contemplating this abomination is like facing the abyss itself, an experience that threatens to devour sanity and hope in an ocean of despair. This monument to degradation and decay is a grim reminder of the horrors that lurk in the darkest corners of our mind and character. Each segment of the abdomen is festooned with sharp, curved spines, like dancing blades in a tragic spectacle of sadism and torture. The skin and cuticle in cartilaginous tissues are covered with repulsive bumps and swollen pustules, on the verge of bursting into an explosion of pus and nauseating fluids. The veins that criss-cross the abdomen are like rivers of poison, a twisted network of dark lines that intertwine in a labyrinth of death and desolation. In the centre of the belly, a loathsome orifice opens into the depths of the being, a grotesque mouth that seems to whisper promises of pain and suffering. Chapter 33: Sinfulness The Empty Mirror Chapter 33: Sinfulness On the rib-like flanks of its abdomen, gills unfurl, slimy, twisted, dangling structures that bear witness to the abyssal darkness. Their appearance is an amalgam of writhing tentacles and gelatinous membranes, their dark, dull colour reflecting the absence of light in the deep sea. The operculums that guard these grotesque formations are like thresholds to a watery underworld. Jagged-edged and covered with algae, they exude a greasy substance that emanates an indescribable stench, a mixture of marine rot and putrefaction. When parsimoniously opened, they reveal a dark, pulsating interior, where the gills jerk in a grotesque frenzy, as if dancing to a nostalgic tune. Every breath this creature takes emits a dull, heart-rending sound, as if the ocean itself were sighing in despair at its presence. In its head, devoid of eyes and life, is reflected the abyss of existence, a reminder that in the darkest depths of the waters, beauty fades and only desolation and corruption persist. The creature''s ganglia writhe and contort in a feast of deformity. Two reptilian legs, like weather-beaten roots in dark, damp soil, emerge from the shadows at the sides of its torso. The scales, rough and worn, are covered with a viscous mucus that exhales a stench of degradation. The creature''s claws, sharpened like mouldy guillotine blades, arch backwards, dripping a dark, viscous substance that looks more like an amalgam of poison and pus than a vital fluid. The creature''s fingernails are the very epitome of nightmare, long and crooked like daggers forged by evil itself. Its surface is wreathed in a veil of filth and gangrenous flesh, while tiny traces of dried blood are glimpsed between the cracks. Each nail is a testament to the inherent rawness of nature, with sharp points that seem eager to plunge into the flesh of any unfortunate enough to cross their path. Each movement of these disturbing limbs emanates a dull, grotesque sound, like the final throes of a dying monster emerging from the abyssal depths of the earth. As I stared at it in terror, unable to make out the underside of its hulking, elongated body, it commanded a presence even more eerie than the giant insect. It seemed to search my soul, yet it remained static, as if it possessed the power to rip me in two at will. Its reptilian-like legs, armed with sharp claws, hinted at latent danger, though its gentle demeanour revealed no hostility. Suddenly, from its abdomen, in a carnal passageway that evoked the tunnels of the gums, it began to extract with the nails of its paws what appeared to be a stomach. Meticulously, he deformed the organ as he manipulated it. Its twisted shape was reminiscent of a bloated sack, tinged with shades of dark purple and speckled with blue veins that snaked across its surface. A mucous membrane lined the walls, dripping a sticky, viscous substance with a pungent, lurid stench. The folds and creases of its lining formed a grotesque labyrinth where food scraps decomposed in a macabre digestive process. Whatever phantoms presented themselves to it mattered little, as gases and liquids bubbled and churned with a nauseating symphony. This repulsive organ, hidden but present in its influence, held the darkest secrets of the human body, bearing silent witness to the excesses and indulgences of mankind. Such was the disfigurement of its stomach that my being, with my heart in my throat, longed to flee from its proximity, as if every further glance at this creature plunged me deeper into the abyss of horror. Among all the scenes witnessed, this figure was the one that hurt me the most, not in the physical, but in the formless liquefaction of my mind. On the verge of insanity, as I hunched like a witch and crawled through the gardens, her wails echoed like evil echoes behind me. Suddenly, I sensed her drowning, plunging back into the waters, as if the right moment to consummate my horror had not yet come, intent on devouring me alive in the bowels of her stomach. The beast lay submerged in the waters, but its pursuit would persist, leaving my intestines in my mouth. Perhaps its intention was not to kill me, but its viciousness had caused my reason to collapse, bringing me to the brink of hysterical laughter, on the verge of drowning in the pestilent waters, amidst the wreckage of my sanity. I recalled the words and events of that day in Ace of Wands, what really happened before I reached the ferry, before I was imprisoned in this agonising nightmare. A boar, with a portly countenance, short, obese limbs, an elongated snout adorned with prominent tusks, loomed before my eyes like a giant among the horrors of the forest. What was revealed to me, however, far exceeded any imaginable expectations. This unfortunate event occurred after my release from the anomaly known as Ace of Wands. I emerged from the castle under a cloudy sky that seemed to threaten to collapse over my head, as darkness enveloped the forest and a cacophony of guttural sounds assaulted my senses. My eyes lifted to the black clouds that covered the face of the earth, like messengers of an impending storm. At that precise moment, I seemed to have escaped from the grasp of the anomaly that dominated the forest, freeing me from its inexorable law of doom. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. After walking for what could have been minutes or perhaps hours, the glare of the declining sun gave way to the glare of the stars and an ominous moon, lurking like a menacing satellite. It was then that, among the twisted trees, I caught a glimpse of a construction defying the inevitability of the path, the slope and the lake: a hut. In the deepest recesses of the forest stood this dwelling, rising as if it were a gift from the earth itself. Its walls, interwoven with twisted trunks and branches, rose in an uneven drama towards the green firmament that filtered through the treetops. The thatched roof, eaten away by the passage of time and the onslaught of weather, leaned to one side as if surrendered to the weight of decades. Through a single window, just a jagged hole in the weathered wood, the yellowish light of a lantern streamed in, casting whimsical shadow patterns on the walls of the hut. Around the dwelling, a wild garden of grasses and wildflowers struggled its way through the roots of the trees, as if it longed to reclaim this corner of civilisation in the midst of the vast and majestic forest. With cautious steps and ready to wield my knife with my left hand, I approached the entrance. The scene was unlike anything I had seen before. The shadows within the house, those silhouettes, did not resemble the amorphous entities of the forest or the pale ghouls within the domain of Ace of Wands. They looked like human figures, without distortion or distortion caused by the anomaly of the forest. He suspected that they were common souls dwelling on the outskirts of the forest, for it would not be wise to venture deep into the grove to erect a hut which, perhaps, housed a home. The chimney rose from the hut like a column of greyish stone, erect and stout against the backdrop of lofty leafy trees. Its irregular shape rose above the thatched roof, ascending towards the firmament like a silent witness to the warmth and life that was bubbling inside the dwelling. The stones that made it up, worn by time and blackened by smoke, interlocked in an organic pattern, as if they had been arranged by nature''s own hand. Here and there, moss and lichen clung to the crevices, adding a touch of greenery to the greyish surface. From the distant vantage point, smoke rose in slow spirals from the mouth of the chimney, weaving through the shadows of the grove before fading into the firmament. The scent of burning wood and spices permeated the air, carrying with it the echo of the daily routine that unfolded inside the hut, a constant reminder that, even in the farthest reaches of the forest, the hearth finds its abode where the flame flickers. The weathered wooden door, barely more than a rudimentary threshold covered with moss and lichen, then rattled with rhythmic knocking; shortly, footsteps sounded and the door creaked open with a wailing creak, revealing the interior of the enclosure. Inside, the earthen floor was masked by a blanket of parched leaves and branches that rustled with every step, though it still held a faded wooden structure at its base. In one corner, a stone fireplace exhaled a welcoming smell of burning wood and dried herbs. In the doorway a man emerged, remarkable for his above-average height, though his build was lean and somewhat ungainly, perhaps the product of long days of physical labour. His countenance, furrowed with lines of restlessness and fatigue, showed pronounced cheekbones and an angular jaw with a short, unkempt beard though kept in a presentable state, denoting an existence of struggle and sacrifice. His eyes, fatigued but piercing, reflected a mixture of steadfastness and resignation to life''s challenges. As for his clothing, he wore the simple, worn clothes of someone struggling to survive in an unequal society. A brownish-coloured jacket, made of rough fabric and patched in several places, barely managed to fit over his slender torso. Underneath, a yellowish, faded shirt and a faded dark grey waistcoat completed his modest attire. His grey trousers, tarnished by wear and with patches at the knees, exposed long, sinewy legs, familiar from hard work. On his feet, earthy grey shoes, worn and leaky, were mute witnesses. Despite his humble appearance, his erect bearing and steady gaze betrayed a man of dignity and strength. "Miss... how can this be?" - He inquired in a gruff voice, while his countenance reflected astonishment and concern. "I saw the gleam of the lantern through the window..." - I replied with a weary gesture. "Please come this way," said the man, gently stepping aside to facilitate my entrance. With hesitant steps I crossed the threshold and entered the hut with the man. I paused for a few moments to contemplate the interior of the humble dwelling. The furniture, crude but useful, was skilfully carved by hand. A rough-hewn wooden table stood in the centre of the room, surrounded by chairs worn by toil and the passing of time. On the walls, makeshift shelves held a collection of cast-iron cooking utensils and containers of homemade preserves. There were three seats in all, and without clear distinction, there were two beds of rough, worn wood, with exposed joints and probably a little jarring when moved. They were devoid of ornamentation or frills. The mattresses, stuffed with straw or similar material, were worn and warped from prolonged use, providing little comfort. Bedding, if any, was sparse and modest, perhaps only a rough, threadbare blanket that offered little shelter. They were functional but unwelcoming beds, reflecting the stark reality of those who did not have the means to indulge in more ostentatious luxuries. There was little to spare. The chimney, erected of worn, smoke-blackened bricks, had a rustic, weathered appearance. Although relatively modest in size in contrast to the fireplaces of larger, more sumptuous residences, it still provided warmth and comfort to its dwellers. The hearth of the fireplace, framed by a rusted iron frame, bore signs of continuous use, with scorch marks and accumulated soot. On the mantel rested a few simple objects, such as melted candles, but nothing lavish. In the centre of the room rested an oil lamp, carefully crafted from modest materials such as metal and glass. Its design, devoid of superfluous ornamentation, exhibited austere functionality. The oil tank, forged from brass or iron, blended harmoniously with the base of the lamp, housing a tiny wick which, when lit, gave off a flickering flame. This, flickering modestly, discreetly illuminated the room, creating an atmosphere that, while not ostentatious, exuded warmth. Although compared to the luxurious gas or electric luminaries of the upper strata, the oil lamp might seem humble, it was revered for its reliability and affordability. Its glow, though not as dazzling as that of other light sources, was sufficient for evening activities such as reading or simply sharing moments of conversation in the half-light. Chapter 34: Fugitives The Empty Mirror Chapter 34: Fugitives Beside the table stood a young woman, her freshness still lingering, bearing a beauty that defied her surroundings. Her countenance, moulded by delicate features and piercing hazel eyes, exhibited an amalgam of determination and courtesy. A faint smile crossed her cheeks, infusing her face with an aura of innocence and freshness. Her lips, tinted pink and parted in a soft pout, exuded a taciturn invitation to chat and camaraderie, though slightly surprised by my presence. The young woman''s hair flowed in silky waves over her shoulders, displaying a show of auburn and golden hues that framed her countenance with a charming grace. Though her garment showed wear and discolouration, it still retained a hint of elegance in its cut and tailoring. The fabric, once splendid, had yielded to the passage of time and constant wear, shedding its lustre and colour, leaving behind it the traces of daily life and experience. The dress, now faded and worn, bore traces of faded lace and embroidery, evoking past times of greater splendour. Despite her humble appearance, the young woman wore it with grace and dignity, demonstrating that true beauty lies in confidence and attitude, beyond any material ostentation. Her presence, though modest, radiated serenity and warmth, underlining that true elegance transcends outward appearances. Beside her stood an older woman, exhibiting a more mature and serene, yet equally striking, beauty. The passing of the years had carved furrows of experience and prudence into her face, yet she retained an affable and understanding expression. Her warm brown eyes reflected the depth of her experiences and the tenderness of her soul. Her hair, now streaked with silver strands, was neatly tied back in a simple but distinguished bun. Despite the wrinkles in her complexion, her eyes were still bright and full of life, emanating a warmth that inspired confidence and respect. The older woman''s clothing, like the younger woman''s, showed signs of wear and simplicity, but she looked impeccably neat and well cared for. Her dress, of classic cut and soft tones, reflected her sober and refined style, suited to her age and social position. Although her magnetism no longer rivalled the splendour of her possible youth, she radiated a timeless elegance. Both the ladies and the gentleman present seemed awestruck, but above all, they were in awe and awe at the sight of my white hair on a youthful, youthful face. Yet their quickened palpitations suggested a latent goodness. "We were about to enjoy our meal; we have prepared a soup. You look hungry... Please take a seat; I will see to it that you have some," said the man as he gestured towards the rustic wooden table. Suddenly, the younger woman rose from her seat and approached me cautiously. Taking my hand, she led me to the place at the table, softly pronouncing: "It may not be the most exquisite soup, but I hope it will be to your liking. He then urged me to take his place next to the older woman. The man returned bearing a finely carved wooden plate and a gleaming metal spoon, holding a mushroom soup, with sparse mushrooms and green leaves for flavouring, garnished with lean meat. It was possible that the meat was merely an accent to enhance the flavours of the broth and did not integrate its full composition. The heady aroma of the soup wafted up into the clear forest air, mingling with the smoke of the campfire and the fragrant scents of the surrounding flora. Though the soup lacked the refinements and spices of haute cuisine, its flavour was genuine and hearty, fit to satiate a pilgrim''s appetite. I took the spoon between my fingers and dipped it into the broth to taste it. I was always a bit paranoid, especially at junctures like this, but it turned out to be the most exquisite delicacy I had tasted in a long time. With rapture, I tasted two more spoonfuls, sensing the expectations of those present, especially the inquisitive gaze of the woman at my side, who looked perplexed. It was at that moment that the man''s voice caught my attention. "What is your name, Miss?" - he asked in a calm tone. "Giselle" - I replied rather curtly. Noticing that my lips refrained from pursuing the soup, the woman at my side set herself up as the presenter of those present in the hut, as if directing the scene on the basis of her seniority and judgement. "This is Dougal, this is my daughter Esma, and lastly, my name is Hilda. How do you do, young lady," said Hilda. Almost at once, I expressed my gratitude: "I am most grateful for your hospitality. But far from inquiring into the cause of my arrival in the undergrowth or other momentous questions, Hilda questioned me: "Why... is your hair of white dawn?" Her inquiry threw me into some perplexity, but I replied almost at once, curving the corners of my mouth upwards in a smile curling my lips: "Because I am a mother now. The looks, at first, showed latent astonishment, but when they perceived the jocular malice dancing on my features, they understood that my words were mere trickery. The woman, Esma, wove a knowing smile, while the others, including herself, chose to relegate the subject of my hair to oblivion. Esma was noted for her commendable insight into my person, being the most lustrous in the council. It should be noted that my allusion to her "freshness" does not derive from my own advanced age; on the contrary, her youthful radiance stood out against my incipient youth, for though she seemed to be in her early twenties, I could still be considered to be in the blooming stage of adolescence. Undoubtedly, I occupied the youngest seat on the estancia, and Esma proved to be the one who best matched my unique temperament. As for the male, Dougal, he was of a similar age to Esma, though with a slight, barely perceptible disparity. What distinguished him, however, was his grim countenance and contemplative gesture, attributes that lent an air of greater experience despite his apparent youth. Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. On the other hand, Hilda, Esma''s matron, was approaching the age of fifty. Although to imply an older age might seem inappropriate and untrue given her presence, it was clear that she had accumulated the experience and wisdom that comes with age. I continued to consume the soup as I watched Esma prepare to serve it, holding three wooden plates. Dougal, with a barely perceptible gesture, declined gallantly, indicating that he did not wish to eat at that moment. Esma, understanding the gesture, placed one of the plates on the shelf and poured the soup into the remaining bowls, then placed them on the table. Dougal then took a loaf of bread laid out on a cloth that sheltered other pieces, still scarce in number. Moving towards the beds, he sat down and began to devour the bread, paying no attention to appearances. Esma made herself comfortable in front of me, on the seat that Dougal had kindly given her, and then presented her mother with one of the plates full of soup, and they both began to eat, both of them holding their spoons with determination. At that moment, Dougal questioned from a distance: "Why were you wandering in the woods at odd hours, so far from civilisation? That''s extremely risky," he questioned measuredly. "I am a traveller; however, I have lost my way for a few days now and cannot see any town nearbyˇ± - I asserted, concocting a plausible narrative. "A lost traveller, how unfortunate, but fortunately you are not far from the city" - he replied thoughtfully. "Is there a city nearby?" - I inquired, scrutinising his sapience. "Yes, it''s one of the main cities on the continent" - he replied seriously. "Really, where is it? Where is it? Which way do I have to go?ˇ± - I asked longingly. "The town lies to the east from this point. However, to cross the distance on foot to the town from this point would entail a tiring journey that might well extend until sundown, bringing with it certain dangersˇ± - he warned cautiously. To which Hilda replied: "We should escort her. She is too tender to continue her solitary wanderings in the woods without a guideˇ±. "You know that''s not feasible, we don''t know if the memory of our faces still lingersˇ± - Dougal lamented. "However, we could at least leave her near the edge of the forest, so that she can continue on her way to the city by her own means," suggested Hilda. "Even so, it would be foolhardy for us. I am not only referring to the risks that lurk in the city, but also to those of the forest. It is risky to go into the undergrowth at night. Even if we set out at dawn, we would have to return after sunset or spend the night in the open," Dougal said grimly. "But we can''t let her go alone, Dougal. Even as a seasoned traveller, wandering alone could lead to misfortune," Esma interjected uneasily. Then she added: "We could accompany her and leave her as close as possible to the confines of the forest, even if we can''t guard her until her final destination. "No, you must not venture. If we are to do anything for her, then I will accompany her alone, and you will remain here. I will take her to the outskirts and return as soon as possible. Besides, I have a weapon at my disposal. No misfortune will befall. Only be cautious in your solitude, though even so I do not think it wise to leave you, not in this hut that has been here for who knows how many moons. There could be wolves lurking, in both directions..." - Dougal commented meticulously. "That''s not essential. Don''t be overly anxious about me. I''m an able traveller, I''m just a bit disoriented. If you can guide me and show me the way to the city, that will suffice," I said sternly as they deliberated on my situation, which brought everyone into silence for a few moments. "If you decide to venture out alone, be cautious. I can draw a map with Dougal''s help," Esma said with understanding before adding, "It is admirable to watch you travel. You are so sprightly, even more so than I am. I doubt if I could survive a day in the forest on my own. "The forest can be your accomplice or your most enigmatic lover, maybe both" - I answered promptly, pondering over my words. "You glow with majesty under that purple cloak, you truly exude the spirit of a traveller" - Esma commented with charm in her tone of voice. "I thank you" - I replied with gratitude for the compliment. "Do you carry any weapons with you? How have you withstood these days? Where do you rest?" - Esma inquired. "I have subsisted on nuts and mushrooms. Only a few days have passed since my arrival, but I have tried to find food and water. Even so, the hunger is still there, and the nights are spent in the thicket of trees, sheltered under this purple imperial cloth. And yes, a razor accompanies meˇ± - I replied quietly, carefully concealing the truth about the castle and my stay there. I would reveal nothing about this individual or the pale ones, keeping my intentions and my past shrouded in mystery. "Are you from the central city of the continent? That dress, though dilapidated, seems worthy of the main city. Besides, you give the impression of being literate rather than a travellerˇ± - Hilda asked as she wiped her lips after finishing her soup. I, for my part, shook my head in gratitude after being asked if I wanted more soup, while Esma poured me water from a metal canteen in a tavern bowl. "Yes, I am from the central city, but what are you doing here in this forest?" - I said cautiously, observing how Esma''s and Hilda''s countenances took on a gloomy and melancholy tinge. "I should not speak of this to a stranger, but you, G-Giselle, look like an honest child, don''t you, Dougal?" - asked Esma dutifully. "Yes, she is an honest girlˇ± - said Dougal gravely. "Dougal is my beloved, and as I''m sure you''ve heard, she is my progenitor. We come from Bafranbu, one of the main cities of the continent, located north of here. We are in this forest out of dire necessityˇ± - Esma began to recount with regret. "What do you mean by dire necessity?" - I asked, fearful that these souls had also fallen prey to the influence of the forest anomaly. "We are fugitivosˇ± - Hilda interrupted disdainfully. "Please don''t misunderstand our situation; we have committed no crime. We are fugitives, but not from justice. We are being pursued by iniquitous individuals" - clarified Esma without delay. "Iniquitous individuals?" - I asked perplexed. "Oh, yes, behold, the mafia. We are fugitives of the mafia" - lamented Esma with a tone imbued with disenchantment. Chapter 35: Debt Inheritance The Empty Mirror Chapter 35: Debt Inheritance "The mafia..." - I whispered, straining to assimilate the information, despite my secretive and cautious nature in the face of such dialogues. "It''s not that we were entangled with the mafia. My mother and I lived in Bafranbu with my father. I am an only descendant, and we were a relatively happy family, of middling stock in the midst of adversity. My father was always a man who sacrificed everything for his lineage, he struggled to survive by his efforts. He was trying to enter into partnership with a company, but for that he needed relations and capital. Everything seemed to be going smoothly, but due to a series of setbacks, we got into financial difficulties and a large debt. My mother and I, who had never worked, thanks to my father''s efforts to support us, began to work whenever we had the opportunity to earn money, and we became more and more destitute. My father was dismayed and tormented as he watched his offspring suffer from the scarcity of bread on the table, seeing all his toil and labour crumble before his eyes. In the heat of despair and helplessness, he was informed of the existence of the mafia by his so-called comrades. They suggested that the mafia could give him a loan if they would vouch for him, offering him the opportunity to pay off his debts and repay them with added interest. So he made contact and managed to get the mobsters to grant him a certain amount of resources, a chance to straighten out the situation of his offspring. However, due to poor investment decisions and cruel fortune in an unequal social environment, my father squandered the money he had invested. On top of his previous debts and financial dilemmas, he now faced the burden of mounting debt, like a guillotine sharpening with every tick of the clock, ready to mow him down. Not only was the debt mounting, but the problem lay with his creditor: the mafia. The pressure became unbearable and my progenitor began to sink into drink without restraint. One day, he went to drink in a nearby tavern and never returned alive. The mafia had lost faith in him to pay off his debt and shot him in the chest. Shortly afterwards, we learned that the mafia had bought the complicity of law enforcement, evading investigations into victims linked to them, such as those with outstanding debts. We, in fact, were ignorant of everything that was going on. We never knew of my father''s suffering until his last breath. We only glimpsed how his being was slowly decaying under the weight of debt and economic hardship. Even at my father''s funeral procession, which was attended only by his relatives and no friends, none of whom vouched for him before the mafia, afterwards, only my mother and I were left. It was then that my beloved, Dougal, stepped in and probed until he discovered the truth behind my father''s death. He sensed that the mafia would not be content with this, but would persist until they also took our lives to pay off the debt owed. We, as his Bafranbu-based offspring, would be their next victims. Even if the mafia exerted its influence in other cities, we would be the ones they would demand payment from, since we did not hold the main status in the family, not to mention his brothers who lived on another continent and who did not even flinch at my father''s tragic fate. And so, in the silence of the night, Dougal, with the bravery of a knight-errant, dragged my mother and me out of the nails of the city, wrapped in a veil of mystery that hid our tracks. We abandoned everything we knew, our lives, and became fugitives, pursued by the might of the mafia, whose shadow loomed over the land of Bafranbu like an implacable titan. With what little we had left, packed in worn suitcases, we carried with us the flickering flame of an oil lantern, our only beacon in the darkness. My father, now absent from this world, left an outstanding debt to the mafia, a debt they are unwilling to forget. And so, we took refuge deep in the forest, far from the clutches of civilisation, for two endless years. In this time-forgotten corner, nature welcomes us with its generous arms, providing us with sustenance and shelter in our destitution, while our tears merge with the dewdrops that bathe our cheeks, mute witnesses of our suffering - Esma tells us. This humble hut is not mine in its own right; it belonged to my grandmother, my only link to the past, who departed this world when I was a helpless infant. I have known the bitterness of hostility and misery in the back alleys of the city, fighting every day to stay afloat, defying the odds with courage. I have no family but Esme and her mother, Hilda. For them I would give my last breath. So we cling to this shelter with fervour, warming our souls in the dim light of the fireplace I restored myself, feeding on the poached game the forest provides, like rabbits, and the herbs Esme gathers with her deft hands. We cook our hardships in a humble iron pot, and drink from the cold water of an ancient well, whose whereabouts Hilda discovered in her wanderings. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. We protect ourselves with the cold steel of a pistol, snatched from the hands of a mobster - Dougal declared solemnly, his gaze serious as steel, but his voice softened by his love for them. But fear not, young friend, I never needed to draw it. I took it only as a shield, a symbol of protection to safeguard Esme and Hilda from harm. As I listened to the whole story, I was plunged into a profound silence, my mind overwhelmed by surprise and perplexity. Hilda, sensing my bewilderment, entered into a dialogue between us with grace and tenacity. "We owe everything we are at this moment to your noble gesture, Dougalˇ± - Hilda said gratefully. Thanks to your bravery, our lives still hold together. You could have fled alone with Esma, but you chose to take me with you, giving me the chance of salvation. "It could not have been otherwiseˇ± - Dougal replied solemnly. Esma would never have found comfort in leaving her own mother behind. And I, for one, lack the courage to leave her to her fate. I feel rather a sincere affection for her. "In this age and in this collectivity, you become a fugitive from integrity" - Esma lamented with regret. The decree in the cities is under the yoke of the mafia, and even if we worked tirelessly until the end of our days, until death, we could never repay the debt imposed on us. The luminescence of the lamp seemed to fade slowly, as if its brightness was fading in time with the conversation, so I questioned Esma curiously: Why do you keep the oil lamp on? Isn''t the light radiating from the fireplace enough? You could save the lamp for emergencies. Esma replied with a touch of melancholy: It''s not out of necessity or whim, but because I''m fond of it. Sometimes I like to keep it on during dinner, even if the fire already lights up the room. It''s not something I do every day, only on select occasions like today. I do it in memory of my father. When I was a child, I used to watch him from the doorway of his small studio, busy at work and trying to provide for his family. I remember how he did his accounts, facing debts under the flickering of this lamp. At the time, he was unaware of the suffering that gripped his spirit. That is why I keep it. It reminds me of my father''s presence, illuminating his face with a glimmer of hope in his life. "I am deeply sorry for what happened..." - I murmured under the weight of grief. Esma replied with composure: "Don''t worry. By the way, I would like you to rest in my bed tonight. Modest though it is, it will allow you to regain your strength. And you, Dougal, I will not allow you to give up your rest for me. You are a man and you need rest after your hard days of hunting in the forest. As for you, Giselle, you will share your bed with my mother. I wish to spare her any discomfort because of her age. I trust you will not mind this discomfort. I will make myself comfortable on the floor with some sheets," he concluded with a subtle smile. Dougal didn''t like the idea of resting on a bed while his beloved lay on the floor, but at Esma''s firmness, he resigned himself and retired to sleep. Hilda put out the lamp and carefully secured the door, then extinguished the fire. We lay in bed together. Dougal and Esme soon drifted off to sleep, after receiving my words of thanks for the food and for sheltering me. Hilda took a little longer to drift off to sleep, while I remained awake. Still, I sensed Dougal''s vigilance, even in his sleep. Meanwhile, I held the snowy-bladed knife between my hands and belly in a misplaced paranoia, remembering how long it had been since I''d lain in a bed. Although uncomfortable, it felt cosy at the time, unlike a sarcophagus. It could have been several months since I had arrived at the castle and been imprisoned in the forest under the rule of Ace of Wands. At dawn''s dawn, in the morning freshness that slipped through the slits of the skimpy covering that veiled my figure, like fleeting petals, we stood and resumed our dialogue. "Is not this modest abode on the edge of the forest?" - I inquired with curiosity dancing in my eyes, suspecting that my conjecture about the shanty''s proximity to the confines of the forest was vanishing, evidenced by Dougal and Hilda''s words. "No, you could actually say it''s in the heart of the forest rather than on the edgeˇ± - replied Dougal. I can''t tell you why, but I have memories of my childhood here with my grandmother. I don''t know if it was she who erected this humble abode, or if it was the fruit of another longing, or how it came about. I only keep in my memory the moments I shared with my grandmother in times gone by. After her departure, I returned to take care of my family. "And the equipment... did you make it yourself?" - I asked, my eyes scanning the surroundings, while Dougal continued: Yes, I made it and assembled it. When we arrived, we went into the forest almost at nightfall, in total blackness except for the faint light of the lantern. We brought with us some essential possessions, such as lamp oil and tools, with which I forged the furniture. They are not remarkable works, but I worked for years with a skilled carpenter. They are made from fallen tree trunks, like the many that lie scattered in the forest, seeming to lean on themselves in a gesture of resignation. The mattresses were made from old cloth, straw and mostly dry leaves. In addition, I tried to mend the hut''s chimney to the best of my ability; it barely serves its purpose. The roof is patched with leaves, wood and branches rather than the age-old rotten thatch. My eyes scanned the surroundings and settled on the pieces of bread wrapped in a brownish cloth. Without mediating my question, Hilda at my side set about dispelling my doubts: Mob harassment hasn''t stopped Dougal from venturing out of the woods. In fact, he left these bowery almost half a year ago now. Considering that we''ve been here almost two years, he has left on multiple occasions, mostly to the outskirts of the aforementioned town. Their quest focused on items such as cloth for their bedding, straw and bread, which, because of their longevity, we zealously treasure as a last resort. Hence we don''t consume them as often; we mainly feed on what nature''s forest offers us. On his last foray, he even stumbled across a bottle of liquor that still awaits uncorking. Chapter 36: Parasites in the darkness The Empty Mirror Chapter 36: Parasites in the darkness "Bumping into sounds like a chance find; the truth is that I have stripped. My whole existence has been marked by theft, which leads me to deliberate whether I am truly a criminal or just a full-fledged outlaw. Besides, it''s not as if I can get out of the woods on a regular basis. In addition to the unpredictability of the foliage, I lack the financial means to make a getaway and outrun the canines sniffing both ways. The mob''s influence extends across multiple cities, and if they were to catch me, I would surely be subjected to interrogation. The debt is enormous, and the murder of Esme''s father has attracted unparalleled attention for its brutality, making me an easy target. Though two years have passed and I do not believe his anger burns with the same intensity it once did, I am confident that the time will come for us to journey to another city, perhaps another continent if we have the resources, to begin a new life. I fervently hope that the bad times will soon be overˇ± - Dougal concluded. "Even Esme has caught prey to satiate our stomachs, and it is she who gathers the mushrooms for the soup. She has descended to the point of hunting rodents. We can affirm that it is nature itself that provides for us. Moreover, I long fervently for survival to witness the glorious day when we leave this forest. If we ever leave this land, this continent, I long to see my daughter radiant and betrothed, to delight in seeing my grandchildren enjoying themselves in their merriment. All I wish for my daughter is a reborn existence at Dougal''s side; he has the capacity to bring her joy, he is a man of virtue, and I have no doubt of thatˇ± - said Hilda with a touch of melancholy, recalling memories and longing for a more prosperous tomorrow. "After all our reflections on nature, perhaps it would be wise to turn our faith to the god of progresosˇ± - pondered Esme musingly. "Don''t even mention him in jest; my faith lies solidly in our patriarch, the god who tames pestilence. He shields us from disease and deflects tragedy by blessing our food" - Dougal replied, clasping his hands in a worshipful gesture as if in prayer. Hilda nodded disapprovingly, sharing his belief. "I apologise, I do not mean to undermine the mercy of our redeemer in relation to the plague.... On the other hand, Giselle, in whom do you place your faith? In what divinity do you trust?" - Esme gently inquired. "I couldn''t say" - I replied cautiously, aware of my limited understanding of deities, as I had never held deeply to faith. Simply put, being human, I was unsure of deities. Dougal, Esme and Hilda lapsed into a charged silence, until Esme broke it with these words: "You are a traveller, therefore, you must be committed to some form of devotion to the god you honour. You cannot undermine your commitment with false idolatries to other divinities. I believe that was the premise, though I cannot say for sure. I don''t know your creed, but I have heard of certain congregations that express their faith in ways similar to what I have mentioned. Of course, our faith is rooted exclusively in the god who rules the plague. From my earliest childhood, my mother instilled in me the importance of placing my trust in God, just as I do now. Dougal also professes the same faith, presumably influenced by his grandmother, although I cannot say for sure. What I am trying to say is that the vast majority of the continent, Bafranbu included, trusts in the god who rules the plague. It is the predominant faith, so I hope you will be faithful compatriot," Esme explained with dedication. After this talk, Esme lifted up a suitcase that rested in a shadowy corner under the bed. It was as black as a closed night, hiding its secrets from the scrutinising eye, but between its barely half-opened jaws, I glimpsed in its entrails the belongings and resources that had been her accomplice in her escape. Among the few belongings that timidly peeked out, a few opaque glass jars stood out, guardians of an olive oil that betrayed its Mediterranean origin. From among the jumble of objects, he extracted a quill pen, an inkwell brimming with black ink, and a rough, worn parchment, whose grooves and folds told stories of past travels. Slowly, he closed the suitcase and left it in its hiding place. With Dougal''s assistance, he began to draw a plan outlining the escape route from the forest. He used symbols to depict the humble hut and the boundaries of the leafy wilderness. The passage, winding like the will of angels, extended beyond the tree-lined confines, tracing an intricate path until it reached the city, marked by a circle. Although the drawing was labyrinthine, its essence unfolded clear and diaphanous, like a spring in the desert of uncertainty. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. "I have sketched a map that will lead you out of this tangled forest, but I sincerely wish you would prolong your stay a little longer. Your presence is balm for the soul and gives us a sense of security in the company of a skilled traveller like you. Though to the naked eye you still look like a child, with your wavy hair and your cloak around you, there is in you a hint of eternal return, a mysterious resonance of the past," Esme said in an affable, leisurely tone, like one who unravels ancient secrets. "Of course, we will not let you depart without first filling your saddlebags with a just reward; how would you like, traveller, to share with us some of the fables woven by the whispers of the forest or the echoes of the lands? In return, we will give you sanctuary under our roof and share of our modest provisions. Besides, my mother, Hilda, could instruct you in the mysteries of faith in the face of pestilence," proclaimed Esma with a witticism. "I''m not entirely convinced... I can consider it, but I have my doubts" - I hesitated, locked in an internal debate between caution and curiosity that fueled my desire to discover more about the deity that rules over the plague. However, the promise of escape from the forest anomaly whispered tantalisingly cacophonously in my ears. "Ponder on that decision, Giselle. Dougal and my mother will welcome my proposal," Esme replied serenely, while Dougal and Hilda nodded hesitantly, shrouded in uncertainty. "I''ll consider it..." - I murmured as Esme, with meticulous care, picked up the map, folded the parchment neatly, and stowed it and the quill and inkwell in the bosom of the suitcase. I shared with them a fable of my wanderings, recounting the discovery of a lake of clear water lying near a winding path, whose course led down a steep hillside. I carefully avoided the more disturbing details of the mysterious anomaly present, so as not to sow superfluous concerns or provoke improper questioning. I described it simply as a watery oasis worthy of admiration. Yet, despite my words, they were all evidently reluctant to undertake the search for such an enigmatic spot, arguing that they already had a source of water from an ancient well, the quality of which, though not crystal clear, was sufficient for their needs. They seemed immune to the charm of my story, and I almost suspected that my anecdotes were of no interest to them, were it not for the recurring signs of understanding and sympathy that Esme lavished on me with her compassionate gaze. As the hours and days passed, with Dougal''s diligent help, we improvised a small mattress out of scraps of cloth and old jargon, placing it discreetly away from the rest of the household. We also arranged a chair for my solace. Since my arrival in the modest hut, I have taken over almost all of Dougal''s hunting responsibilities, using contrived ruses instead of the direct and accurate approach he used to take down prey with his bare hands. The ruse is an ingenious design, woven with thin, docile branches that intertwine expertly to form a kind of prison. In the first set, we choose long, bending branches, capable of bending your soul without breaking it. These are meticulously woven into a square or rectangular lattice, creating slits wide enough to allow the rodents to cross the threshold. Once the original structure is complete, we add layers of dried leaf litter and small twigs to veil the ruse and make it appetising to the rodent creatures. We add bait in its bosom, selected pieces, to lure the unwary. When one of the rodents ventures into the ruse in pursuit of the lure, the ductility of the branches allows the ruse to be compressed with alacrity, imprisoning the animal in its bosom. The branches'' tessitura prevents the prey from becoming unhinged once it has been captured in its jaws. Such beasts as rabbits and squirrels were, no doubt, lean and palatable meat in our eyes, of course, provided they were successfully caught and processed by the deft hand of Esme and Hilda. As my skills in such noble work were quite rudimentary, my expertise reduced to the imprint of months in the roughness of the wilderness and the rough fabric of the castle, Esme and Hilda rejoiced in their task. Meanwhile, Dougal was the executioner of the alimarias, with cold, grim steel. It is worth noting that throughout my wanderings in the woods, my sustenance was reduced to nuts and mushrooms. As if I were in a trance, I was constrained by the inexorable limitation of not being able to kill the alimarias, in fact I had never actually performed such a task; I only pinned them down and tied their legs with a frayed rope to be slaughtered. Dougal, however, seemed to experience some discomfort, feeling that his role as a brave guardian was overshadowed by my presence. Although at times his attitude was resentful, he genuinely acknowledged my assistance in guarding Esma and Hilda. He even suggested: "Would you be so kind as to keep us informed about possible dangers or suspicious activities in the vicinity? Your insight and vigilance could foresee threats. In the meantime, we were collecting nuts, mushrooms and even insects such as ants and grubs for nourishment. I was not responsible for drawing water from the well, as that was always Hilda''s job, while Esma was pre-eminent in the kitchen. For our part, I hunted with the help of Dougal, who primarily looked after our safety and protected us. And we were grateful for the sense of protection afforded by the forest, where abnormality had long been absent. I also worked with Hilda in repairing and guarding the hut, thus helping to safeguard our fortifications, while she and Esme kept the compound neat and tidy. At times, Hilda would suggest to me: "It would be of inestimable help if you would take charge of gathering wood for the water while we are engaged in other occupations. Keeping the fire alive to ensure clean water for everyone would be of the utmost importance. On one occasion, Hilda fell ill with a cold, and everyone implored the protection of the god who was said to be the guardian against plagues. As he seemed absorbed in devout prayer and shared the faith, Esme said longingly: "It would be of great value if you could assist us in gathering herbs and medicinal plants in the forest. Knowledge of their properties and applications could prove crucial in medical emergencies such as this. I managed to find some peppermint, famous for its decongestant and soothing properties, which relieved the nasal obstruction and discomfort associated with the cold. I also obtained some chamomile, which contributed to Hilda''s early improvement. As I shared stories about the bow and the buckler, as well as nut and mushroom picking, my narratives paled in comparison to those of a globetrotter. Esma offered me empathy with a haughty nose and pursed lips, in a game between us that I emulated with flushed cheeks. However, despite the serenity of the days that had passed, I never found comfort in the midst of the doom, feeling like an intruder who is looked at with morbid curiosity and more like a despised parasite out of place... Chapter 37: Bronze tears The Empty Mirror Chapter 37: Bronze tears To erect my rudimentary fish-targeting contraption, I first sought out a peaceful spot along the nearby stream. I gathered thin, flexible branches found on the edge of the forest. These branches are the scaffolding for my scheme, so I carefully selected them, making sure they were long and flexible enough to shape the structure. I then began to form a ring out of the branches, leaving an opening at one end to allow access for the fish. I intertwined the branches and secured them with knots to ensure the strength of the ruse. Around it, I arranged stones and rocks to fix it in place and prevent it from being washed away by the current. Once the basic framework was complete, I collected large, tough leaves from the forest floor to cover the top of the trap, leaving the opening free for the fish to enter. With the bait in hand, consisting of some worms found under a nearby stone, I carefully arranged the baits inside the trap. I sprinkled some bait in the surrounding water to attract the fish. Finally, I plunged the trap into the water, making sure it was completely submerged and oriented in harmony with the current. Now, I just waited. I sat nearby, watching with infinite patience as the fish were seduced by the bait and made their way towards the trap. A salmon had fallen prey to the ruse. Its body exhibited jagged, discoloured scales of pale pink, some of them dangling precariously, exposing the livid, decaying flesh beneath. The salmon''s skin was viscous and ulcerated, with gangrenous, oozing areas that gave off a putrid stench capable of penetrating to the innermost being. The gills, usually slender and silvery, were deformed and torn, dripping with a viscous, pestilential substance that would inspire revulsion in any onlooker. Their eyes, once lively and bright, now looked dull and veiled, surrounded by shadowy circles that gave them an empty, lifeless appearance. The salmon''s jaws were disfigured and twisted, showing broken teeth and decayed gums projecting at odd angles. Its mouth remained scoured, exhibiting a swollen, ulcerated tongue that seemed to wither from the depths. As it moved, the salmon uttered guttural groans, as if in perpetual agony. Its skin was infested with repulsive parasites that writhed and contorted, adding to its grotesque appearance. Although... maybe it was just a distorted perception, a delirium... With the splendour of the multiplication of loaves and fishes, where a sorceress satisfies the hunger of the throng with meagre fare, in a grotesque Lenten season, thus arrived the salmon to Dougal and he conveyed it to the table. Even in its final gasps, the salmon was sacrificed and adorned by Esme and Hilda, like the mummified remnants of the relentless fate of the Ace of Wands, observing how it laboriously shed its scales with a crude stone. They gathered some juniper branches and fragrant herbs such as thyme and rosemary to season the salmon, obtained from the suitcase, scents that lay forgotten. They lit a modest fire with delicate, supple branches from the trees, placing bay leaves at its base to add extra aroma. They placed the salmon fillet on the bay leaves and seasoned it with sea salt and a dash of black pepper. They then arranged the juniper sprigs and herbs on top of the fish. Patiently, they cooked the salmon over the fire, turning it carefully to ensure even cooking. In the meantime, he delighted in the aromas of the forest and the comforting crackling of the fire. Once the salmon was done, they removed it from the fire and let it rest for a few moments before tasting. Hilda mentioned that this was a special moment, and in the midst of her reverie, she pulled out a bottle of liquor. The bottle had a thick, heavy, dark amber glass that evoked long years of repose. Its design, simple and functional, had straight lines that hinted at robustness. The surface of the container exhibited imperfections and tiny bubbles trapped in the glass, indicative of a digestive process. If it still remained, the label showed clear signs of wear and discolouration, with blurred and weathered lettering, barely legible and revealing only fragments of information about the liquor inside. The stopper, of rudimentary manufacture, either cork or wood, is probably sealed with melted wax to safeguard its contents. When uncorked, the perfume of the aged liquor overflowed, filling the atmosphere with its hints of oak, spices and a subtle hint of ripe fruit. The salmon was divided equally and we sat down at the table. It was then that Esma, as we were about to savour, asked me: "Have you ever tasted liquor before? You''re still a child," to which I replied, "No, I never have. Then she handed me the bottle of liquor so that I would be the first to drink, saying, "Then today you will, we will all drink from the same bottle, joining our lips in a pact of confidence. So, I took the bottle and raised it to my lips. At first, there was a slight tingling on my tongue, followed by a warm, comforting taste of toasted caramel and vanilla. These sweet notes were intertwined with hints of oak and spices, such as cinnamon and cloves, which lent an intriguing depth to the brew. With each sip, I unravelled additional layers of flavour: perhaps a hint of ripe fruit, such as prunes or apricots, melding with subtle hints of toasted nuts and old leather. The liqueur had a silky smooth body that flowed down my throat, leaving behind a warm, comforting sensation. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. As the elixir settled on the palate, one was enveloped by its opulence and complexity, leaving a lasting impression that encouraged further exploration of its unique nuances and flavours, this aged drink offered an incomparable sensory experience that left an everlasting impression. With flushed cheeks, Dougal, Esme and Hilda began to laugh, and I, infected, smiled as we ate and drank until the bottle was almost half empty. Then the sense of camaraderie and well-being was palpable, as if the god of pests was upon his devotees, after a drunken colloquy and a farewell between Hilda and Dougal, who retired to rest. It was just Esme and I to pack up and go to sleep too. At that moment, as she held the bottle out to me, she took a last sip. Her countenance slightly coloured after a discreet burp, she set the bottle aside and approached me. With a slight twitch of her nose, but with a charming elegance that added grace to her countenance, her fine eyebrows arched subtly as her lips curved into a mischievous smile. A slight twitch of the nose expressed an amalgam of astonishment and playfulness, as if he were reveling in an amusing secret or finding something charmingly singular. This gesture added an irresistible charm to his countenance, lighting up his eyes with a mischievous sparkle that invited one to join in his mirth. It was a subtle but expressive gesture that captured the essence of her natural grace and playful spirit. Then, with her hands resting on my shoulders, our disparity of stature was made manifest, she being taller by a head. Nevertheless, in an instant, she approached and brushed my breasts with her hands, but soon realised her fairy and drunkenness, feigning ignorance. After that awkward episode, we retired to rest, maintaining the fa?ade that nothing had happened, Dougal and Hilda having no knowledge of such a blunder. For Esme, it was simply a slip of the tongue under the influence of alcohol, while for me, it held no meaning in my heart. My spirit was already given to a man. Between wet dreams, I raved about the image of his face and the warmth of his body on my belly, while my thoughts were immersed in unattainable fantasies. In that castle, I felt like a clown in a cynical plagiarism. As I awoke at dawn of the coming day, my eyelids rose parsimoniously, embraced by the ethyl fog that transformed my perception into a universe of distortion. Every movement was a piercing reminder of the past night, with my head as the epicentre of anarchy, overwhelmed with fervour from its core to the confines of my skull. Each beat of my heart resounded like an inclement hammer, as a rhythmic throbbing in my temples seemed to synchronise with the ticking of a dismal clock. The act of opening my eyelids became a titanic task, with daylight penetrating like a fiery spear directly into my sensitive retinas. The sounds of the outside world were razor sharp, piercing my mind; every voice, every footstep, every rustle, amplified to the extreme of the bearable. My belly writhed in a show of discontent, recalling every excess of the preceding evening with an ominous nausea. My mouth, as dry as the driest of deserts, craved the tiniest drop of water, as the bittersweet taste of compunction infiltrated my every thought. My muscles, tense and aching, protested at every attempt at movement, as if encased in an invisible layer of lead that hindered even the slightest movement. Every joint felt rusty, every movement a struggle against inertia, an inebriated vulnerability. Dougal and Hilda stood with the serenity that characterises those barely touched by the libation, no more than a sip shared between us all. Given the vast experience and years of my companions in the art of drinking, this small pleasure was hardly a slight detour, though for me it represented unabashed excess. In contrast, Esme, in stark contrast to her beloved Dougal and her mother Hilda, as well as myself, was barely suffering from the effects of the hangover, hardly noticeable in comparison to my initial encounter with drunkenness. Fortunately, the rest of the day passed in harmony, almost in a routine rhythm, although the equating of this place with the usual was strange to me. As for the misunderstanding with Esme, at first she showed absent-mindedness, but as the days went on her behaviour took on a more marked reserve and guilt, which made the rest of us uneasy. However, it was simply attributed to a hangover and the regrets associated with a night of excess. In my subsequent state of putrefaction, I acquired the authority to reflect on matters concerning the essence of humanity. It was an exhausting reminder that the salmon, swimming in the oasis of wisdom, absorbs all the knowledge of the world. Therefore, catching and consuming the salmon is considered an act of acquiring this divine knowledge and gaining clairvoyance. During my woodworm state, I also meditated on the ultimate fate of the excrement being moulded and then sculpted by the earth. I recalled my days moulding the clay, among the shit and sludge through which man defines himself. I contemplated how humanity vanished, dissolved in gastric juices, whose only proper destiny was to become the very faecal matter it generated. I, raised in the bed of the toilet, as a lubricious being beyond any moral consideration, but neither can I be called monstrous: I neither enjoy nor suffer my acts, I simply perform them out of sheer convenience. This brought to mind the image of that knight locked in his castle, whose word becomes commandments, devoid of meaning, a total submission to his own desires, beyond any ethical or moral consideration, and the subjugation of a multitude willing to follow him blindly, regardless of the nature of his actions. There is not a hint of criticism, not even a hint of reflection on his purposes, even though everything he propagates entails a blind pursuit of the suffering of others or mutual mutilation. In a world where human beings emerge from the womb, thrown from the ether into the abysses of the unknown, the one who has known only misfortune can stand as a beacon of comfort. After all, it is easy to be seduced by the one who promises to fill the inner emptiness by denying the existence of others. I do not love him out of reciprocity or because we have shared chapters of romance together, but rather as one loves a fantasy character, a mythical being who is unreal, but who remains eternally present to you, soothing your deepest loneliness, as when one immerses oneself in the reading of a book, in a novel where one falls in love with both the hero and the villain. Thus, as a devoted reader captive to her own pages and letters, immersed in a painful fantasy where she understands that union is illusory, that the only possible bond is the renunciation of the tangible world and the immersion in the pages to find solace in fantasy. The only refuge I can escape to is a vampire tome; perhaps it is intertwined with all the events surrounding Ace of Wands, even all the misfortunes, being the lord of vice who rules not only our world, but also the cosmos. So he revealed it to me, his voice whispering in my ears as his hands intertwined between my panties, sharing fragments of his story. Chapter 38: Dougal The Empty Mirror Chapter 38: Dougal Within this presumed family, Dougal emerges as the steadfast mainstay, guarding Esma and Hilda''s safety, providing sustenance and restoring the ancient well from which Hilda draws the life-giving liquid. He is Esma''s passionate lover, her fianc¨¦, and we fervently hope that one day they will crown their love with the blessings of the sacred marriage bond of the Peste. Unlike the damsels, he has faced challenges since the dawn of his existence, and, with resolute determination, he chooses to leave the noises of the city behind, to embark on a new life with his beloved and his mother-in-law, taking on the laudable burden of being Esma''s old stand-in after her father''s tragic demise at the hands of the ruthless mob. Dougal, heir to the ancestral cabin, the legacy of his venerable grandmother, whose memories he barely glimpses in the dimness of his memory, is an orphan who has carved out his destiny with indomitable mettle. In the course of a hunt, Dougal has required my assistance. Several weeks have passed since, by choice or perhaps influenced by Esma''s influence, I chose to remain in the hut in the company of these three beings, who, with apparent benevolence, have welcomed me as one of their family. Although my presence gives me the sensation of being an outsider, I find in this situation an ineffable serenity... perhaps. With seriousness and determination, Dougal addressed these words to me: "Our child, join me in the hunt, but this time it will be different. Yesterday, just a few miles from this spot, I found signs of a deer. It could be our next source of sustenance if my suspicions are correct. It is a singular occasion. So far, our catch has been limited to the nimble squirrels; we have never seen a deer. Without hesitation, I accepted his proposal and we ventured into the confines of the forest. Dougal had a pistol with him that had been lying dormant until then, along with a sharp steel knife. As for me, I had only a gleaming pocketknife, which I had never used to hurt another human being. We moved stealthily forward, gradually distancing ourselves from the hut. Dougal followed the trail of the possible fawn, though as the minutes passed, the hope of finding it seemed to fade, as the tracks we were following became blurred. Nevertheless, he showed me the footprints he had sighted the night before. Despite their gradual fading, we still glimpsed the possibility that they were the footprints of a deer, thus keeping our hope alive. However, I could not restrain myself, and in the quiet of the moment I asked, "Do you possess the gift of tracking? Dougal, in a quiet voice, replied, "Actually, I have no such ability. I have only a vague notion of it. I have spent my whole life in the city, and I do not count myself among the hunters. I have only been acquiring knowledge for the last two years. The ground in that region seemed to give way under our feet, as if the roots of the trees were devouring it insatiably. In the blink of an eye, I found myself hurtling towards the soft earth, about to bang my head violently against the ground, but Dougal, with a lending hand, grabbed my arm and pulled me away from that perilous fate, leading me towards a more solid surface. However, the roots had twisted around my leg and, with the impact, I felt a sharp pain in my ankle, which twisted under the weight of my body. Fortunately, only my ankle suffered the misfortune; otherwise, I might have suffered a more serious fracture of the leg. I barely mourned the torment, as Dougal assisted me with a solicitous arm. We tried to return at a slow pace, but the pain, sharp as a lance, prevented me from moving forward. So, with my limbs battered, he lifted me onto his sturdy shoulders, letting my head hang, determined to abandon the hunting and return in haste to the country shelter. There, within the rustic walls, Dougal could nurse my injured ankle and medicate my ailment. As Dougal plodded on, my moans mingled with the whisper of the wind. He tried to comfort me, trying to distract my distress with tender words: "Giselle, I am sorry for your suffering," to which I mumbled in reply: "Do not find fault with yourself, it is my own follies that afflict me." "Our child, in my endeavour to understand, I perceive your youth, and, though I hold you in high esteem, I am sorry that I have been too severe with you. Do you perceive in me an excessive harshness?" - Dougal inquired quietly. "No, don''t be affronted," I whispered in a harsh voice. "I confess I have been somewhat abrupt, but with no intention of hurting you. My duties with Esma and Hilda absorbed me completely, and I was not prepared to be helped," Dougal reflected humbly. I asked quietly, "Have you been alone all your life? "No, I have never been alone, in spite of everything. I am an orphan," he replied uneasily. "What happened to your parents?" - I asked with interest. "I know nothing about them, perhaps they are in the grave. Only my old grandmother lives on in my memory. In this leafy forest my first memories germinated, even when I was at least six years old" - she answered solemnly. "Did your grandmother always reside in the forest?" - I questioned sceptically. You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. "It is a mystery that still eludes my understanding. She pursued a legend..." - he said, momentarily halting his gait, slowing but not stopping completely. "A legend..." - I murmured in an expectant voice. Carefully he began to weave his tale: "In this forest there is whispered the presence of a vampire, a monstrous creature that satiates itself with the blood of its victims. My lips remained sealed at his words, though my attention remained sharp, urging him to continue. "This legend of old goes back centuries. Though it belongs to the chest of time, few are the sages who keep it in authenticity. In ancient times, at the dawn of the cities, the villagers spun this myth on their tongues, but the echo faded with the passing of the decades. With the passing of generations, the memory gradually faded. Nevertheless, it still lives on in some corners of the educated society. Even if it fades, its echo lingers in the shadows''" - he narrated cautiously. "I received rumours about this legend before I came here, although I only retained fragments of it," I confessed with a start. "There are multiple versions of the legend. Some speak of a vampire, others mention a witch, and others still whisper of albino monsters lurking in the forest thicket. However, they all converge on the same premise: the monster''s appetite for the blood of humans. That is the heart of the legend, which makes it a bloodsucker''s tale," he said cautiously. "Was it your grandmother who bequeathed you such a disturbing narrative?" - I inquired with subtle curiosity. "Truly, though it does not constitute a narrative in the conventional sense. There is no definite plot woven around the forest, but it is the very essence that defines it. My grandmother passed the legend on to me, although her story did not mention a vampire, but rather those pale creatures that feed on blood. However, this conception my grandmother shared is rooted in the story she was told. She went to a seer," he whispered with a shadow of doubt. I remained silent, and he continued: "In her youth, my grandmother consulted a seer. Though fervent in her spiritual devotion, she also professed an unwavering faith in the god of the Plague. She could be called a heretic, and that is how I regard her as well. Therefore, you should not be afraid to express that opinion if you share my perspective. The seer foretold that her destiny lay in entering this forest and ending her curse. Despite her words and his faith in the spiritual, he ignored her and moved on with his life, though he never forgot those words. My grandmother, in holy matrimony, bore children, among them my father and my uncle. Time passed, and my uncle, already in the prime of his youth, ventured into the forest on a mission to study the flora. It was there that he met his end. Some time later, his body was found, riddled with sores and wrapped in a blanket of pallor, with no blood in his veins. At that moment, my grandmother evoked the ancient legend and, overwhelmed by the pain of loss, abandoned her consort and progeny, determined to prevent a similar fate. I do not know the details of those tumultuous days, but I presume that my grandfather, her husband, breathed his last, while my father went his own way, married and begot a new life, mine. The fate of my mother and father remains veiled in the mists of oblivion, perhaps claimed by the grim reaper. My grandmother revealed to me in a moment of confidence that I was homeless, and the veracity of her words cannot be questioned. Somehow, in his magnanimous heart, he took responsibility for my upbringing in my helplessness. He took me with him into the forest and watched over my safety, until he finally departed this world. The moment of his passing into death faded into the mists of my memory, and I may never recover it. However, by a tortuous path, I managed to escape from the clutches of the forest and, on the verge of death, reached the city of Bafranbu, where I plunged into the hardship of begging. In the days of my destitution, a woman with a generous heart provided me with food, sometimes sharing the scraps from her table. To her I owe eternal gratitude. Later, I discovered that this lady from Bafranbu was Hilda herself, a detail that still evokes laughter between us, for this truth was not revealed until years later, when Esma already held the title of my beloved. My existence was wasting away in penury, without the certainty of stable resources. It is an unfathomable enigma to me how Esma came to feel affection for me, a source of constant fear of losing her," he said, his voice tinged with an amalgam of feelings. "And how do you argue that you were never alone?" - I inquired, mulling over his words, in an attempt to discern between the possibility that the stag was Dougal, who in an act of disloyalty had been antlered. Inwardly, he sketched a subtle joke on the subject. "Because I feel the constant presence of Esma and Hilda, as if from time immemorial they have walked beside me, even before fate brought us together" - he sighed wistfully. "Have you shared with them the legend, the story you have shared with me?" - I questioned. "I have revealed the secrets of my past to them, but I have kept the legend hidden. I do not intend to instil fear in them with such a story, even if its veracity is questionable. For me, it represents a crucial piece of my grandmother''s legacy. The hut stands as a legacy given to me, and I do not wish to tarnish her memory. It seems as if she had sensed my return, as if it were an omen. At one point, I came to conceive the idea that my grandmother possessed mysterious gifts, almost as if she were a witch" - she explained in detail. "Do you have faith in the legend and the curse that your grandmother tried to mitigate in the recesses of the forest? - I questioned in a barely audible voice. "No, to me, such thoughts are blasphemy against the god who rules the Plague" - he replied simply. "I understand... Have you never heard from your progenitors?" - I whispered, wrapped in doubt. "No, everything I know was passed down to me from my grandmother. I was barely an infant and I barely retain the memories of those stories," she declared with conviction. "Why do you choose to confide all these details to me?" - I asked. "Esma has proclaimed that you are now an integral part of our family, so it is only fair that we include you," he replied solemnly, as a sombre unease crept over me, like an ominous omen. After a few moments, we returned to the humble hut, where Esma and Hilda were fretting about what had happened. Dougal settled me down on the mattress and extracted a pristine bandage and a vibrant green ointment from the suitcase, which felt soothingly cool to the touch. As Esma and Hilda set off to fetch water from the bower, Dougal began to gently massage my ankle, stripping off my shoe and stockings. The twisted joint showed obvious signs of swelling, with the skin reddened and tight around the perimeter. Veins were drawn under the epidermis, outlining the affected area, while small purple and blue bruises extended from the point of twisting down the foot and leg. Every movement provoked a wince of pain, and the joint was clearly displaced from its usual position, conveying a sense of vulnerability and weakness. Chapter 39: Mother-in-law The Empty Mirror Chapter 39: Mother-in-law In the translucent glass bottle rested an ointment whose emerald greenness radiated natural freshness, like nature''s own nectar. Its smooth, creamy texture glided gracefully over the skin like a stream, creating a soothing layer that embraced and comforted. With menthol and eucalyptus as its allies, it offered almost heavenly relief, mitigating the swelling and pain of the battered ankle. Dougal began the massage with circular movements as delicate as a caressing sea breeze. His hands, like consummate talents, danced over the skin with a dexterity that bordered on the sublime, applying pressure that, though firm, was a balm to fatigued muscles and resentful joints. With precision, he delved into every muscle fibre, unravelling knots and releasing pent-up energy flows. The intoxicating aroma of essential oils filled the air, adding a sensory dimension to the experience. Each caress and pressure seemed to exude an elixir of relief and well-being, as if suffering and stiffness melted away at the touch of her virtuous hands. At the end of the treatment, the ankle felt soothed and invigorated, as if it had been blessed by the very messengers of health and pestilence. He then gently proceeded to wrap the ankle in a soft, supple bandage that embraced its anatomy with devotion. He began the process in a spiral, starting from the root of the foot and ascending with the solemnity of a pilgrim towards the calf. Each turn was adjusted with the precision of a watchmaker, avoiding the slightest wrinkle or pressure point, thus ensuring an even distribution of support. Upon completion, he knotted the bandage just tightly enough, without strangling, to allow the blood to flow in its proper measure. "Truly, Giselle, my regard for you is sincere and unselfish. You are also Esme and Hilda''s faithful family, and in you I trust for their welfare. Rest assured, there is no need to fear for your ankle. Thank you, Giselle," Dougal pronounced with a solemnity that bordered on the blessed. "I appreciate your words and help, Dougal," I mused gratefully. He rose from the floor with the solemnity of one who has reached an epiphany, and approached me with the seriousness of a judge passing sentence. "I almost forgot to mention it... I know the truth about what happened between you and Esma, I am aware of the events that are interwoven between the two of you. Regain your strength, our child," he added with an icy gaze that froze the soul and made every hair on my body stand on end. "Esma and I share nothing. There is no affection or interest on my part towards her. You have no reason to worry," I stammered in a breathless voice, watching Dougal rise and leave the hut without a word, as if he were ready to undertake any sentence to safeguard Esma and Hilda. The seed of doubt arose in my mind, not about his grandmother''s story, but about Bafranbu and the mysteries that awaited in its streets. By the time Dougal left the rustic dwelling, Giselle lay resting on the humble bed, her gaze lost in the firmament, whose blue profusion was furrowed by dark clouds, portentous messengers of the impending tempest. As he pondered, absorbed in deep musings, the rustling of dry leaves under the footsteps of Esma and Hilda echoed in the air, announcing their arrival with wooden water jugs. Hilda, with the weight of the jugs on her shoulders, paused briefly to catch her breath, while Esma, lighter on her feet, advanced towards the door of the hut with alacrity. With a gentle push, she pushed through the half-open door and watched Dougal with a solemn gesture, who remained static, absorbed in contemplation of the forest. Ignored, Esma entered the room and nodded to Giselle before setting down the water jugs and turning to her work. Before long, Hilda was preparing to lift the pitchers again when she almost dropped them when she perceived Dougal''s shadow before her. She watched as he approached with measured steps, gently waving her away. Without taking the pitchers himself, he announced, "Don''t fuss, I''ll take care of it" - though he remained upright in front of her, not indicating for her to withdraw. In an attempt to make conversation, Hilda said: "I thank you, your kindness is invaluable. "You will find no impediment, Hilda. It is always my pleasure and delight to reach out," he replied gently, as his eyes wandered over the surrounding forest. Hilda scrutinised him curiously, noting how Dougal avoided her gaze. The barely perceptible wrinkles in his hands shook nervously as he settled his attire over his shoulders. "It is balm to the soul to have someone like you, Dougal. Your benevolence is an oasis in the desert of life," he uttered in a mellifluous voice, slightly cracked with the weight of years. Dougal felt unsettled under Hilda''s penetrating gaze, experiencing a surge of unease inside him. He swallowed hard, searching for the right words as his hands fumbled nervously. "Hilda, there is a question you must ask," he began in a trembling voice. Hilda''s chest was pounding, wondering what thoughts Dougal might share. Her countenance was perplexed, her gaze fixed on the groom''s face, "What is it, Dougal? Your words will find refuge in my bosom," he replied kindly, laying a comforting hand on the young man''s arm. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. Dougal took a moment to collect his thoughts, conscious of the delicacy of the matter. "Hilda, for some time now I''ve felt... a peculiar feeling towards... Esma," he whispered, barely audible in the leafy shadows around them. Hilda''s eyes widened slightly in astonishment, an amalgam of emotions crossing her weary countenance. "What do you mean, Dougal?" - She inquired, her voice barely a whisper in the stillness of the forest as she awaited an explanation. Dougal moved closer to Hilda, feeling the rushing gallop of his own chest as he plunged into the depths of her compassionate eyes. "My apologies, Hilda. It''s just that Esme seems wrapped in a blanket of melancholy, as if the shadow of judgement stalks her relentlessly. Something ails her. Each day grows rougher," she confessed, her trembling voice echoing with the burden of revelation. "Esma..." - she whispered finally, her voice barely a whisper imbued with awe and another, more subtle emotion to discern. Her eyes searched, yearning to find some response in the young man''s countenance. Dougal felt a lump in his throat, anxiously awaiting Hilda''s reaction. "I''m sorry to cause you consternation, Hilda. I did not mean to. It''s just that I sense her distant, perhaps love no longer dwells in her heart," he murmured, averting his gaze for a moment before meeting her eyes again. Hilda breathed in deeply, searching the shadows of her mind for the right words to reply to Dougal''s confession. "It''s a maze of difficulties, Dougal. Will you give up the fight for her?" - he finally uttered, his voice trembling as he tried to unravel the tangled skein of the situation. Dougal affirmed his love with regret, aware that Hilda''s words were like daggers, but unable to escape the feelings he had harboured in his heart. "I love her, Hilda. It is a known fact. And I would never perpetrate an act that would hurt her, but..." - he assured, his tone suffused with sincerity as he implored forgiveness in the woman''s gaze. Finally, Hilda took a breath of air, summoning the strength to face the situation head on. "Dougal, we must be clear in this matter. What is germinating between us... is a minefield," she declared in a firm voice, though unease flashed in the glint in her eyes. Dougal bowed his head in parsimony, taking in the gravity of the situation. "I understand, venerable Hilda. I did not expect it to be a level path," he replied, exhaling a regretful sigh as he faced the stark reality of his own inner conflicts. Hilda moved even closer, tenderly placing a hand on his shoulder. "You are still a young man, Dougal. Sometimes our hearts drag us down paths that are not for our good, but it pays to give it time, alone," she said softly, infusing wisdom into every word. Dougal looked at Hilda with gratitude, recognising the wisdom that flowed from her advice. "I thank you, Hilda. Your candour is a treasure to be treasured," he replied, feeling a deep respect for the woman who had been a mainstay for him. "She has been affected since her father''s passing. I am aware that your emotional connection has grown distant, but perhaps it is propitious for you to share time together. She is looking for other ways to occupy her mind and cultivate relationships not tied to romantic love. Giselle emerges as a possible comrade; you share a common age and could forge a cordial bond. Perhaps, together, they will find the path to happiness. It is likely that her sombre countenance is the result of painful memories of the loss of her father," Hilda explained tactfully. Night hung over the forest, enveloping them in shadows that seemed to reflect the intricate weave of their feelings. Dougal and Hilda supported each other in a silent embrace. As Dougal tenderly stroked Hilda''s hair, their hands rested gallantly on each other''s waists, each carrying with them the weight of what they had shared that afternoon. Back in the humble abode, Dougal knew that there were still many unanswered questions, but also a new understanding of the complexity of the human heart. Though the paths of love and passion seemed fraught with obstacles, he had Hilda by his side to be his guide in the gloom. As the days went by, Giselle''s ankle was showing improvement, but her mind was caught in a whirlwind of dark and troubled thoughts. Hilda cared for Giselle with the zeal of a friend, perhaps in gratitude for her assistance when she herself was prostrated with a cold. Hilda ventured into the forest in search of more wild chamomile, exploring the sunny, open corners. Finally, she came across the tiny white flowers with a yellow core that gave away the presence of the precious chamomile. Carefully, he picked the flowers, making sure not to hurt the plant and carefully selecting the freshest and ripest ones. Back in the modest hut in the heart of the forest, he prepared an infusion of chamomile. He arranged the flowers in a cup and poured hot water over them, letting them steep for a few moments to release their medicinal virtues. Once the infusion was ready, he dipped a clean cloth in it and gently applied it to the affected ankle, making sure it was warm but not scorching to avoid damage. She allowed the cloth to rest on the ankle for about 15-20 minutes, enjoying the soothing scent of chamomile and letting its anti-inflammatory properties ease the pain, thanking the god of Plague. However, Giselle felt as if a parasite was eating away at her spirits day after day, Giselle was the parasite. Esme remained reserved, though she was gradually gaining in joviality. In the presence of her mother, she seemed to find some release, but with Dougal and Giselle she experienced an uneasy guilt at the convoluted feelings that assailed her. During this time, Dougal went into the woods to hunt, while Esme and Hilda did the cooking and provided basic necessities such as water. This was not really a well, but a spot where the water from the nearby river stagnated. The waters that once flowed gallantly and briskly now slowed their pace, forming a backwater where the reflections of the sky and the leafy trees intertwined in a solemn dance. The constant murmur of the river seemed to pause at this point, as if nature itself was holding its breath, waiting for events to unfold. Although they called it a well for the sake of convenience, Dougal had actually dug a channel or ditch at this spot to provide an alternate path for the flow of water, allowing its escape from the stagnant juncture. Despite Esme''s desire to address her feelings with Dougal and Giselle, such a conversation was increasingly delayed due to her fears and hesitations. Hilda, in her role as mother-in-law, was unconventionally supportive and encouraging to her son-in-law. When Esme was not at her mother''s side, it was Dougal who took that place. They were seen together, exchanging smiles and blushes. Hilda''s whispers, full of wisdom and experience, echoed in Dougal''s ears like an echo in the stillness of the night. Their gazes met in the semi-darkness, communicating more than words could articulate. Every chance brush, every shared gesture, fed the growing tension between them, a tension that was becoming impossible to avoid. Despite their awareness of the boundaries they had to abide by, Dougal and Hilda were irresistibly drawn to each other, like moths dazzled by the forbidden flame of their greed. An invisible bond linked them in a realm apart, oblivious to the prying eyes of the outside world, that is, at least from Dougal''s perspective alone.... "Hilda" - Dougal murmured inwardly, his husky voice suffused with pent-up desire. "You have invaded my mind with more force than you should, even more than at Bafranbu." Chapter 40: Esme The Empty Mirror Chapter 40: Esme Esme, a young adult from Bafranbu, was forced to leave the city with her beloved Dougal as her saviour and her mother Hilda, after the tragic murder of her father at the hands of mafia crime. Stalked by the imminent collection of the unpaid debt, which could lead them to the brink of death if they remained in the city, they decided to make their escape. Esme, a creature of celestial beauty and gentle heart, struggles to survive in a world whose designs are fraught with misfortune. Though her soul leans towards Dougal with unbounded love, she is in turmoil, unable to face the turmoil of her own feelings with integrity. It was at that moment, under Dougal''s ruthless threat to me, that I was compelled to elucidate his understanding. Goddamn it, don''t they all think of me as a child, then I don''t understand why that son of a bitch is burning with jealousy at my presence, as if I intend to fuck his whore fianc¨¦e. Nevertheless, my hands are tied. It would be foolhardy to fan the flames of a tragic destiny that I am not willing to endure. I contemplated staying in this place, courting the illusion of finding joy, but I found it to be nothing but an orchard of unhappiness. As soon as I have recovered my spirits, I shall set out to depart from this sordid habitation. My course will be set for the castle, where I long to be sodomised by a nymphomaniac. At first, I was under the illusion that these individuals might be able to lavish a shadow of grace on me, but as I share their lives together, I realise that it is not I who am acting like a poor parasite, but that it is they who are living on the memory of an old dead man. For this reason, I am compelled to seek out Esme for questioning and to pay my gratitude to Hilda once the outcome of this plot is revealed. However, between these two fools, I found nothing but disillusionment. Soon, they will understand why they share the same misfortune as the imbecile Dougal. Feeling the urgent need to find some improvised crutch to support my gait, without daring to ask for help, I dragged myself painfully, like a vile parasite, from the shelter of the hut to the confines of the forest, longing to go unnoticed. My eyes scanning the surroundings, I discovered several stout branches fallen on the ground. I approached one of the fallen branches and examined it closely to find one long and sturdy enough to support the weight of my body. After judiciously selecting the right branch, I looked around for a thinner one that might serve as a hilt. With a neat steel knife, I began to sculpt the thick branch, skilfully shaping it into a solid support. Carefully removing every knot and protrusion, I took care to give it a smooth and comfortable surface. Then, using strips of tree bark as natural cordage, I attached the handle to the main branch, ensuring its firmness and stability. Once the task of forging the makeshift crutch was complete, I proceeded to put it through an endurance test, making sure it was strong enough to support my weight. With a sigh of relief, I lean back on it, feeling how it provides me with the sustenance I need to traverse the wooded paths. I silently thank nature for her benevolence in providing the necessary resources, and continue my wanderings with renewed confidence, ready to face the challenges that fate will bring. With a subtle off-balance, I waited a moment before I caught sight of Esme, who was resting near a clump of leafy trees that provided shade. As I approached, I swayed with my crutch, catching her attention with the echo of my uncertain footsteps, like those of a ghost in the gloom. "Giselle, are you all right?" - Esme inquired uneasily, standing upright. "Yes, everything is in order. I do not require assistance, I simply improvised this crutch to get around. I don''t wish to be bedriddenˇ± - I replied gruffly as I sat up again. "I understand. I am comforted to know that you have the strength to want to walk despite the ankle injuryˇ± - he said in a gentle tone. "Of course... We need to address an issue, Esme, regarding what happened the other night" - I started a conversation. "Our little girl... well, I mean..." - she whispered wistfully. "There''s no harm in calling me that, did you think it up?" - I inquired, seeking to untie the knot on her tongue. "Yes, I think even Dougal calls you that now, does my mother do it too?" - He questioned quietly. "Occasionally, though not as often as Dougal. I feel he calls me that more often than even you do" - I replied as I approached his side. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. "I know the matter that afflicts us, Giselle. It was certainly a slip in a drunken night. I must confess that my spirits faltered when I tasted that liquor. It was as if a shadow of my father''s regret rested upon me, I then understood the reason for his libations, an attempt to chase away the demons of memory. I found myself on that very path" - he began to unveil his thoughts languidly. "Yes, I understand your grief. But do you still have love for Dougal?" - I inquired with palpable optimism. "Of course I do. I love him with all my soul. Our bond was forged years ago, in more youthful times, perhaps at an age comparable to yours. I remember clearly the moment our paths crossed, in the halls of a women''s congregation, where I acquired skills such as the art of sewing, a skill I am passionate about. These lessons, though intended to prepare young ladies for marriage, were not reserved exclusively for the aristocracy, but welcomed young girls from the middle class. It was my father who insisted on my attendance, and I accepted without hesitation. I should note that I already had some understanding of these matters from my mother''s teachings. However, this particular enclave was run by the nuns, as part of a charitable system sponsored by the Church of the Plague. In those days, our presence in the church was also required as part of the programme. It was a gesture of help in its measure; some clergy do it, not only the Plague Church, although it is not directly linked to its doctrine. Rather, it is a tribute and a formative occasion to instruct young ladies. That is the most appropriate description I can think of. It was precisely in this environment, during conversations in the sacral precincts, that I had the privilege of crossing paths with Dougal. He played the role of acolyte, in charge of lighting candles, adorning the altar, assisting the clergy during ceremonies, and performing maintenance and cleaning duties in the church precincts. In addition, he was actively involved in the distribution of food and clothing to the needy in the church''s works of mercy. Although he received shelter and food from the church, he also worked as an apprentice in the workshop of a carpenter. This work barely provided him with enough to live on, and not every day for sure. During that period, there was barely a hint of the tragedy that beset my father. As the days passed in the salon, I could distinguish him from a distance until, with a determined step, he approached me and began a dialogue. At first, I found his insistence on dealing exclusively with ecclesiastical topics and faith in the Plague somewhat overwhelming. Gradually, however, our discussions moved into more personal and varied terrain. A friendship arose between us, then a courtship, although it was limited to the moments when we pretended to study the sacred pestilential scriptures. Even after the formative stage in the young ladies'' salon, our meetings continued, as both he and I were immersed in the nascent love bond. I must admit, however, that Dougal was uncomfortable with my lukewarm adherence to the Plague faith. Unlike him and my mother, my fervour does not reach the same heights. I deeply regret this discrepancy, but it is an undeniable reality. Even if one were to compare Dougal''s devotion to the church of the Plague with my mother''s, he would come out on top. Thus was our destiny forged. Months and years passed as we met, no longer in the sacred precincts, at the express request of Dougal, who considered it an act of sacrilege. We now congregated in agreed places and, almost exclusively, communicated through epistles exchanged in a secret enclave when we attended church. We deposited them between the cracked wooden slits of a confessional and picked them up when we returned. Although this was slow, it was the only way we could keep our relationship in the shadows and avoid the slander of others. It was only much later that I dared to present him to my parents. I feared their rejection, but in time, they accepted him, especially after my mother persuaded my father of Dougal''s nobility, and in that, she was right. I am firmly convinced that my father would, at this moment, assent to his worthiness. What really persuaded them, however, was Dougal''s deep faith in the church, a devotion that was impossible not to admire, especially in a town as pious as Bafranbu. I mean, I''m objective in this matterˇ±. "So what are you really undecided about?" - I questioned as I listened to her account. "Crazy am I, an idiot, I confess, I recognise your youth before my person, though our ages are tangled like threads in a rich tapestry, yet it does not blur my perspective. In my eyes, you are a child, a creature who has barely caressed the wings of time. Almost five years or more separate us, and my interest, I admit, sprang in the ephemeral intoxication of the night, but I do not feel for you what I feel for him. It is not love, but mere curiosity. I longed to experiment with you, to know the feeling of being with a woman, I was horny, just fuck me. It''s not that I love you in a genuine way; I was simply attracted to the idea of exploring the unknown, challenging the conventions and boundaries that the church imposes on me." - Esma tilted her gaze, turning romantic. For the first time, I did not discover tenderness in her countenance; instead, I sensed the maturity of a woman who, after confession, was facing her own truth. The forest, now forgotten, had become the silent witness of her longing and her procrastination. "That''s the point... I realise it''s not viable in any senseˇ± - I said in a monotone voice. At first, I had empathised with her account of her affair with Dougal, but as I delved deeper into her bewilderment, I realised my mistake about her. Her interest seemed to be motivated more by curiosity, as if my person was of no importance to her. I felt dismissed, insignificant, which made me uncomfortably uncomfortable in Esme''s presence. In the end, it turned out that the crux of Ace of Wands'' weirdness was evidence of a similar confusion to her own: a woman inquiring into her sexuality. For her, however, it was mere lasciviousness, while for me it was the true exploration of the individual on her way to maturity. Although we shared similarities, our perceptions differed. I could only nod in agreement with her words as she called herself idiot and crazy. "Of course, I understand that it is an unfeasible task. I only wished to try. That is why I asked you to stay, traveller. However, realising that it is not a feasible assignment, I think it best that you withdrewˇ± - she muttered crestfallen. "I will do so. I will leave. But what about your mother? You are unsettling her with your behaviour" - I replied in an impassive tone. "Just the mere thought that my mother might find out filled me with shame. I imagined her fury at discovering how my desires had disrupted my relationship with Dougal and myself. However, once the traveller was on her way, I would face them again and move on with the memory. That would be all that would happen, which never happened. I was confused as to whether or not I would propose to you again, that''s all. Now I know you won''t agree to have sex with me, so I can take back the mask after all. You go on with your life after this. I just longed to experience something more than a carnal connection, for you to be my lover and for us to fuck frequently. I feel as if the forest has changed my being," - he said in a halting voice, ending the conversation. "I understand" - I muttered as I stood up and walked towards the hut, leaning on my crutch. Esme''s last sentence disconcerted me, making me realise her despicable nature, Esme was an asshole. After a few days, I saw her absorbed in her sewing in a corner of the hut. I approached her and she said, "I''m not a reader, I''m not literate like you, so take this Plague bible. Perhaps you will get more out of it. Also, I give you the map that I once denied you and persuaded you not to go on your way". As she handed me the book and the map that rested on her belly, she went on with the work of fashioning a grim garb, using witch''s nails as needles to bind together the scraps of a gangrenous body. Chapter 41: Submission The Empty Mirror Chapter 41: Submission In the sinister drama of creation, where celestial whispers intertwine with the groans of decay, the gestation of humanity unfolds like a ballet in the abysses of an ungrateful god. Here, decorum fades in the contorted womb and tangled corridors of the small intestine, where virtue crawls towards its final destination amidst excretions and bile. Within the titanic labyrinth of the colon, depravity and corruption merge to sculpt the execrable feces, shaping the grotesque figure of man. Excesses become the fuel for moral decay, while guilt sprouts like venomous larvae nourished by the putrefaction of the spirit. As the feces, like unwanted offspring, humanity, advance through the dark corridors of the large intestine, they compact into a repugnant mass that piles up in the final bulwark, the rectum. The mounting pressure on the walls of the rectum awakens sensitive nerves, heralding the inevitable rite of expulsion. When the founder forsakes all mercy and decides to purge the body of his work, the muscles of the anal sphincter yield to the primal force, allowing humanity to be cast into the abyss of waste in an act of expulsion that transcends the physical, a sacrilegious ceremony known as defecation, where humanity manifests in its most vile and nauseating splendour, the birth of existence. Fear not, for I too felt such terror when considering the possibility of being devoured by my mother in the gastric juices of her stomach. Perhaps, according to the tale, the divine fashioned man from excrement and breathed a breath of delirium into him, thus granting him life. Then, he created a garden and placed man there to tend it. But, seeing that man was alone, he decided to create a suitable companion for him. Thus, the divine fashioned woman from one of man''s ribs, and he recognized her as part of himself, calling her "woman" because she was taken out of him. Or perhaps, in another version, the divine created humans in their own image and likeness, whether from their mind, their breath, or their corporeality, with the purpose of populating the earth and perpetuating eternal cycles of creation, devastation, and rebirth. However, this narrative has no place in my universe; it is a chimera engendered by the Clowns. In the laurels of virtue lie supreme moral excellence and ethical behaviour, delineating the perennial disposition of an individual to act with justice, courage, prudence, and moderation in all spheres of existence. This sublime virtue is not a mere occasional act but rather rooted in the human character, guiding decisions and actions harmoniously and consistently. Virtue is a delicate balance between multiple attributes, avoiding the abysses of extremes and fostering inner peace and common welfare. Despite my relentless efforts to preserve virtue in a world marked by iniquity and disobedience, I find myself constantly besieged by those who embrace vices as an inherent part of their being. Vices, infamous habits or deviant behaviours that steer the individual away from virtue and ethical conduct, are harmful both to the individual and to society. These vices can take various forms, from lack of self-control to the most ruthless cruelty, undermining physical, mental, and emotional health, as well as human relationships and social well-being. Instead of exalting virtue and promoting human progress, vices inexorably lead to decadence and misery. In the typhoon of life, where vices stand as the foundations of modernity, what fate awaits the virtuous? What significance does virtue hold without the relief provided by heaven? What can be said of a virtuous soul devoid of divine protection? After the harrowing torment and unbearable suffering, what remains but fleeting illusions, like caresses from gangrenous and degenerated hands? Heaven presents itself to us as a promise, a pact between humanity and the gods, where following the precepts of chastity and virtue foretells a celestial reward. In contrast, those who succumb to vices face the threat of hell as expiation for their sins. It would be comforting to cling to this belief, a tasteless chimera that provides solace in moments of adversity and transition, when tears of misery cry out to be wiped away. However, it is an illusion. The virtuous will not reach the celestial realms, for such abodes do not exist in the first place. Sinners will not be condemned to hellfire for their transgressions either. The fate of each being seems to be at the mercy of the whims of the gods who rule the vast confines of the cosmos. So, what fate awaits the virtuous? Only the inevitable suffering of being virtuous. The only path is to resist vice, even when there is no hope left, not even in death, when purity and decency can be overshadowed by the sinister desires of the depraved. Prayer offers relief, yet I cannot address any divine being. By fulfilling my duty, I find myself relegated to misery and wretchedness, for we, the virtuous, insist on exalting our misfortunes. Therefore, sinners indulge in their worldly delights. Hence, I shall unveil the true face of life in this humble abode, revealing the identities of those three individuals who conceal their true selves behind the veils of beggary: Esme and Dougal. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. In my misfortune and compassion, I felt compelled to idealise their actions and motivations in order to seek escape, to flee from human vices and take refuge in a castle, removed from this world where sins dare not penetrate, unless I allow it. Within those walls, only I can enjoy and nurture the virtue of love. For that which has been tainted by lust, the carnal act, is in truth a virtuous pillar of love that has been defiled by the passions of sinners. Where a woman who desires to explore her body and sexuality is vilified as libertine and whore, where she receives a deluge of slander to belittle the purity of virgins who have kept their chastity and innocence intact. Let us then delve into the unrestrained voluptuousness that emanates from Esme. This twenty-two-year-old woman, revealed over the course of weeks, possesses the typical air of youth in a city like Bafranbu. Her face, of exquisite beauty, embodies all imaginable qualities and grace. Her bust, outlined beneath the tight dress, stands with a firmness that awakens the senses, especially on scorching days when a veil of sweat caresses her curves, enhancing each contour with a tantalising consistency. The dress, faded and worn, barely covers her toned thighs, as if the libertine in her shamelessness had dared the forest, sacrificing the mantle of her attire to expose her charms to the eager gazes that fall upon her. Her buttocks, of moderate size, do not demand attention, as gazes naturally drift towards her legs and bust, both capturing attention with magnetic force. Nevertheless, their normal dimension becomes palpable, swelling and tantalising under the fine fabrics of her skirts. Her lips, of a distinctive pink, accentuate the innocence of her countenance, as if tempting transgression, inviting the viewer to unleash cruelty upon her tender face. But it is crucial to understand: Esme is not a child. She is a fully formed and mature woman, an adult force radiating irresistible seduction. In my plea, I proclaimed that Esme is nothing more than a woman who disguises herself as innocence, and there is no sin more vile than a libertine pretending to be virtuous. Always, on every occasion, she seeks to excuse her actions and behaviours, hiding them behind lament for the loss of her father. As if the pain of her progenitor''s departure, though genuine, justified her immature actions. There is no lower affront than one that uses the death of a loved one as an excuse for her outbursts. Furthermore, I reveal that when she invited me to stay in the cabin, disregarding others'' opinions, she sought to manipulate me into staying. Under the guise of me making my own decisions, she was actually pulling the strings like a puppeteer with a defenceless traveller. Esme had already seen in me an innocent who would be an easy prey for her depravities, stimulating her base instincts. She used the young woman as an accomplice, as a lover in her machinations, to initiate a virgin into her whims, her dreams, her fetishes. Mastering a woman at her whim, she satisfied her lascivious desires for a lesbian affair, for that was all she craved: depravity in the flesh, and not just in thought. Most deplorable of all is that Dougal and her own mother perhaps already knew of her perversions and did nothing to mend her. On the contrary, they seemed to delight in Esme''s capricious behaviour. It is undeniable, even despite her deceit in her accounts, that throughout her existence she did nothing but conceal her licentious thoughts behind the veil of simulated faith, imposed by the Plague. As she herself admitted, she did not even consider herself a true believer, as she was unaware of much of the precepts, and merely bestowed a bible upon me as a mere ornament, without resorting to it to preserve her virtue. It was evident that she only used church attendance and that hall as pretexts to contact Dougal, thus satisfying her most depraved desires, especially in the house of God, shameless as Esme was, who provoked the young men of the congregation to satisfy her own passions, using her tongue, mouth, and hands on them. Esme persisted in her harassment, insinuating herself towards me, touching my buttocks and neck without restraint, trying to glimpse under my skirts, stimulating my attributes with lustful fingers, defiling the sanctuary of innocence only for her own arousal, rubbing her forms against my body when we shared the same bed, shamelessly groping me. However, when I rejected her advances and tried to distance myself, she adopted a chaste and pure attitude, showing cowardice in not getting what she desired. If she failed in her attempts, she adopted an immature behaviour, pretending to be offended, hurt, repentant, thus seeking to generate pity and obtain what she desired. But if even then she persisted in her refusal, she behaved like a spoilt child, distancing herself from me. Esme, who at first seemed charming, was nothing more than a depraved woman, washing her hands to continue her transgressions, her impudent passions with her lover Dougal, who was no better than her. Esme, with her infidelities and perversions, was a morbid and vicious woman. The most execrable aspect of all is that, perhaps, if Esme had persevered in her trickery and continued her persistent harassment, she might have been compelled to carry out her infamies sooner or later. However, in her depravities, she found pleasure in exposing me to such perversities, delighting in my disgust as if I were merely a characterless object, simply a means to her voluptuousness. What I am now recounting are merely her words, her intentions beyond her mask of falsehood. All this while my ankle lay bruised, when Esme had not yet succumbed to disfigurement, when her epidermis had not yet begun to rot from deep within her bowels. Let us pause in Esme''s story and turn our attention to Dougal, who from the start appeared somewhat eager and irate, not because of me, but because he already knew the heart of his beloved. And indeed, his scorn was nothing but an affront charged with malice, a challenge to the innocence of a young woman seeking subversion, a blemish on his libidinous honour. Yet, over time, Dougal ceased to furrow his brow at his beloved''s whims and began to find delight in them. For when the time came to confront me, he could easily have resolved his disagreements with Esme if he had wished, persuading her with his words of mania; yet, he chose not to do so and neither did he cause any scandal by losing his composure. Instead, he began to experience a perverse joy in watching his girlfriend engage in lascivious antics with another woman. Dougal was aroused by such depravities, by those sins, imagining the voluptuousness of two women abandoning themselves to the most shameless and impious pleasure. In the stillness of the night, the ominous whispers of Esme still echo in my memory, her lips brushing my ear with the delicacy of a feather in the wind, as we lay entwined on the bed, convinced by her persuasion that our destiny was to remain together. In the distance, the figure of Dougal, that man of prominent stature and ungainly appearance, yet of unsuspected strength, was lost in the immorality of stimulating his member above his trousers, engulfed in a frenzy at the thought of the company of two women, or rather, three, whose mere presence challenged his virility, inciting him to a whirlwind of stimuli and urges. But behold, such thoughts were but the tip of the iceberg of the iniquities and vices to which Dougal surrendered himself, being a wrongdoer who kept a credulous young girl in his twisted gaze, but who was never defiled by those deceivers. Chapter 42: Outrage The Empty Mirror Chapter 42: Outrage Hilda, a lady of the radiant maturity of her forty-six springs, revealed herself to me over the weeks as an intoxicating nectar. Her presence evokes an echo of her daughter Esme, as if she had extracted the attributes and charm of her mother without inheriting the appearance that the father may have bestowed. She is a creature of sublime beauty, a temptress among mortals. Despite the inexorable passage of time, I can confidently assert that in her youth, Hilda overflowed with a freshness that would eclipse even the radiance of her offspring. Her body and face still retain a magnetism that arouses impure thoughts in the most chaste hearts. Esme, on her part, could only aspire to match the magnificence of her mother in her youthful prime. Allow me to evoke Constance in this comparison, though I humbly acknowledge my inability to judge the beauty of others. However, I cannot help but recognize that Hilda and Constance seemed to belong to a sphere of comparable voluptuousness. As for myself, I know that I might be considered more beautiful than Esme by some, but I could never rival the exuberance of attributes that characterizes her mother and Constance. My beauty, if anything, resides solely in the features of my face. Hilda possessed a generous bust, her legs extended like elegant columns covered with footwear that suggested, but did not reveal, the boldness of her splendor. Her thighs, wrapped in the silk of her skirts, emanated the maturity and serenity typical of a woman in her prime, while her buttocks exhibited a firmness and solidity that would prompt any observer to consider her a gift of embodied sensuality. Her presence, intoxicating and provocative, unleashed the most impious thoughts in those who dared to behold her. However, beyond her physicality, Hilda proved to be an attentive and kind-hearted woman in her demeanor. Though her demands could be taxing, and I often found myself assigned to minor and tedious tasks, her behavior was far from the depravities that Esme and Dougal reserved for me. It was, in a way, thanks to Hilda''s presence that the latter did not completely succumb to their vices, limiting themselves to subjecting me to fulfill their darkest fetishes. Despite her exploitation of my person, the compassion and pity I felt for Hilda were genuine. She seemed to seek redemption for her past actions and longed for the best for her daughter and son-in-law. However, in this world of perversions, those who seek improvement are always surrounded by degenerates and their appetites. In the immediate vicinity of the cabin. "Hilda, I beg you to accompany me in the search for water; I perceive an unusual turbidity in the ditch, an opacity that hints at impurity" - murmured Dougal with a soft tone, yet laden with implications. "Of course, my son. Allow me to summon Esme or Giselle to assist us in this task" - responded Hilda, casting her gaze towards the forest. "No need, Hilda. They''re busy in the woods, enjoying their shared pastimes" - he quickly intervened, flashing a smile of impish complicity. "I see. I''m pleased to know that Esme finds joy in their company. Have you spoken to her about your affairs?" - Hilda inquired with a mix of curiosity and shrewdness. "Indeed, thanks to your intervention, Lady Hilda. We had an intimate conversation, and I must admit, I needed the time alone to express my thoughts and emotions. We discovered an unexpected affinity in our perception and desire towards our new guest" - Dougal replied, accompanying his words with a feigned laugh, but laden with sinister intentions. "Oh, sublime, your benevolence towards Giselle is of unparalleled magnificence. Although her injured ankle renders her somewhat incapacitated at the moment, her presence still serves a purpose in our midst. Furthermore, your satisfaction at the rekindling of the relationship between my daughter and you is a balm to my soul" - Hilda expressed delicately. "All my achievements, Hilda, rest upon your guidance. As for Giselle, her perception of being a burden for not being able to participate in the schemes of hunting has led her to mushroom picking. Esme, in her vulnerability, accompanies her in this task" - Dougal declared as he strode determinedly towards the stagnant spring. "Dougal, your protection envelops me with such intensity that I consider you as a son. Henceforth, I shall address you as my son" - Hilda proclaimed solemnly as they advanced with measured steps through the dense woodland. "I am grateful for your words, Hilda. Now, I also regard you as a motherˇ± - Dougal responded as he ventured further into the thicket. Then, without hesitation, with one hand he gently traced the small of his mother-in-law''s back, while with the other he took hold of her shoulder and positioned himself in front of her. "Hilda, I can no longer suppress it. Hilda, my lady, I love you. I cannot keep you out of my thoughtsˇ± - he confessed with a faltering voice. Stolen novel; please report. "Dougal, what blasphemies do you utter, oh, my son? Have you succumbed to madness or is this merely a contrivance of your vile wit?" - exclaimed Hilda, with a gesture of horror and disdain. "For God''s sake, mother-in-law, nothing could be further from my intention than to utter a jest. Your presence unhinges me, plunges me into an abyss of uncontrollable desire. Oh, I am irretrievably enamoured of your voluptuousness!" - Dougal stammered, with a trembling quiver in his voice. "But, my son, you are my daughter''s betrothed, how dare you utter such words? Have you lost your reason completely? My ears reject your unheard-of confessions, and my soul recoils at your audacity - Hilda retorted, stepping back, with a gesture of terror and disapproval. "Mad words, imbued with boundless depravity? Now, Esme grants me her trust, her love, and together we shall claim Giselle! We shall not let her slip away, and Esme must not be privy to our machinations. She must not learn of anything we plot in our dark complicity. It will require my cunning for her to understand our truth, but I will compel her to abandon us and deliver us, offering that little one as a sacrifice if it ensures that we are left alone, you and Iˇ± - Dougal exclaimed, with frenzy, as he drew closer to Hilda, his hands tracing the contours of her waist. "What depravities do you plan for that innocent creature, vile degenerate? Do you intend to turn her into our slave? Are you playing with my daughter''s feelings, you cursed wretch? Remove your hands from me, despicable!" - Hilda shouted, wrenching herself abruptly from her son-in-law''s grasp and distancing herself from him with disdain and repulsion. "You don''t understand, madam, I have loved her since my earliest childhood, you know it well. You were my first object of passion, gazing upon you lasciviously as you passed by, and though Esme represents a secondary love, I prefer you, I had no choice back then, you were bound in marriage, and I had already met Esme. Bafranbu tore us apart, woman" - Dougal shouted, amidst the sepulchral silence of the forest. "Your disdain means nothing to me, you are a mere insipid remnant, away from me and my daughter with your execrable pretensions. You are not worthy of my daughter''s affection, vile creatureˇ± - Hilda vociferated, inflamed with anger. "Then, you bitch, I''ll do it by force if necessary! Take that, shameless whore!" - Dougal roared, with unleashed fury, as he seized his mother-in-law by the hair and hurled her to the forest floor. "I know your despicable deeds, prostitute. While your husband suffered financial crises, you gave yourself to other men, trading with your vile bodyˇ±. "I did it to financially support the household, not out of mere lasciviousness. It was an urgent necessity, for the welfare of my daughter and my husband. You understand nothing, insolent beggar" - Hilda retorted, desperate to justify her actions in the face of her son-in-law''s relentless accusation. "I watched with delight as you paraded, exhibiting the sinuous curves of your figure, and even today, you persist in that hypnotic dance. I rescued your being from the shadows of Bafranbu, caring for you and your daughter for two cycles of the moon, and you, whore, think that the simple verb ''thank you'' is adequate as compensation, but no, I am not satisfied solely with your daughter''s body. I will compel you to pay in full for the services I have provided for youˇ± - Dougal expressed with a lascivious voice, whispers of lust escaping his lips as he eagerly explored Hilda''s contours. Stripping off her lower garments with an impudent gesture, she clasped Hilda''s chin between her fingers, imprisoning her in a fierce kiss where their tongues intertwined in a dance of unbridled desire. In that instant, Hilda was not begging, but surrendering with unbridled fervour. It was then that Dougal stripped his member from his garment, and with untamed lasciviousness, goaded Hilda into fulfilling her darkest longings by the provision of oral. He restrained her, and in the midst of his onslaught, extracted his finish from between his mother-in-law''s lips, causing her, in her distress, to be compelled to vomit the fruit of the torture inflicted in that ungodly act. "Is it not true that you delight, whore? You don''t even beg me for mercy, do you think I did not perceive your lustful glances, do you think I did not observe your loneliness during these two years? You indulge in it, you enjoy it, you crave it" - Dougal, brutalised by lust, muttered greedily. Then, with desperate eagerness, he began to strip his own mother-in-law of her clothes, while she submissively obeyed without a word. Thus began the abominable act of unbridled lasciviousness. As Dougal revelled in carnal charms and delights, he flogged his lover''s buttocks, viciously smacking her whites. Between suppressed moans, he rejoiced in his brutal onslaught. It was then that Hilda, in a fit of desperation, let out a high-pitched scream, but soon, on her son-in-law''s chest, she began to moan and undulate her hips in response to his sinful advances. With fervent and solemn request addressed to son-in-law, she implored the mistreatment to continue unabated, urging him not to stop. The spectacle unfolded at its most grotesque and morbid, where amidst the dirt and filth, Dougal explored the confines of lust, titillating Hilda with his phalanxes that defiled her decency, that eroticism that had remained unimpeachable for years. In that instant, Hilda became aware of her insatiable cravings, of the voracity with which she wanted to plunge into the depths of passion, of the desperate need that consumed her. She revealed herself as an impudent libertine, given to delight over the abyss of lust and perdition, where her being vanished in obscene ecstasy. Dougal indulged his baser instincts, licking with the greed of a canine. There were no limits to his actions with his mother-in-law, as he subjected her to all manner of outrages. Nature itself became an accomplice to his perversion, serving as a silent witness as he threw her against a tree and used her as a prop to continue his degradation, carrying the weight of his mother-in-law on his shoulders as he perpetrated the desecration of her dignity. After a period of unbridled bacchanalia, the air permeated by the stench of sweat and other fluids resulting from the excesses of man and woman, Hilda found her mouth filled with the disturbing male essence. With a sneer, she expelled the repulsive nectar into the defiled earth. Then, in an act of apparent demureness, they both began to cover their naked bodies, as if the forest itself had exerted its power to subdue them, as if the malevolence of the trees had corrupted their minds into abject submission. Dougal no longer fanned the flames of sin in his mother-in-law, while Hilda, having fallen into the lubricious temptation of prostitution, had given up her ability to refuse unbridled pleasures with her son-in-law. Since his days as an acolyte at Bafranbu, Dougal had witnessed the depravities of the church fathers and his beloved Hilda, feeding his darkest desires by peeping behind doors or dreaming of the day when she would indulge his vilest fantasies. Like a cruel irony of fate, the forest and its curse seemed to conspire to consummate an even more extreme act of depravity: the immoral encounter between a son-in-law and his mother-in-law, indulging in the basest instincts of carnal lasciviousness. Having consummated his act of impiety, Dougal, with unparalleled shamelessness, grabbed Hilda''s body around the waist, and in a kiss that exuded depravity, the two thrust their tongues into each other''s mouths in a carnal frenzy, As Dougal rapturously stimulated his member close to his distinguished mother-in-law''s attributes, Hilda gave herself fervently to the burning desires, prostrating herself submissively before the maelstrom of lust that corrupted the wooded surroundings with its tentacles of pleasure and depravity. Chapter 43: Infamy The Empty Mirror Chapter 43: Infamy Dougal and Hilda forged a despicable pact to perpetuate their depraved encounters in the woods, in order to satisfy a woman''s darkest carnal desires. Those impure desires, when indulged, caused her to fail in her role as a mother and mother-in-law, plunging her into an abyss of forbidden passion and moral damnation. "Dougal! If you persist in this infamous path, I demand that you forsake my daughter. You are a damned wild man, without restraint or measure. I will not tolerate you inflicting more suffering on my daughter. Therefore, cease with her and withdraw! When we leave this forest, I will depart with my daughter and you will vanish from our lives. That will settle this matter. This will be my compensation, this is how I will repay you for your protection towards us" - Hilda exclaimed, with the last glimmer of sensibility in her overflowing lust. "You dare not abandon me in this manner! You dare not impose conditions on me! Without me, you would have already been devoured by the dark hand of the mafia. You owe me an unpayable debt. I have the absolute right to do with you whatever I desire, you whores" - Dougal replied with excitement, as if each word uttered by Hilda fueled his lust even more intensely. Hilda glared at him with an icy stare, as sharp as a frost in the dead of winter, as she said, "You have outraged my trust, you have taken over my body, you have taken advantage of me and my daughter. All this after I considered you a son". "Don''t pretend to be pure and innocent. You were a prostitute in the temple of God, you received your payments from the priests. Do not try to justify your misfortune, for you were a mistress of the father of the church without compensation. You cannot deny it, you enjoyed it. You indulged in lust and reveled in voluptuousness. You are a whore, yes, but one of those who do it for pure pleasure, expecting no retribution other than the satisfaction itself. Surely you were even more aroused when I whipped you, and yet you still consider me a son" - Dougal declared insolently, raising his fist in threat. "Please, conclude only with my daughter and I will accede to your darkest desires. Do with me as you wish, but don''t hurt her, don''t hurt me. Just let her go when it is safe, and then I will consider how to give myself completely to youˇ± - Hilda pleaded fearfully, aware that Dougal was an insatiable man, greedy for pleasure. She knew they had no recourse against him, being helpless women before a man drunk with dominance. She only wished she could appease the beast with those words and find some way to release her daughter from her grief. But most wicked of all, deep inside Hilda, there was also an insatiable fire of pleasure burning. She was aroused and enjoyed every moment. She longed to continue to give herself to her son-in-law, and in a morbid way, it excited her even more that it was precisely him, her own son-in-law. So they came to an agreement to give themselves to each other, leaving Esme out of this dark passion. "It is settled, we will relegate Esme from this injury, and we will persist in guilty delight, giving ourselves unreservedly to our darkest and most lustful impulses, but harbour no illusion that your daughter is a docile lamb; she too cultivates perverse delights. Nevertheless, I will concede to your dictates" - Dougal spat with a masquerade that veiled his sordid machinations and fallacies, while Hilda was gripped by fears and bewilderment at her daughter''s fetishes. In a secluded area of the forest. Esme and I embarked on the task of gathering mushrooms suitable for the palate. From the outset, Esme displayed a facade of courtesy, yet after her fleeting act, her true nature emerged insolently. Reluctantly, I conceded to her accompanying me, as she revealed her true intentions through indiscretions that required no interpretation. Despite my initial exile, my presence intrigued her once again, leaving me with no option but to withdraw. For the second time, I yearned for salvation from the mysterious forest, but its enigma turned against me, denying me the desired escape. My superficial attempt at evasion was punished, plunging me into a slavery imposed by Esme. Despite her provocative insinuations, I maintained my composure, while she plotted her conspiracy with unwavering determination. Upon returning to the cabin, we were greeted by Dougal and Hilda, indicating that our excursion through the forest had been extensive. However, an unusual atmosphere lingered in the air; Dougal, almost jubilant, seemed to rejoice while Hilda, with a dull and somber expression, evidenced deep regret. Esme and I noticed the change but chose to remain silent, acting with apparent normality as they did the same, secretly veiling the tensions. Although Hilda showed signs of injury, I remained silent in the face of her subsequent reproach: "Do not misunderstand, I do not tolerate you by choice. If it were up to me, I would have expelled you long ago. But unfortunately, you possess some fleeting utility." Her revelation bewildered me; although her initial attitude was accommodating, her subsequent manipulation relegated me to a role of servitude, forcing me to risk venturing into the forest alone. Despite her abrasive behavior, I decided not to confront her directly, as Hilda was not my main concern. The days passed slowly as my ankle, seemingly on the path to recovery, revealed the depth of its injury. The idea of prolonged disability shook me, not because of the loss of mobility, but because of the impossibility of escaping from that oppressive environment. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. Now, if anyone believed that harassment came solely from Esme, they gravely erred in their judgment. Dougal, in his supposed therapeutic attentions, massaged and bandaged my battered ankle. Although his actions seemed harmless at first, they soon revealed his true intention. In a moment of depravity, he slid my bare foot onto his erect member, feigning indifference to my disturbance. However, the true atrocity unfolded when Esme, without allowing room for resistance, indulged in lasciviousness, shamelessly licking the sole of my foot and its toes, fueling the fire of her depravity. The idea of becoming an object of her arousal almost drove me to faint, aware that my fate in the hands of these perverts would be dire. I watched as, on select occasions, Dougal and Esme retreated into the lushness of the forest to indulge in their most intimate desires. Although my virtue urged me to repudiate such encounters, I could not consider them as acts without redemption. Nevertheless, my unease heightened when Dougal and Hilda followed the same path. Not only that, but I perceived, though I did not witness the act itself, an exciting fervor in their desire to be watched, prompting me to avert my gaze. Their actions became even more lascivious, more sinful, suggesting a carnal complicity that left me stunned. The degeneration of the situation plunged me into confusion, fearing the imminent consequences, while my injured ankle remained unhealed, adding an additional weight to my concern. Hilda, with voluptuous ardour, surreptitiously insinuated herself into her son-in-law, intertwining the threads of lust in an intriguing game of seduction. Certainly, they consummated their carnal desires after he had satiated his appetite with his own bride, thus weaving a dark trio of forbidden passions. The two females, mother and daughter, whose very existence aroused in me a revolting contempt, though I was uncertain whether Esme shared my perception of this abomination, and confident that even she would not indulge in such detestable acts, I was compelled to show Esme the iniquity and restore to her the scant vestige of decency to put an end to the depravity that was hovering between her mother and her lover. Once, as I was scheming how to reveal my situation to Esme without her mistakenly suspecting any deception, I was surprised when she herself urged me to strip off my dress. For an instant, I feared their morbid intrigue, but to my relief, it was simply that Esme was offering me a dress. This shabby-looking garment was a yellow dress in a classic style, made of a delicate satin fabric that must have once radiated splendour, but now showed signs of decrepitude. The puffed sleeves and fitted bodice were adorned with frayed lace and patches of floral fabric, each telling their own stories of the past. The long, elegant skirt flared out gracefully, revealing finely embroidered patches that added a nostalgic charm to the garment. "Acquire this dress once you have stripped your body of what currently adorns it. While your previous garment surpasses this piece in quality, it has unfortunately succumbed to the deterioration of time. It urgently needs to be washed. For now, cover yourself with it alone. We cannot tolerate your nakedness, precious child. I have meditated on your situation and have taken action. This dress used to be mine in my younger years, and my mother bequeathed it to me for you. With my own hands, I have restored it exclusively for your use and delight" - Esme articulated her words. Although I was comforted by the exclusivity of our presence in the hut, an uneasiness crept over me at the possibility of Dougal bursting in and catching me in a near-stripped state. Hilda''s absence, possibly in his company, heightened my sense of vulnerability. Paradoxically, my confidence in safety with Esme outweighed my confidence with Dougal. Sadly, I was beginning to feel afraid of him. At least with Esme, a woman, I could conceive of the possibility of defence or reasoning in the event of coercion, a prospect that was perhaps not on the horizon with Dougal. Yet somehow, somehow, my effort to guide Esme to virtue persisted. My faith in redemption and subsequent opportunities was shaken by the present situation. After dressing me in the amber yellow gown, Esme, with defiant subtlety, began to brush my hair from behind, whispering "Our child" in a barely perceptible cadence, the same one she used to induce me to share her bed, her pink lips exuding an aura of wicked tenderness. She carefully tied a ribbon of the same shade as the dress, a little yellow bow, which, holding my hands, she intended to forge the illusion of an intimate camaraderie between us. In the splendour of my yellow attire, I impatiently awaited the restoration of my black dress, only to realize that Esme, all this while, had been dedicated to crafting the child''s dress she wore. Her effort, though commendable, did not escape my keen observation. Amidst this situation, in the days to come, Hilda threw a sharp remark my way: "Your mere presence here stands as a monument to my wasted generosity. Strive, at least, to be less useless than you appearˇ±. Unable to contain my indignation, I decided to set my stratagem in motion, thus instigating conflict between them before they could unleash their frustration upon me. "What do you mean, madam? It was your own daughter who persuaded me to stay. I will leave as soon as I have the chance. But if you wish to pass judgment, why don''t we talk about you and Dougal?" - my words erupted boldly, though my throat was constricted with fear. "Foolish girl, you are ignorant of the dangers that lurk. If you wish to preserve your integrity, I advise you to confine yourself to silent observation" - Hilda snapped, with a flash of anger in her eyes that I had never witnessed before. I feared for my safety in the face of her wrath, yet my determination did not waver. "No, reveal what''s going on with Dougal. If you do not wish Esme to discover the truth, I suggest you tell me now. I know of your carnal encounters, which have been going on for days" - I proclaimed aloud, aware that both Dougal and Esme had temporarily left the hut, engaged, surely, in more intimate pursuits. "Your intrusion is insidious and misplaced. I act out of necessity, not choice. You must understand, insignificant child, that men are not concerned with any other kind of retribution. If a man performs an act on your behalf, do not expect a simple ''thank you'' to be enough, even vile metal is not enough. You must offer them your body and give yourself to their lust. I am only repaying my son-in-law with my own flesh, to settle the debt that I and my daughter have contracted with him" - proclaimed Hilda, wrapped in the deepest despair. "If truth adorns your words, I find myself compelled to agree with them. Are you indeed constrained by the whims of that vile degenerate? Undoubtedly, his influence ensnares you in an undesirable bond, from which you cannot extricate yourself. Is it not evident that his unrestrained lasciviousness leads them to the darkest corners of the forest, where they engage in acts that defy decency itself? Why then, do you persist in your complacency, knowing that it dishonours your own daughter with his wanton lust?" - I interrogated fervently, in an attempt to uncover the hidden truth. This moment, undoubtedly, represented the opportune chance to expose her to Dougal''s disdain, in order to safeguard the scant virtue that could still subsist in their corrupted souls. But what ensued next was a veritable nightmare, a Stygian torment to which I found myself subjected by the vile triumvirate of wrongdoersˇ­ Chapter 44: Hilda The Empty Mirror Chapter 44: Hilda "It''s futile for you to continue with your foolishness, girl" - Hilda retorted, with a gesture of disdain etched on her countenance. "Do you not bear the indignity of being a victim, forced to submit carnally to your own son-in-law? Does he not subject you mercilessly? Allow me to ease your anguish, and together let us free your daughter from the oppressive yoke" - I exclaimed fervently in the depths of the forest. "Silence your ignorant tongue. Yes, initially I was compelled, but if you so eagerly desire to know the truth, it is that after that episode, I submitted willingly, like an addicted bitch, because I adore being dominated, I am fascinated by it. It excites me and delights me to be whipped, mistreated. You are unaware of the pleasure, the thrill that overwhelms me. I love to lick, to kiss, that''s why I turned to prostitution. You start out of necessity and end up enamoured of the members and of submission. With priests, I loved the whip of their long cassocks. A woman deprived of her pleasure becomes a crazed thirst for lechery and lust. Now I do it because it excites me, and I will continue until I am satedˇ± - proclaimed Hilda as she licked her lips lasciviously. "No, no! What blasphemies are these? You''re delirious, you''re not in your right mind. How much I wish I had escaped, how much sacrifice I made to flee! You''re the victim here, I cannot comprehend it!" - I exclaimed with a look of horror and bewilderment, overwhelmed by the absurd words that echoed senselessly, an incomprehensible madness, a stupidity impossible to assimilate. "It''s the plain truth. I delight in being a submissive and obedient little slut, if that''s what you so eagerly want to know, insolent meddler" - continued Hilda, as I plunged into a frenzy of confusion and panic. Blaming the victim of rape is an outrage to the minds, an error rooted in the darkest depths of human ignorance. The guilt of any vile act of rape lies solely on the execrable perpetrator, never on the violated soul. Condemning the victim perpetuates a perverse cycle of victimization, sowing the seeds of eternal trauma. It is imperative to exorcise such a mentality from our civilization and instead foster understanding, support, and empathy towards those who have endured these abominations. True justice lies in solidarity with the victims and in the eradication of the culture of rape, that grim manifestation of disdain for human dignity. If a victim chooses not to punish their aggressor, whether out of fear, shame, or other reasons, it by no means signifies that they are granting license or justification to the perpetrated villainy. However, if society fails to take adequate measures to hold perpetrators accountable and prevent future outrages, then it would indeed be granting and perpetuating a conducive habitat for the proliferation of sexual violence. In this scenario, the victim surrenders to an ineffable delight, succumbing to guilty pleasure, injury, and sin in an execrable audacity of depravity and torment. Here, both the victim and the perpetrator revel in the carnal pleasures to which they indulge without remorse, as they have been led astray and corrupted, thus turning the victim into their own executioner. Human desires and tastes are like torrents flowing without us being able to direct their course. They escape our manipulation, guiding us along unpredictable and capricious paths. They do not follow a predefined logic or adhere to norms or coherence. We are mere puppets of our passions, unable to foresee where or when they will lead us. In this chaotic piece, we are mere spectators of our weaknesses, trapped in a spiral of vices that relentlessly devour us. Such musings would prove futile for the virtuous, as it is fruitless to try to understand the purposes, motivations, and mysteries of depravity, for sins are directed and governed by the chaos and murky flow of the human mind. "You, do not deserve the title of mother. You proclaim yourself as such, but you are a poor example. Esme is as she is because of you, a degenerate just like her mother. I pity you, I am tired of you, cursed ones. Repent and leave me immersed in the eccentricity of the forest, fugitives, intruders!" - I roared with anger, my eyes dripping with fury, before spitting at Hilda''s face with contempt. I was on the verge of receiving my deserved punishment, a slap, when Esme, the descendant of her lineage, burst in and halted the movement of her mother. "No, stop. Do not harm her. Only I desire to flog that delicate visage of the outsiderˇ± - Esme proclaimed insolently, revealing her presence alongside Dougal, emerging from the dark corners of the forest, rising from among the dense tangle of trees. "Don''t you think it''s the right time to carry out our desires? We''ve already tried to persuade her without success, but nothing has worked. It''s time to compel her to fulfill her womanly destinyˇ± - Dougal said to Esme, with wickedness and desire reflected in his face. "Yes, let''s take her to the cabin immediatelyˇ± - Esme responded, looking at him complicitly. Without fully realizing, Dougal grabbed me by the waist and then dragged me across the floor to the cabin. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. "Let go of me, daughter! Don''t touch me! What are you doing? What are they talking about?" - Hilda asked her daughter, while Dougal dragged me across the floor, violently tearing my dress. "Refrain, mother, from intervening in this task. We will give ourselves to the delight of whipping and corrupting this little girl, a pleasure we will both share, Dougal and I, we will be the architects of exacerbating the passions, if you like, stand aside or contemplate. Isn''t that so, mother? You instructed me in this path, or have you forgotten when you forced me to watch you indulge in carnal delights with the representative of the church, you found exaltation in the act of being watched; for I too delight in being the object of lustful gazes. You and Dougal will be witnesses, mere spectators of my desire, as I defile my beloved wench with my lasciviousness" - Esme proclaimed with a wanton smile on her lips, her cheeks aflame and burning with unbridled passion. "I shall watch with glee as you treat that foolish woman accordingly, to gauge how much you have assimilated of your progenitor''s legacy. Demonstrate to me your skills in the art of subduing a woman, instruct me in the depravity of our young virginˇ± - pronounced Hilda as they both strode purposefully towards the rustic abode. The way parents communicate and transmit knowledge about carnal education to their offspring is intimately linked to paternal modes and influence. This connection takes on an exacerbated preeminence in urban cores where exposure to vicious behaviors is commonplace, gestating a magma conducive to what could be labelled as a human catastrophe. The responsibility of parents in this context becomes paramount to counteract this drift, providing guidance, principles, and appropriate carnal instruction to empower their offspring and safeguard them from the dangers that may lurk in their environment, yet here lies an embodiment of the deepest perversion. At that moment, a revelation seized me with the force of an unleashed hurricane. The first truth that emerged was the complicity between Esme and Hilda, weaving my submission and capture in the bonds of their feminine lust. The crutches I used to walk with my broken ankle were now abandoned outside the cabin entrance. Esme and I, offered in holocaust to the most intimate delights, while Dougal gloated from the periphery, content with mere caresses, here was the contrivance hatched. They had forged this sinister pact during a conversation, where they discussed the perverse taste of those whose wives were unfaithful, a disgusting practice where the male, whether pleased or not, rejoices in the contemplation of his partner indulging in carnal pleasures with another. In the vast expanse of the human condition, the lesbian inclinations of one woman towards another should not be subject to the scrutiny of the law or the judgement of ecclesiastical institutions. Even if society''s puritanical gaze brands them as vile and the church enshrines them as sinful, it is imperative that we witness the depth of human diversity, where sexual orientation and gender identity are intertwined as essential strands of our existence. Understanding and respect for these expressions of love are cornerstones in the building of a society that aspires to inclusivity and tolerance. While I personally may not share these inclinations, I advocate open-mindedness and compassion towards all forms of love and individual authenticity. In the dark corner of Esme''s mind, there rested not a mere inclination towards females, but an unfathomable lasciviousness, a twisted delight that defied the conventions of desire. Her appetite knew no gender boundaries, for she gave herself with equal fervour to the whims of men. What shocked me was not her preference, but the unhealthy deviation that drove her into the abyss of vice. It was as if a sinister magnetism was drawing her into the abyss of depravity, where submission and domination were intertwined in a dance of perdition. In that bleak moment, I perceived clearly that corruption had woven its invisible web over their hearts, and that Hilda, the last bastion of sanity, was vanishing in the maelstrom of shared depravity. The abused was now allied with the abuser, and I, the victim, was destined to be an accomplice in my own outrage. These criminals knew no limits, and what I had not yet realised was that their depravity lacked motive, logic, coherence. The perverse disintegrate and prostitute themselves to the passions of an unscrupulous pimp. Dougal pinned me hand and foot with deft knots, while my arms were forced back, imprisoning my body in a position of vulnerability. With the curtain of night unfurling across the sky, memories of my arrival in that dreary cabin invaded my mind, as stark reality collided with my eccentricity. The world I was so eager to forget infiltrated my chivalric fantasy, enveloping me in its web of perversion. From the dark threshold Esme emerged, her ominous presence amplified by the figure of Hilda at her back, who closed the door with an ominous clang. Though a prisoner of these depraved men, she considered them mere morbid mortals, mere mediocre impostors compared to the sickly individual with the blonde wig and masculine countenance. His devotion to the darkest god of the pantheon eclipsed all other evil desires. Though my heart beat with unusual intensity, a strange calm came over me, as if I knew that this forest was now my domain and that, when his mother cried out for help, she would be my salvation. Aware that the end was near, I prepared to play my last trump card in this macabre barbarism. After an interval of machinations between the three of them, focused on me and the ruses they were plotting to seduce and bend Hilda, they finally got Hilda''s assent. Though Dougal tried to silence me with a gag, and though Hilda agreed, Esme strenuously objected to depriving me of speech, them fearful that I would reveal to Esme the shady arrangements they had already concocted between the two of them. Then I uttered disdainfully, "Why don''t you confess to Esme that you have been indulging in the baser passions, withholding relations between you?" - Instantly, Dougal rose from his seat and gave me a violent kick in the face, rendering me almost unconscious. The words that escaped my lips, however, stunned Esme, torn by the revelation. A tumult of anger and strife broke out, as Esme, angered by the treachery brewing behind her back between her lover and her mother, screamed and reproached, while they tried in vain to justify the unjustifiable. Esme slapped her mother, accusing her of being a whore, but Dougal roughly pushed her away, causing her to collapse to the floor. Hilda, seized by an untamed frenzy, threw herself at Dougal after hitting her daughter, triggering a series of unfortunate events. However, to everyone''s astonishment, the situation gradually began to calm down. Dougal extracted a bottle of liquor from his luggage, offering the ethyl elixir to appease tempers and reach an understanding. Eventually, the trio agreed to indulge in unbridled delights and fetishes, something that did not surprise me in the least, for at the time it did not seem implausible that these miscreants, in their exalted state, would indulge in a threesome or orgy in the same place. As I watched, I prepared for my next remark; the first was only a prelude to what I was about to utter with my sharp tongue. Farewell, Hilda, I part from your presence, from the wooded spectres that haunt, from the fighters for virtue, those whom I could not rescue from their own sinful abyss. I mourn, my former companions in disgrace, who succumbed to the deepest abyss of carnal depravity. Chapter 45: Deceivers The Empty Mirror Chapter 45: Deceivers A few weeks ago, in a moment when the sun waned and the shadows danced in harmony, a conversation unfolded between Dougal and Esme, a dialogue where words were daggers and silences whispered secrets. Dougal, with eyes that seemed to have known the deepest gloom, fixed his gaze upon Esme with an intensity that defied human limits. "Esme, my dear, I know the truth that hides among the folds of your thoughts, between you and that wandering travellerˇ± - he murmured with a softly firm voice, never averting his gaze from the abysses dwelling in her eyes. Esme, feeling the weight of Dougal''s words, found herself caught in a whirlwind of emotions, her heart beating with the force of a wild drum. A gust of panic swept through her being, yet she tried to mask her turmoil. "What do you mean, Dougal?" - she inquired with a tremulous voice, her words barely a whisper in the dense atmosphere enveloping them. Dougal, with the serenity of one who has unraveled the darkest secrets of the forest, inclined his head slightly, a subtle smile sliding at the corner of his lips. "Do not underestimate me, Esme. The shadows that darken your gaze reveal more than you imagine, the very air betrays the truth between us, between her and you. It is not necessary to speak it aloudˇ± - he replied with a calm that suggested a profound and ethereal understanding, his voice like a distant echo resonating in her soul. Esme''s heart, caught in a storm of conflicting emotions, pounded against the walls of her chest as she struggled to find the right words to respond to Dougal''s penetrating gaze. Aware that she could not deny the truth laid bare in the eyes of her interlocutor, she drew a deep breath, preparing to face the relentless consequences of her intentions. Dougal, in his silent wait, waited with the patience of a schemer contemplating the unfolding of the stars, while Esme, gripped by anguish, gathered the shards of her shattered courage. He knew that this moment would be the crucible where destinies would merge, and he stood, unyielding, ready to face the outcome with the serenity of a monarch before his court. At last, Esme''s lips parted, releasing a barely perceptible whisper, a confession that hung in the air like the echo of a distant lament. "I regret it, Dougal. It was a slip, a weakness that time will eraseˇ± - she confessed, her eyes tinged with a guilt that sought to be sincere. Dougal, in his lustful understanding, inclined his head slightly, his features as immutable as the stars in their eternal glow. "I understand that passions can blind us in moments of weakness. However, instead of allowing the weight of regret to drag us into darkness, why not see this juncture as an open window to new shared horizons?" - he suggested with the conviction of one who has found pleasure amidst the storm. Esme, bewildered by Dougal''s equanimity towards her confession, furrowed her brow in a gesture of perplexity. "What do you propose, beloved?" - she inquired, her voice trembling like a leaf in the wind of uncertainty. Dougal, with a smile that shimmered like the sun at its zenith, locked his gaze onto Esme, captivating her with the intensity of an ancient spell. "I want you to contemplate the possibility of expanding the boundaries of our union, of delving together into the territory of the forbiddenˇ± - he declared with a determination that resonated in every syllable, his voice carrying a stillness that brooked no argument, yet woven with the threads of the subtlest persuasion. Esme, astonished by the audacity of the proposition, found herself engulfed in a sea of disbelief. The idea of unveiling the veils that concealed the limits of their relationship left her speechless, though a spark of curiosity ignited once more in the depths of her being at Dougal''s unexpected proposal. "Dougal, are you sure of what you''re saying? I''m not sure if our souls could endure witnessing the emergence of another in our confidences..." - Esme faltered, her words tinged with doubts and fears that sought to disguise the underlying passion. With a comforting gesture, Dougal placed his hand on Esme''s shoulder, instilling a sense of calm amidst the whirlwind of emotions. "I understand your concerns, Esme. But don''t you believe this experience could strengthen the bonds that bind us, rather than weaken them? We could explore together the intricacies of our sexuality, cut through clear boundaries, and open the doors to more candid communication. Doesn''t the idea of challenging the foundations of our relationship and discovering new horizons of intimacy intrigue you?" - he inquired, his words resonating with the cadence of a river seeking its course, enveloping Esme in a calculated embrace of persuasion. Esme scrutinised Dougal''s proposal with a whirlwind of emotions, where fear and fascination intertwined their threads in the tapestry of her soul. Despite the reservations she harboured in the deepest corner of her being, a part of her felt irresistibly drawn to the idea of venturing into the vast ocean of the unknown alongside Dougal. "I will consider it..." - she whispered, as her mind delved into a sea of yet-to-be-explored possibilities, reflecting on the unexpected turn her relationship had taken, now that Dougal offered her the chance to share their bonds with a young and inexperienced cast, to mould them according to his darkest desires. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. Dougal, with the wisdom of one who has learned to wait for the maturation of his plans like a fine wine in a barrel, nodded in understanding, aware that the idea would need time to be fully digested, to solidify like iron on the anvil. "Take all the time you need, Esme. This decision must not be taken lightly; it requires your complete surrender, and if necessary, we''ll use force" - he said with a placid voice, conveying his unconditional support to Esme. As the night descended upon the cabin nestled in the forest, Dougal and Esme fell into a reflective silence, each immersed in the whirlpools of their thoughts. Although the path ahead of them was fraught with uncertainty, they also glimpsed a spark of excitement at the possibilities the future could hold. The line separating forbidden pleasure from moral decay is as subtle as the whisper of a nocturnal breeze, gliding stealthily among the shadows that cloak the night. What initially presents itself as mere deviation can quickly turn into a guilt-laden delight, an irresistible temptation that seduces with the promise of immediate gratification. The human mind, that landscape of unfathomable complexity, is susceptible to dark temptations hidden beneath the apparent serenity of the surface. In the whirlwind of unrestrained desire, boundaries fade like shadows at dawn, and taboos blur in the mist of unbridled longing. What was once a mere morbid fetish can transform into an insatiable obsession, a desperate quest for satisfaction that consumes everything in its path. And in the dense thicket of the forest, where daylight barely penetrates and the whispers of the trees conceal all secrets, even the most atrocious crimes can find refuge. Under the sway of voluptuousness, sanity fades in the whirlwind of unbridled passion, where primal instinct reigns supreme and morality dissipates into darkness. In this realm of temptation, even the most innocent can succumb to the seduction of sin, plunging into the abyss of irredeemable depravity. From Dougal''s perspective, an ostensibly upright individual, residing in a cabin nestled in the depths of the forest alongside his beloved and her mother-in-law, a unique opportunity presented itself: the possibility of violating Hilda''s dignity. The arrival of a traveller at the cabin, welcomed as a guest by his beloved, momentarily sparked jealousy in him. However, this fleeting bitterness only served to fuel his burning desire, as the doors were wide open for the commission of his darkest sins. In the frenzy of lust and the preoccupation of his beloved, he seized the opportunity. Having instilled enough fear in Giselle''s heart, he now had the chance to instil in her a profound sense of desolation and absolute surrender. The encounter triggered a dialogue between the young woman and her lover, where Giselle was rejected in Esme''s request, plunging the latter into despair upon realizing the missed opportunity to consummate her perverted fetish. Once again, Dougal intervened to seduce the soul of his beloved with the prospect of corrupting a young lady at his whim, for Esme, though hesitant at first, soon yielded to temptation, not so much because she was inherently evil, though that truth is undeniable, but because the evil of both, even their eloquence, pales in comparison to the dazzling glow of a pair of red shoes. Thus, it was in the exploitation of an occasion of supreme iniquity that they plunged into the abyss of libertinage, determined to consummate the ruin of an innocent girl, thereby satisfying their most twisted desires in an unrestrained surrender to the vilest of sins, sexual abuse. With Esme engrossed in the contemplation of Giselle, Dougal found the opportunity to approach Hilda. Despite his persuasive efforts, the latter seemed to repel him at every turn, obstinately refusing to succumb to his lascivious insinuations. Dougal was aware that he could only possess her through coercion and manipulation, inducing her once again into the abyss of sin. He indulged in the abuse of her body, filling her with eroticism and depravity. These hidden facets were unleashed unchecked, corrupting her from the depths of her being, like the unbridled passion of an execrable act. Now then Esme, seduced by the opportunity presented to her in the form of an innocent and helpless traveller, a virgin whose helplessness made her easy prey, initially adopted a mask of kindness and cordiality. Cunningly, she offered a map as a decoy, pretending to be a guide to safety, though in reality she offered only an illusion of escape to the one she already had imprisoned under her dominion. In her devious game, Esme sought to create a false sense of comfort for Giselle, providing her with a chair to rest in and a bed to sleep in. However, these attentions were only artifices designed to deceive her, leading her to trust them blindly. After a series of tricks and ruses, Esme would devise sophisticated stratagems to persuade Giselle to share the bed with her, in order to gradually explore the limits of her modesty by caressing her body through the cloth. However, in the face of Giselle''s unwavering resistance to her insidious wiles, Esme, consumed by unbridled lust, revealed her true face and purpose without restraint. Defeated and vulnerable, Esme succumbed to the entrance of Dougal, whose perverse mind conceived a lurid and licentious proposal, with a glint of fascination in his eyes, Esme accepted this new advantage to subject an innocent girl to his darkest whims, this time unfettered and without the young girl''s consent, forcibly led into the abyss of depravity. In the heat of her fluctuating morals, Hilda, on first meeting Giselle, conceived of nothing but welcoming her, but as time went on she began to hatch Machiavellian schemes to use her, transforming her into a mere servant destined to be content as a maid. Although her wickedness towards her fellow man did not reach the depths of depravity of her accomplices, her son-in-law and her own daughter, it all fell apart when, after rejecting Dougal''s advances and propositions, believing them to be mere misunderstandings, she trusted him until he raped her. In the shadowy depths of abuse, Dougal defiled Hilda''s essence with an outrage that tore at the very fabric of decency. Though the atrocity of the violation tore at her soul, Hilda, amidst tears and sighs, slowly slid down the path of submission. From the initial moments of servile collaboration to the inevitable conclusion of becoming her own son-in-law''s clandestine lover, Hilda resigned herself to the corruption of her being. As her body yielded to Dougal''s dominance, her mind wandered back to the past, to the dark days when she was a commodity for the priests and dignitaries of the church in Bafranbu. The memories of those despicable exchanges rose like tormenting ghosts in Hilda''s mind, pushing her further into a spiral of despair and self-loathing. She succumbed once again to the charms of temptation and seduction, reborn as a wanton harlot under Dougal''s guidance to settle her debt. On this occasion, for the sake of Esme, her own offspring and Dougal''s accomplice, intertwining the threads of lubricity, urged Hilda to close her eyes to the imminent atrocity awaiting Giselle, rather, to contemplate such voluptuousness, now perceiving the unfortunate young girl as a creature unworthy and wretched, as a balm for her own misery, that hapless Giselle, irrevocably condemned to the abysses of the most execrable sins and vices. Chapter 46: Vinegar The Empty Mirror Chapter 46: Vinegar In the well, hope stands tall, a dizzying abyss where the darkest and brightest possibilities unfold, a chasm in which the soul ventures in its insatiable quest for understanding and meaning. Conversely, the stagnant, gloomy, and pestilent ditch embodies the most perverse stagnation, the absence of progress, where still and moldy waters reflect the lack of movement and development. In this quagmire of complacency, willpower grows dormant, personal growth becomes a mirage, and the soul plunges into the darkness of its own decay. The forest, where servants dare not show their faces, stands as a realm of submission and oppression, where autonomy is a distant illusion and control over one''s own existence is wrested away by external dictates. In this imposed fate, the dispossessed lack the fruits of hard labour, loyalty shattered by the force of the whip, and skills fading in the shadow of foreign domination. For Esme, the revelation of carnal encounters between her beloved and her own progenitor represented a blow as atrocious as it was unimaginable. The echo of anger resonated in the depths of her being, but a dark current of depravity enveloped her, inclining her towards tacit acquiescence to avoid the eruption of an even greater chaos. Despite the wrenching tumult of screams, insults, and threats echoing in her mind, finally, amidst the shadows of discord, emerged the revelation of that shared lubricity. Between her thighs, with greedy fingers, she stoked the fire of her lust, surrendering herself to the delight of these charlatans'' whims. She had succumbed to the grotesque and delirious perversion concocted by her comrades, accepting the dark choreography of her own inclinations as an unholy blessing, for if it were your own mother, or your only daughter, the excitement would reach its climax, though Esme could not fully discern the heaviness which Dougal impressed on the heart of her mother, Hilda, a truth buried in the depths of the soul, the consequences of which might be as bewildering as the tumultuous waves of the raging sea. Hilda, therefore, like a docile slave to her own repressed passions, watched with cunning and submission over the outrage to her dignity. They surrendered to the intoxicating delight, emptying the liquor bottle to the last drop, merging in a communion of excesses. Before the elixir was completely depleted, Dougal succumbed to sleep, embracing the shadows that called to him, despite the moderate strength of the brew. Meanwhile, Hilda, once the reserves were exhausted, retreated to the forest in search of intestinal relief, anticipating the veil of the ethereal night falling upon the horizon. The harsh truth was that we were obliged to evacuate our waste in nature, among the trees, far from the cabin. Likewise, we allowed nature to cleanse us in its waters, away from the stagnant puddles of the ditch. Although it might seem that no outrage or abuse had been suffered immediately, Esme and Hilda, despite their malice, were but neophytes in the aesthetics of evil, barely exploring the limits of their incipient depravity. A satire in itself, for if at first they were mere fugitives from the mafia, now, by perpetrating such a heinous crime against an innocent, they would become fugitives from justice, vilified as heartless criminals in society. Esme remained by my side in the cabin, immersed in eloquent silence as she circled the dwelling with Dougal asleep. Her steps led her close to the shelf, where she examined the kitchen utensils and crockery carefully. The lurking twilight and the growing veil of darkness enveloped the cabin, but her determination did not waver. With skill acquired through habit, she lit the lamp''s wick, battling against the resistance of time. Amidst hesitation, she took in her hands a bottle resting on the mantelpiece, next to candles nearly consumed in their entirety: an ancient jar, a silent witness of forgotten times, containing purported olive oil, a relic of sea-scented aromas within. The glass, aged by the passage of years and the narratives that surrounded it, curved with elegance into a classic shape, as if the waves of the sea had sculpted its outline. Intricate patterns, worn by time, told the story of its artisanal crafting on its surface. The aged and worn cork stopper jealously protected the liquid treasure nestled within: a dark liquid, of deep blackness, that seemed to capture the very essence of the sun. Esme took the bottle for a moment, as if she were contemplating a sacred object, before returning it reverently to its place of origin. For this purpose, she set about preparing two chamomile infusions, a facade of protection and purification against the emanations of negative energy, although in her astute mind, these infusions would be employed to mitigate the ravages of intoxication. Recognizing the need for a balm for her own unease and that of her mother, she opted for chamomile tea, known for its soothing properties that alleviate stomach discomfort and nausea. After preparing the water and serving the tea in wooden bowls, just at that moment, Hilda emerged from the forest and approached her daughter without the need for words. Without hesitation, they sat face to face in the dining room and began to drink the tea, apparently indifferent to my condition as a captive, bound with worn ropes. I offered no resistance, nor uttered cries or tears; I simply kept my head bowed, awaiting the torment that undoubtedly Esme and then Dougal would execute upon me. Although initially claiming to be only an excited spectator, their promises proved to be mere fallacies. Of course, sooner or later, Hilda too would succumb to licentiousness, joining the feast of depravity. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. Dougal, upright, emerged from the bed, his eyelids still heavy as if sleep had overtaken him without warning. As he scanned the scene around him, he recalled the nocturnal havoc. He fixed his gaze on Esme and Hilda with disdain and snapped, "Cease this vile consumptionˇ± - as he rose unsteadily. His eyes, sidelong, sought the aged floorboards, whose wood invariably always bore a cloak of earth. With force, he kicked at the boards until the hollow sound betrayed a secret. He leaned down, extracting a bottle. The ancient liquor vessel exhibited a deep brown hue, almost amber, evoking a sense of opulence and warmth. The glass, aged by time, boasted intricate and elegant patterns that paid homage to the craftsmanship of bygone eras. The label, worn by the inexorable passage of time, barely revealed the brand and contents of the liquor, hinting at a long and enigmatic history. As he held it, he sensed the weight of the years, evoking a melancholic feeling of nostalgia and convention. The aged cork stopper, marked by use, promised a hidden treasure of complex flavours and aromas, eager to be discovered with each pour. It seemed as if Dougal had raided a clandestine cellar in the past and hidden this bottle for his exclusive delight, without notifying any of those present. Upon closer examination, it was evident that he himself had enjoyed its contents in the past, but more than half of its essence remained trapped inside. It gave the impression that he had only tasted a fleeting sip before stashing it away for a moment of indulgence, like this one. He approached cautiously, ready to discard the tea, but found that the women had already consumed it entirely. Without a word, they returned to indulging in the liquor, gradually elevating the intensity of the evening, transforming into livelier conversationalists as they drank from the envy harboured within Dougal. Esme, emboldened by the liquor, rose abruptly, leaving her glass on the rough tavern table. With skill, she searched among the ancient shelves and retrieved a bottle of vinegar. The glass vessel, simple in its execution yet inherently functional, revealed its amber contents through its transparent glass, acquiring darker hues over time. The bottle''s silhouette, with classic lines, displayed rounded shoulders and a narrow neck widening towards its base. The label, pristine and precise, detailed the name of the vinegar and its origin, revealing the secrets of its production process. When held, it felt light yet solid, exuding a sense of unwavering quality and authenticity. Its stopper, whether metal or cork, ensured a tight seal intended to preserve its contents and maintain its freshness unaltered. Though modest in appearance, this bottle contained the power to enhance any dish with its sour and distinctive flavour. Esme, through gritted teeth, let out a malicious laugh as she approached me, holding the vinegar bottle with determination. "Do you also desire a sip, sweetheart?" - Esme muttered, intoxicated, as she uncorked the bottle, her voice tinged with mockery. With one hand, she forced my mouth open while I, with gestures of disgust, resisted. At that precise moment, the vinegar cap came off and fell to the ground, forcing me to ingest the acidic liquid spilling uncontrollably onto the floor, nearly choking me and causing a torrent of uncontrollable coughs. Upon hastily ingesting the vinegar, I experienced a sharp pang in the back of my throat, followed by a scorching sensation that spread down my oesophagus. My mouth was instantly flooded with a sour and pungent taste, causing me to grimace with distaste. Each sip seemed to intensify the sensation, contracting my stomach and making it difficult to breathe. The persistent acidity left a bitter aftertaste on my palate and discomfort in my belly. My eyes involuntarily squinted, and I felt the urge to seek water to dilute the vinegar''s intensity, while those three vile individuals dissolved into laughter at my gestures, reveling in my misery for no reason other than their own pleasure. "Do you fancy yourself a traveller? Indeed, in some way you are, for I adore your exotic and unique features, although I am unaware of which continent you hail from, as I have never ventured beyond this place. Allow me to tell you that I appreciate your unusual features, young lady, your almond-shaped eyes slightly upturned at the corners, with the sockets slightly flat, and the lashes straight. Your finely delineated eyebrows stand out against clear, smooth skin that radiates luminosity. You are to our liking, young lady; I believe we now prefer foreign womenˇ± - Esme proclaimed amidst laughter, mocking my misfortune as I remained bound hand and foot, defenseless, with gestures of irony adorning her full lips, ready to steal a kiss. Dougal rose from his seat with calculated steps after a sip of his drink. With determination, he searched through the folds of my dress as if seeking something lost, avoiding any lascivious insinuation for the moment. "I like how that dress fits you; it must be a gift from Esme. It suits you very well, leaving nothing to the imagination, dejarˇ± - he declared, extracting from my attire the knife I had kept hidden near my waist. The white blade gleamed voluptuously as he briefly admired it before handing it to Esme. At that moment, I understood what Dougal meant when he spoke of guarding against wolves, both the wild ones that lurk in the forest and the humans who exploit the vulnerability of young women to satisfy their darkest desires, turning them into mere pieces of virgin flesh for their delight. Esme gazed at the knife eagerly before concealing it within the folds of her dress, then returning to the table to savour her drink. In the height of confidence, while Esme and Hilda indulged in the pleasure of their drinks, Dougal found himself enveloped in decadence, to which I uttered words laden with lubricious morbidity: "Dougal, you are a true libertineˇ±. To which Dougal responded with a sardonic smile: "There are multiple possibilities, but this is what excites me mostˇ±. "If that''s so, why don''t you confront the sins that come with having two women at your service? Why not reveal the sinfulness that occurred in Bafranbu?" - I expressed in a sombre tone, for this was the second truth I had uncovered. Dougal harboured a dark secret linked to Bafranbu, something beyond protecting Esme and Hilda. My deduction was based on his behaviour and his persistent refusal to speak about what happened there. Even if it was just an assumption, I had full confidence that this secret would be shocking enough to unleash chaos among the trio, placing my blind faith in this hypothesis. "Leave me alone, you have no idea what you''re talking about, you assholeˇ± - Dougal snapped, muscles tense and nervous, as he struck me with a series of kicks to the stomach. However, upon noticing Esme and Hilda''s astonished gazes, he halted his aggression to justify his sentence in my words. I, writhing in pain from the beating, could only resign myself to being a spectator to the impending drama. Chapter 47: Bafranbu The Empty Mirror Chapter 47: Bafranbu "What does this mean, Dougal?" - inquired Esme firmly. "Nothing, she knows nothing, she didn''t even have knowledge of Bafranbu. Of course, she doesn''t know me or anything about meˇ± - murmured Dougal with a tremor in his voice. "Don''t deceive me, Dougal, tell me what she meantˇ± - Esme insisted again with determination. "Hey, why don''t we have some more liquor and set aside the delusions of that insipid one?" - proclaimed Dougal enthusiastically, approaching to take a good swig of liquor. "That''s enough, Dougal, what are you hiding from us, you damn trickster?" - asked Hilda, sentencing the conversation. "I''ve told you I don''t know anything, I have nothing to do with that scoundrel''s deserved fate!" - shouted Dougal desperately. "That scoundrel? Are you talking about my father? Then you''re the scoundrel, you idiotˇ± - muttered Esme, furious. "That''s right, and what''s it to you, bitch? He was just a wretch who didn''t deserve your mother. She was too much of a woman for such an insignificant manˇ± - proclaimed Dougal, consumed by jealousy. "Enough already, Dougal! Cease your insipid prattle that has no place hereˇ± - snapped Hilda, her anger barely contained. "Doesn''t it concern me? Should I stand idly by while his wife succumbed to the vile trade of her body due to that cretin''s impotence? He only reaped what he sowedˇ± - declared Dougal, diverted and beside himself. "You have no idea of the suffering my father endured!" - reproached Esme. "Do you think that''s suffering? Naive! I spent years, a whole lifetime, wandering like an ownerless dog. He was simply a fool who settled for vain intentions, and he didn''t cease in his impotence until he dragged his women into disgrace with himˇ± - muttered Dougal between labored breaths. "My father fought valiantly to pay off his debts, while you, if you suffered misfortunes at all, were nothing more than a beggar your entire existence, and you will continue to be a vagabond!" - shouted Esme, inflamed with fury. "Damn bitch! Your father deserved nothing but death! That wretched scoundrel! How did you expect me to rejoice watching him delight in my wife, Hilda? If I loved her so much, yes, your mother was my first love, my refuge in my misery, and you are nothing more than a fool who came after her, like a second love that never compared. She should have been mine, so I took her by force, only then would I settle my debt. But first, I had to eliminate that despicable cretinˇ± - declared Dougal, blinded by alcohol and a whirlwind of emotions, like a stormy sea. Esme was petrified upon realizing that her mother had been a victim of Dougal''s abuse, but then she accepted her complicity, seeing it as a way to repay the debt to her son-in-law. However, what left both women with pounding hearts in their chests were Dougal''s final words. "W-What are you implying, Dougal? What did you do to my husband?" - murmured Hilda, her voice faltering and trembling. At that moment, Dougal realized his mistake and understood that there was no refuge left to flee to; there was no escape in his own web of lies, not even strength would be able to appease his women. After a long swig from the bottle, he revealed, with a clouded gaze and thoughts engulfed in a tumult of emotions: "It was me, Hilda. I ended your husband''s life. I put an end to your father''s life, Esme. It wasn''t the mafia," proclaimed Dougal. Upon the revelation, Hilda and Esme fell to the ground, embraced, crying the truth, negative whispers escaping between tears and desperation. Teeth clashed in a crunch of fury and contempt. Dougal then understood that everything was crumbling under the weight of his own falsehood and wickedness, his desire and possession over both women. For the truth was that he loved them both and longed to be with them, but under the veil of deceit he had immersed himself in, that possibility faded away. Even if he forced and coerced them, there would come a time when the hatred of those two women would consume him. He had no choice but to tell the truth and take one last sip of liquor, amidst the sobs of his women. He approached the fireplace and gave the liquor a kiss of putrefaction. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. "The mafia was nothing but a sham; they didn''t kill him, I did. I ended your father''s life, Esme, to transition from being your fianc¨¦ to being your lover and stepfather, because that''s what I desired. Your father did owe a debt to the mafia, to whom he begged for money to remedy his financial woes. The debt kept growing relentlessly, and your father felt cornered. He sought refuge in taverns to drown his sorrows. All of that was true. As for me, I envied the woman I had, Hilda. Then, as if fate had ordained it, I found a discarded weapon in an alley. Perhaps it had been lost by a thief or discarded to avoid detection by the police, with the intention of retrieving it later. But I was the first to come across it. I took it and hid it. My nerves were on edge, and I didn''t know what to do. I didn''t know if anyone had seen me. I thought about selling it, but then I remembered your mother, Hilda, and passion overwhelmed me. I devised a plan: I would take both of them with me, both as my lovers, and I would snatch them from that fool''s hands. Then, on one occasion, when your father went out drinking at one of the taverns in Bafranbu, I found him. As if fate had placed him before me, I found him in one of the alleys as he was heading to the tavern, and I wandered after leaving the church. At first, he didn''t recognize me. Then he realized I was his daughter''s fianc¨¦. My nerves were increasing. He thought I was there to dissuade him from drinking and persuade him to put his faith in God, as I had done on other occasions as a good Samaritan. But I didn''t. Nerves overwhelmed me more and more, my forehead beaded with sweat. I had a clear path, a weapon, and a believable story. I slid the gun under my shirt, aimed at his chest. I was terrified, he pleaded with me, he knelt down and started crying. I''m sorry, but your wife is mine now, your daughter too, and I fired into his chest with a burst of bullets. I startled for a moment and began running desperately. I hid the weapon. No one found his body until later, despite the darkness of the night and the dull sound of the shots. I took refuge in the Plague churchˇ± - recounted Dougal to Esme as he resigned himself to losing his women. Esme rose furiously and lunged towards Dougal with my knife in hand, ready to finish him off, but he noticed in time and restrained her hands, snatching the knife away with a swift strike. The dagger fell within my reach, ready for me to take. Amidst the chaos, I began to untie my restraints with determination and firmness, freeing myself from the knots with full knowledge but without experience. Dougal dealt some blows to Esme and slapped her, leaving her prostrate on the ground, crying from physical and emotional pain. Hilda, her mother, approached to console her amidst tears and lamentations, seeming once again like mother and daughter, no longer comrades in a heinous complicity. Dougal understood that they could not be his any longer, as sooner or later they would betray him and end him. Despite my misfortune, I eagerly awaited the opportunity to incapacitate Dougal and escape with them, wishing to save and protect them despite how they had treated me and what they planned to do with me. Meanwhile, I mourned Dougal''s soul, knowing that justice would eventually take care of him. Esme and Hilda lay trembling on the ground, unable to rise and confront the man out of fear. Dougal, diverted and absorbed by loss, rocked the bottle of liquor in his hand. Esme, staggering, snatched the bottle from him and took a swig, followed by her mother. Both sought solace in the liquor, drowning their sorrows. Then, Esme, furious and trying to vent her frustration, approached me and grabbed me by the hair with brutality, almost tearing it out, forcing me to drink from the liquor as if she were trying to involve me in her loss and terror. She mistreated me as I fought against the alcohol-induced nausea. Dougal continued recounting his crime, like someone who has lost everything, also losing his women. It seemed as if he had the task of narrating his failure as the protector of Esme and Hilda to conclude his destiny. "When I finished off that despicable being, no one suspected anything. I was simply a devout churchgoer in a town as steeped in faith as Bafranbu, while he was just a drunkard indebted to the mafia. The police were aware of this, and the authorities chose not to intervene, thinking it was a lesson imparted by the mafia. So, after the funeral, and with doubts in my mind somewhat dispelled, I convinced you and your daughter that I had uncovered the truth about the murder. Of course, you knew nothing about it, and I only knew the rumours that I hadn''t previously disclosed. I lied to you, telling you that now the mafia would come after you to collect the debt and eliminate you. Of course, this was only a possibility, not very likely, but the chance still existed. So, I did it in my favour. I clandestinely took you with me, making you leave everything behind, your lives, and only taking the most essential. I didn''t know where to take you, nor did I have money. Besides, I risked them discovering the truth. Then, I remembered this cabin from my grandmother, and amid blurry memories, I brought you here. I protected you because you are my women, I love you. And only when an opportunity arose, the stars aligned that propelled me to set my plans in motion. Plans that were thwarted due to all the commotion and the impossibility of finding a way to execute them. I only seized the chance, like a prisoner granted a moment of voluptuousnessˇ± - Dougal recounted to Hilda as he revelled in his crime, as if he wanted them to know every detail. Hilda groaned in anguish, while Esme, collapsed on her knees beside me, covered her ears with tears to hear no more. Esme was determined to end Dougal. In a moment of pause in her crying, she spotted a wooden rod by the door, which we used for hunting and cooking the meat of animals. Surely, blinded by pain and burning fury in her heart, her tears would lead her to do whatever it took to eliminate her former lover and her father''s murderer, while Dougal was distracted talking to Hilda. Then, like lightning, she rushed to the door to grab the thick wooden rod. However, before reaching it, she heard her mother''s moans and tears turn into the gasps of abominable pain and unbearable suffering. Hilda clutched her stomach in pain and heaviness as she crawled across the floor. She reached for the bottle of liquor near her and crashed it with a bang, shattering into shards of glass and liquor. Though the liquid had a dark and deep tone, more black with warm hues, it appeared altered. Amidst the symptoms of her suffering, Hilda collapsed into a fit of vomiting, expelling a dark, almost black, viscous liquid with a nauseating odour reminiscent of putrefaction. It contained remnants of decomposed tissue and skin protrusions, adding a sense of horror to the act of vomiting. It was a monstrous sight as Dougal, stiffened, watched his beloved Hilda''s body, that voluptuous body, decompose in agony beneath his feet, revealing in Hilda''s hands a sharp knife that she would use to end Dougal at the opportune moment. Dougal mourned the loss of his protege and the disappearance, amidst retching, of such a succulent body of lubricity. Esme was so alarmed that she completely forgot what she was doing or planning, and she rushed towards her mother to help her, desperately trying to rescue her. However, in the midst of her run, her legs wobbled and she fell to the ground, causing herself so much damage to her knees that it seemed she would never rise again. Amidst groans and moans, her mouth began to twist in retches, but the most terrifying of all was that her skin, her face, began to decompose. Areas of darkened and discoloured skin manifested, resembling that of dry, wrinkled leather. The affected skin appeared tough and cold to the touch, exhibiting notable dehydration and lack of life. Around the affected areas, the tissue showed signs of inflammation and redness, highlighting the contrast between healthy skin and rotten skin. It was a visual reminder of the devastation in the human body. Meanwhile, I, almost freed from the restraints, observed through the spaces between my fingers blackened tissue, akin to the flesh of a corpse, slowly extending and spreading by my hands. It was a terrifying sight of decay as death approached. Chapter 48: Gangrene The Empty Mirror Chapter 48: Gangrene The liquor, once amber-hued and intoxicating, was surreptitiously imbued with poison by the cunning hands of Dougal, who, in a subtle display of guile, seized a fleeting moment of inattention among those gathered in the dimly lit cabin. With malevolent dexterity, he poured the pusillanimous poison into the liquid substance, knowing it was his final card, his last resort before the abyss. Aware that he had no more options left, Dougal took his final sip before the nefarious betrayal, allowing Esme and Hilda, enveloped in a whirlwind of helplessness and intoxication, to succumb to the lethal nectar. And I, caught in the midst of their ignominious schemes, found myself inexorably dragged towards the abyss of death. Esme, in her deranged torment, forced me to ingest the poison alongside them, tormenting my body with every insidious sip, while her cruel hand tore strands of my hair. But Dougal, the architect of this macabre charade, did not deign to taste the deadly brew he himself had tainted. He opted for this treacherous method of annihilation for his loved ones, perhaps to avoid the weight of guilt that would come with the direct contact of his blood-stained hands. He chose to let divine severity decide his ultimate fate. The poison, insidious and accursed, unleashed its fatal toll with a perversion as unprecedented as it was abominable. Its lethality was almost instantaneous, a curse that descended mercilessly upon its unfortunate victims. But most execrable of all was its grotesque manifestation, an abjection that would make even the most insensitive bones tremble. That nectar of damnation, liquid and dark as death''s own shadow, insinuated itself with stealthy avidity into the most remote recesses of the body, weaving its deadly web of desolation and ruin. With its malevolent dexterity, the poison paved the way for a tangle of protrusions in the abdomen and skin lacerations in the intestines, infecting every wound with its corrosive and lethal venom. From the depths of the entrails, the stomach and intestines were consumed in a vomitous orgy of gangrene and putrefaction, while the agonising body writhed in the indescribable torment of its own decomposition. Vomiting, a catharsis of blood and black mud, dragged along fragments of flesh and traces of stomach acids, a grotesque offering to the dark abyss that engulfed them. But the terror was not limited to the interior of the body; from the outside, a searing fever consumed the skin, turning it into a desolate landscape of gangrene and despair. The hands, the face, and every corner of the body were invaded by necrosis, a dry gangrene that turned the skin into rigid leather as black as the darkest night. The slightest movement threatened to trigger amputation, while the flesh reddened at the edges, heralding the inexorable arrival of doom. Internally and externally, the poison consumed everything in its path, leaving behind a trail of desolation and hopelessness. Meanwhile, my bewilderment grew as I watched Esme and Hilda consumed in agonising torment, while I remained inexplicably unscathed. Every moment, I feared it would be my last breath before my body succumbed to the horrendous gangrene that consumed them. Something protected me, an implacable force that delayed the effect of the poison. Luck or perhaps divine interference conspired in my favour. Meanwhile, Dougal embraced Hilda''s body with indifference, lamenting only the loss of a voluptuous body now decomposed. Hilda exhaled her last breath as she fixed her gaze on the one who had hurt her the most, the one who had taken everything from her. Esme, close to me, struggled to crawl towards her mother, but her joints were slowly rusting and gangrenous. I watched her suffering with compassion, wishing to save them and flee with them, although I knew it was impossible. I slid beside Esme, my eyes blurred with tears falling onto her face and lips, begging that her last breath not be extinguished amidst infamy and pain. I held her trembling, my nails slightly corrupted by gangrene. As she burned in a gut-wrenching fever, her gaze met mine, saddened by her torment. I recognised the remorse engulfing her as I accompanied her in her misfortune. Her corrupted hand reached out to my face, both of us immersed in tears, subjected to the vices consuming us. She failed to reach my countenance and fell near my chest, this time without malice or morbidity. Esme, in an almost imperceptible gesture, brushed against my breasts, shuddering with horror at my own affliction. In her final breath, she may have uttered a "forgive me," crying more intensely for my misfortune, seeking possible redemption in her last moments. She fades away. Esme dies in my arms, and the vomit of her internal gangrene spills from her mouth. I lament her fate, believing that I too would suffer. Farewell, Esme. I deeply regret your downfall and my inability to save you. I forgive you for your wicked actions, though they caused me pain. I would have been your friend, your confidante, but fate did not will it so. Nevertheless, I grant indulgence, though I still mourn you. However, I cannot forgive a man with a blonde wig. Never that. Hilda also succumbed, amidst agonising gasps, perhaps, just perhaps, repenting in her final moments. But I cannot say for certain, I only know that her departure was horrific, her face almost unrecognisable due to gangrene. In my heart, I mourned her death and forgave her as she had not yet materialised her passions and voluptuousness. Then, Dougal, gazing at Hilda''s corrupted face, rose, wiped away the tears of his loss, and approached Esme''s body, which I clung to desperately. He pushed me aside with a blow, making me fall backwards, my dress now stained with filth. For a moment, he looked at me, and after also lamenting Esme''s death, he snapped: "Didn''t Esme offer you a drink after the alcohol was already contaminated?" I remained stunned by the scene, not responding, while Dougal continued: "Perhaps your stomach wasn''t acidic enough." Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. I was afforded the opportunity to ponder the workings of that poison, allow me then to give it a name: "Agonal Breathing." There is no need to explain why, for it was the last thing I glimpsed on Esme''s face. It seemed that the poison activated like a red button upon contact with the gastric acid of the stomach. Esme and Hilda had consumed tea, but above all alcohol, which increases gastric acid production, causing symptoms such as heartburn, indigestion, and discomfort. This meant that both had sufficiently acidic stomachs. Fortunately or by the decree of fate, my stomach was not as acidic. Esme, in her disdain, compared vinegar to the colour of the liquor they were drinking and, as a mockery towards me, forced me to drink it. Despite its acidic taste, vinegar actually can help balance stomach pH, having an alkalising effect. This made my stomach slightly more alkaline and did not allow the poison to act fully; on the brink of the precipice. However, the poison, "Agonal Breathing," could end me in the same gangrenous manner as them. Its effect was delayed, but it would act slowly, allowing bumps to form in the stomach. This knowledge, thanks to my medical education on internal gangrene, if it functions similarly. I am not a doctor and lack sufficient knowledge; I am only a woman of letters. Therefore, death for me would come later, perhaps extending over days, if it were due to the gangrenous poison. Vinegar, as a purifying and disinfecting agent, eliminates impurities and negativity. When alcohol turns into acetic acid, a transmutation from one substance to another occurs. The fermentation of vinegar can be a process that requires time and patience. Vinegar possesses a unique sweet and sour taste, combining acidity with sweetness. This duality of flavours can represent the complexity of life, with its ups and downs, challenges, and pleasures, and the need to accept and embrace all experiences it offers. "You could indulge me, but I prefer to mourn the loss of my women over the next few days. I''m sorry, our girl, but here ends our stay," said Dougal with a horrifying expression on his face, tears streaking down his cheeks. "You''re a damned man. You''ve murdered them, poisoned them, and you don''t even flinch, degenerate!" I shouted furiously. "You know nothing, once again. I loved them dearly, that''s why I had to kill them. I didn''t dare to end their lives with my own hands, so I let God take care of that," Dougal muttered shamelessly. "You proclaim yourself devoted to your god, yet you commit these atrocities," I judged firmly. "Believe me, God would be pleased with my actions. The god who reigns over the plague, who loves diseases. God would find favour in this poison that unleashes a disease as brutal as internal and external gangrene immediately. Only those versed in the religion of the Plague God know how much he loves diseases. That''s why I''m faithful to this religion, even though I was only an acolyte in my youth," Dougal decreed with determination. "What will you do now, cursed one, after committing this crime? Still, the police might suspect. And if someday a just man sets his eyes on the case, on Esme''s father''s murder, you''ll be sentenced and imprisoned," I roared desperately. "Esme and Hilda no longer belong to me; they are corpses. I will leave this place for their bodies to decay, and I will start a new chapter, a new existence, where I will find another woman and seek to erase Hilda''s caresses from my memory. I will flee as far as I can before justice, if it condemns me, begins its relentless process. Everything will be reborn with more brilliance, but first, I must finish you off right here, since the poison failed to do so for the time being. "I won''t wait for death to catch up with you, you, the true seductive harpy who ruined all my plans. I hate you with all my soul for forcing me to separate from Esme, from Hilda. Now you''ll pay," declared Dougal, drawing from his belt a pistol, the one he boasted about so much, with which he took Esme''s father''s life and led them to this inhospitable forest. He loaded the weapon and was about to aim at me, trembling, knowing that no one would come to my aid. "Justice will hold you accountable for your crimes," I shouted, begging for justice, not me, to make him pay for his wicked deeds. However, such mercy was not meant for me. I moved, crawling along the ground like a nocturnal insect; a cockroach, until I reached the knife with my trembling hands, cleverly hidden and overlooked by the others. However, Dougal sent me back to my place with a kick that made me recoil, although I still held the knife. I prepared for the confrontation, adopting a defensive stance, as Dougal approached. He leaned closer to me, and as he was about to aim at my head, with all my strength, I cut the hand holding the pistol. It was a superficial cut but effective enough to make him release the weapon, which fell to the ground. Enraged like never before, Dougal grabbed me by the hair and threw me to the ground, but I managed to quickly escape and stand up. He also got up, staggering from the effects of his drunkenness, and began to wrestle with me. He almost managed to make me drop the knife, but in the midst of the confusion, we approached the spot where the pistol had fallen. In a moment of confusion, he tried to reach it as quickly as possible, and in a swift motion, he fired. The shot missed, as I had already pierced his throat with the knife. The pistol fell to the ground again as I mutilated my opponent''s throat with unbridled fury. Torrents of blood gushed from his neck, forming bubbles with the air escaping from his lungs. Quickly, his vitality faded, and I found myself atop his chest, continuing the stabbings with the frenzy and adrenaline of the moment. Only a shapeless mass remained in his throat, flesh torn by my actions. I killed him, I stabbed him until his last breath, and the white knife was dyed scarlet upon its blade. He died amidst choked moans and spasms. As my frenzy gradually faded, I threw the knife at my feet and couldn''t believe what I had done. I had killed a man, extinguished a human life for the first time. I couldn''t accept it, I kept repeating to myself: no, no, it can''t be. I am not capable of such horror, that monster. Although I was not violated, Dougal had forced me to commit murder. Like Cain, I had killed my brother. If all humans are brothers, then I had committed the first murder. Now, everything made sense. Chapter 49: Granny The Empty Mirror Chapter 49: Granny Immersed in profound disbelief, I found myself, gripped by a stupor caused by my crime, by the bloodthirsty act I had committed. My body seemed shrouded in a fog of disbelief, while my mind was whipped by a whirlwind of anxiety, threatening to tear my nails out and leave my fingers bare of skin. Amidst the confusion that enveloped me, I wandered through the cabin, where the corpses of Esme and Hilda lay in a state of decomposition that would soon attract flies to desecrate their bodies. Dougal, too, lay there, drained of blood by my own hands. With unsteady steps, I approached Hilda''s body, while my mind wrestled in an internal struggle. I picked up the knife once more, wiping it with the fabric of the yellow dress, the same one that had been a gift from the unfortunate Esme. The white blade, now stained scarlet, was carefully stowed away in my attire, while my trembling hands struggled to maintain composure. As I surveyed Hilda''s body, I spotted a bottle of liquor near her. It no longer held the amber liquid of yesteryear, but a darker, almost black liquid that tainted the air with its presence. I examined Hilda''s pale face closely, stripping her of the knife with which she had attempted to end Dougal''s life in his final moments of agony and vomiting. It was the sad narrative of a son-in-law and his mother-in-law, a man and his lover, a woman and her betrothed, a mother and her daughter, a daughter and her mother, a traveler lost in the labyrinth of fate. The kitchen knife, dulled by use and circumstances, I contemplated solemnly and left resting on the table, like a macabre symbol of the tragedy that had engulfed that cabin of sorrows. Subsequently, I made my way to the fireplace, whose flames were languishing at that moment. I did not feel the urge to revive them, and so they remained, sombre witnesses to the tragedy that had enveloped that abode. My eyes then settled on the candles, whose flickering flames cast dancing shadows throughout the room. Next to them lay a bottle that appeared to contain olive oil, but its contents were a perversion of that noble liquid: poison. The bottle, now empty, held nothing but the echoes of malice unleashed by Dougal. I refrained from touching it, merely contemplating the lethal substance trapped within the glass walls, mere evidence of its Machiavellian purpose. Then, among the shards of glass, I spotted the gap where Dougal had extracted the liquor bottle, a subtle ruse, hiding the liquor among the wooden planks while the poison lurked, harassing like a vigilant beast, ready for its prey. For two years, that poison had waited in the shadows, eager to be unleashed. No, it was not two years of waiting, but enough time to corrupt Esme and Hilda. I approached the splintered planks, whose surface was tainted with the patina of time and earth. In the gap between the splinters, I sensed the presence of something else. With caution, I leaned in and extended my hand into the darkness. I found earth, but also something more: a small notebook, its yellowed pages stitched with cowhide, now stained by the passage of time and neglect. Within its pages, there lay not the tale of a "vampire," though the term was never explicitly mentioned. Perhaps it had never been spoken, nor heard by any human ear. Instead, the pages were imbued with stories of deformed, pale monsters who voraciously fed on the blood of their victims. It was a legend involving my progeny, a dark mythology woven around their existence. Everything that followed in the legend, as Dougal had predicted, unfolded before my eyes. In the subsequent pages, medicinal recipes and practical advice were revealed, the fruit of knowledge passed down to Dougal. For instance, I recalled how he had massaged my ankle to relieve the pain and aid in its healing. Now, though I still limped when walking, I no longer needed the crutches I had used in recent days to protect my foot from strain. I had even regained some strength, if only to inflict death upon Dougal in a grotesque frenzy, stabbing his throat repeatedly as he reached for the weapon. It seemed as if that notebook had been bequeathed by his own grandmother, and in its final pages, it detailed the creation of that poison, the recipe for concocting that grotesque and repugnant substance that caused gangrene: gangrenous poison. I contemplated it, examined it meticulously, absorbed every word as if they were runes inscribed in my mind. For memory is nothing more than a network of neuronal traces repeating themselves over and over to keep the memory alive, but which, with a simple oversight, can fade into the darkness of forgetfulness. Nevertheless, I engraved the recipe for that poison, "Agonal Breathing," deep within my being. Then, with unleashed fury, I crumpled the pages of paper and leather, tearing them apart page by page. Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. My irritation unleashed with overwhelming fury, pounding the aged wooden planks with my bare hands until they seemed to ooze the red of blood, their already reddened surfaces nearly lacerating me with the sharp splinters of the ancient cabin. It was as if all the agony suffered by Dougal''s grandmother, from the moment she embarked on the construction of this dwelling in the forest to the abduction of her own grandson, had been concentrated in this moment. All to perpetuate her legacy, her memory, and to end the legend of the bloodsuckers, the horrors, releasing her grandson to the city only to return one day, after fermenting the poison, acquiring knowledge, and professing a devotion to the church, to poison me with that gangrenous liquid. Even if it cost Esme and Hilda their lives, their fate mattered little. Only I was destined to perish, consumed by gangrene. That was the final design of Dougal''s grandmother: my death, a sacrifice to extinguish that legend that had robbed her son. Thus, she offered her grandson to consummate the crime, even though she had died long before, even before my torment, perhaps even before my own existence. All to eradicate that pale terror that enveloped me, for I was the living embodiment of that legend, that tale of bloodsuckers and pale terror. Or perhaps, I am just delirious. I stood, desolate, with the torn notebook in my hands, and buried it again beneath the earth, where it belonged. With the boards overlapping, I covered the hole, hiding all traces of that macabre past. Everything faded around me. Then, my eyes sought the door, but I knew I could not yet leave that place. The night enveloped the cabin in its dark cloak, and I had to await the arrival of dawn. With the wooden staff, I blocked the entrance, fearful of the wolves. I did not fear the wild beasts, for I had never crossed their gaze, but the men dressed in wolf skins, predators who stalked defenseless maidens. After securing the entrance, I sat at the table, in the same spot I occupied upon arriving at the cabin, in the seat that once belonged to Esme. Before me, the shelf where that vinegar rested, which had been my salvation, delaying the effects of the poison. Behind me, lay the beds of those unfortunate souls, while my blood-stained dress lay as a mute witness to the tragedy. Dougal''s blood still seeped through the cracks in the wooden floor, as if the cabin itself mourned the loss of its unfortunate occupant. I gazed at the flickering flame of the oil lantern, as the warm light filtered through the glass clouded with dust. I deliberately ignored the buzzing of the flies that danced around the corpses of those three unfortunate souls, with their fetid stench. Thus, the night passed in a silence filled with denial, interrupted only by my bursts of hostility, as I pounded the table until finally, dawn broke the darkness. At daybreak, I rummaged through the scattered belongings in the suitcase, my hands seizing the jars of oil for the lamp, disregarding the rest: the quill, everything else. I also left the map there alongside the Plague Bible, for I had no intention of abandoning the anomaly; my destiny was to return to it. It was then that I realized there was no longer any tea, aromatic herbs, or spices left in the cabin, barely a memory remained of the taste of salmon on my palate, the fish we once shared together. Among Dougal''s belongings, I found a short, rusty shovel, with a handle that wobbled with every movement. Undoubtedly, he had used it to dig the trench. With this tool, I set out to dig two graves. I left the cabin and, by the trees, in front of the facade of the dwelling, I began my task. I dug and dug with all my strength, without rest. The hours passed, and I completed a worthy task. The graves were deep enough. I dragged Esme''s body and buried it, leveling the earth without leaving a trace that distinguished the grave. Then, I repeated the same procedure with Hilda''s body. I dragged her body, threw it into the grave, and covered it with soil, smoothing the surface with the shovel. Over their graves, I placed a yellow camellia, which faded with the wind''s breath. After hesitating, I chose not to erect a grave for Dougal; instead, I wrapped his body in sheets and left it resting in the cabin, keeping everything as I found it upon arrival, or almost everything. I only took the oil lantern and some jars of oil for the lamp. Then, I sealed the door, uttering a prayer as farewell, pleading that their corrupted souls find forgiveness, a plea directed to the god of the Plague. Perhaps it was not heard, but I uttered it nonetheless, for they were devout believers, though I was not, especially after Dougal''s words to his deity. Retreating, I cleansed myself and took my black attire, which rested on the branches of a tree, discarding the yellow outfit I had worn. I let the other dress fade with the wind, just like that Canary camellia. I prepared to return to the castle, storing the jars in my attire. Holding the extinguished lamp, I realized that despite starting to dig the graves at dawn, it was already noon. With gangrenous nails holding the lamp, I made my way back to the depths of the forest, leaving behind that somber episode in the cabin. After minutes and hours of wandering, the anomaly grew increasingly ominous. At one point, I encountered a wild boar. I dropped the lamp to the ground and fled, but stumbled. The animal lunged at me, and in a surge of savage instinct, I killed it. It was an act of barbarity, the first against a human being, Dougal, and the second against a beast, that boar. I tore it apart and fed on it by the lake, consumed by voracious hunger. Under the flickering light of the oil lamp, I committed my crime. After that, everything unfolded with a strange sense of normalcy, if it can be called that. I attempted to reintegrate into life, but ultimately resigned myself to despair. I returned to the castle, exhausted, with an emptiness and pain in my heart that seemed insurmountable. Once again, I crossed the castle gates as an intruder, with no intention of engaging in conversation with the knight. It was then that I unveiled the deceit of that impostor moon, realizing the absolute emptiness in my displacement. I left the extinguished oil lamp near the stairs and entered the dimly lit chamber, until I reached my "coffin," or rather, my cenotaph. I collapsed into it, craving rest, relief for my pain, only to plunge into an endless nightmare, plagued by atrocities spawned by the foulest debauchery. Everything else, the circus, the Marquise, the garden, and the spreading gangrene, became mere shadows in my torment. Chapter 50: Incident The Empty Mirror Chapter 50: Incident ¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€ Esoterica This present document bears witness to the unprecedented extravagance of unknown nature. Principal Researcher: Geom. ¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€¨€ Assigned Name: Ghostfire Designated Code: G837-2 Background: In the city [REDACTED], recognized as the incandescent jewel of carnal delights, stands as an epicentre of unheard-of wealth on the continent [REDACTED]. Here, in this paradise of damnation, the devourers of the forbidden find their sanctuary. Despite the ostentatious dominance of the orthodox churches, particularly the Church of the Plague, this city bows to a dethroned deity, [REDACTED], the lord of lechery and voluptuousness. Though worshiped in whispers in the shadows, it''s an open secret. Ecclesiastical institutions, in a subtle game of chess, choose not to intervene directly, preferring to move their pawns on the board of deceit to appease popular beliefs, thus maintaining their own dominion. Nevertheless, faith in the fallen god persists, fueled by repulsive and despicable tributes, as is customary in any cult. [REDACTED] thus becomes a fiscal refuge where the powerful and wealthy of the continent come to celebrate their darkest and most decadent fetishes. A city wrapped in the dark cloak of seduction and temptation, where every corner murmurs its secrets and every corner whispers promises of pleasure, a city where luxury and lust intertwine in an eternal dance. As you walk its streets, you are surrounded by decadent and exquisite architecture. The baroque buildings rise majestically, their ornate balconies and reliefs exalt beauty and passion. Gas lights flicker in the darkness, casting golden flashes on the marble facades and dark wooden doors. Intoxicating aromas blend in the air, merging the scent of flowers with the smoke of cigars and the spicy aroma of exotic spices. Sensual music resonates from clandestine ballrooms, attracting both the carefree and the lost to the city''s pulsating heart. Brothels are oases of pleasure and temples of ecstasy, where the darkest desires and wildest fantasies find their fulfillment. Each establishment is a refuge of indulgence, with opulent rooms adorned with velvet, silk, and lace. Courtesans, dressed in provocative attire and captivating gazes, offer company and solace to those seeking to escape the monotony of everyday life. But behind the facade of opulence and extravagance, lurk its own sinister secrets. In the shadows, rivalries among brothel owners smoulder like embers, and territorial disputes are often settled with violence. Yet, for those craving pleasure and excitement, it remains an earthly paradise where deepest desires can be fulfilled. Politicians and aristocrats, alongside the powerful from other religious denominations, indulge recklessly in blasphemous delight in this city of excesses. Rumours proclaim that in this corner of the world, there are more brothels than citizens, a population diluted among potentates and courtesans, where the red-light district encompasses the entirety of the urban area. Here stand the most sumptuous and prominent temples of lust in the known world, where orgies and atrocities of every caliber are celebrated. The boldest and most excessive debaucheries, including sodomization and other perversions, find their place in these crimson brothels, where the eventual resurrection of [REDACTED] is awaited after his defeat. However, in recent weeks, a cataclysm has shaken this paradise of lasciviousness, starting with the mysterious case of the individual consumed by the ghostly fire of voluptuousness. Case 1: Pierce Boddy, a magnate of the era, born into a wealthy family with vast holdings in the northern part of the continent. The sole heir, he inherited his father''s industrial empire, focused on coal exploitation and other mining activities. With an imposing presence and exquisite manners, Pierce is renowned for his business acumen and his ability to make daring decisions. Despite his youth, he has proven to be a visionary leader, successfully expanding the family empire and consolidating his position as one of the foremost coal magnates in the region. His wealth has afforded him an opulent lifestyle, with an elegant mansion in the countryside and a residence in the city, where he is a prominent figure in high society. He frequents charity events and business gatherings, captivating his peers with his eloquence and profound knowledge of the business world. Although his material success is undeniable, Pierce is also known for his philanthropy, making generous donations to educational causes and the welfare of miners. However, his power and influence are tarnished by rumors of unfair labor practices and ruthless exploitation of natural resources. Behind the mask of respectability lies a libertine and degenerate who revels in the city''s dens of depravity. This incident dates back to a few weeks ago when Pierce hired several courtesans and led them to a nearby hotel, where he hosted a despicable orgy among young women and men, with himself at the epicenter of delight. A bacchanal focused on a single individual indulging in voluptuousness, engaging in successive or simultaneous sexual encounters with those who are the object of his attention. Pierce was last seen holed up in the hotel with those women and young men, but he never emerged from its lubricious depths, nor did any of those who accompanied him in his depravities. His bodyguards and friends, initially concerned about his disappearance, forcibly broke into the apartment, only to be met with a scene of death and distress. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. The room, saturated with the lingering aroma of desire and unrestrained passion, transforms into the stage of an infernal spectacle. In the heart of darkness, colourless flames danced in a voracious frenzy, devouring every trace of the orgy that once filled the space with its echoes of pleasure. The scorching heat turned intertwined bodies into distorted shadows, melding them into an amalgam of charred flesh and bone. The furniture, silent witnesses to unbridled lust, twisted and disintegrated under the incandescent fury, while the walls, soaked with sweat and fervor, yielded to the relentless pressure of the devouring fire. In the blink of an eye, the room plunged into a sepulchral silence, its atmosphere laden with a sorrow that hung like a shroud over the charred remains. Amid the twisted debris, only the carbonised vestiges of what was once a feast of the senses could be dimly discerned. The air was thick with the acrid scent of destruction, while echoes of the past faded into the void, leaving behind a silence that cried out the tragedy of ephemeral pleasure devoured by the flames of fate. The corpses, silent witnesses to an indescribable catastrophe, lay piled like contorted figures in a ghastly tableau. Their bodies, once vibrant and full of life, were now mere shadows of their former existence, consumed by the internal fire that devoured them from within. Their charred forms intertwined in a grotesque harmony of death, their outlines distorted by the merciless heat that consumed them. The flames had left their cruel mark on every inch of skin, turning flesh to ashes and bones to fragile carbonised skeletons. Traces of their faces, frozen in expressions of terror and agony, seemed to silently scream the horror of their final fate. Twisted limbs intertwined in a macabre embrace, as if the bodies sought solace even in death. Above them, the pungent smell of smoke and burnt flesh permeated the air, a sinister reminder of the tragedy that unfolded in that place. In the oppressive silence of the room, the stacked corpses were vestiges of an implacable fate, marking the end of a story consumed in the flames of spontaneous combustion. It couldn''t even be determined where Pierce''s body ended, but our detectives, after meticulous intervention, discovered evidence indicating that what little remained of him was among that pile of bodies. The scene unfolded with such vivid and repugnant brutality that Pierce''s security guards and his companions couldn''t bear it, prompting the immediate intervention of the police, under the aegis of the Church of the Plague. Once there, they plunged into an investigation that concluded with the theory of human spontaneous combustion, a phenomenon as controversial as it is rare, where an individual suddenly ignites in flames without an external cause of ignition. The scene was one of a heap of human bodies consumed without apparent explanation, reduced to ashes and charred remains, but what left everyone even more perplexed was the presence of a persistent, enigmatic fire. This colourless fire manifested in the darkness of the crime scene, an ethereal dance of spectral flashes moving with supernatural grace. Its flames, barely perceptible, emitted a subtle yet penetrating glow, as if they were the embodiment of pure energy itself. Each flicker seemed to harbour an untold story, a ghostly presence fading into the darkness, leaving behind a sense of wonder and fascination. This fire, which the Plague agents themselves had never witnessed, resembled a burning spectre, defying all conventional explanation. Although legends and tales of such a phenomenon were uncovered, tangible evidence was scarce. The troops deployed in the investigation recovered some evidence, but without reaching a definitive conclusion about the nature of this fiery enigma. Case 2: Lynn Emily, a woman of enigmatic beauty whose eyes, reflecting both pain and determination, captivated those who dared to look into them. Torn from the depths of poverty in her youth, Lynn was thrown into the dirty streets of [REDACTED], where survival required more than mere tenacity: it demanded cunning and charm. Among the dark alleys and opulent salons, Lynn wove her web of intrigue, adapting her speech and behaviour to seduce those with deep pockets. Beneath the seductive mask she wore, she concealed the scars of a cruel past: the loss of her family, the relentless battle against illness, and the ever-looming violence that pursued her like an implacable shadow. Despite the adversities, Lynn found a glimmer of companionship among her professional companions, sharing tales of lost loves and shattered dreams in the shadows of the night. Though many viewed her as a mere object of desire, Lynn yearned for something more: a space where her strength and resilience could be recognised and valued. However, fate had a tragic and gruesome twist in store for her. On one occasion, during her degrading stint as a prostitute, a distinguished and handsome man hired her services for a night of depravity. Together, they ventured into the sordid corridors of the brothel, where the man paid a hefty sum for a room. Initially, everything proceeded according to Lynn''s dark rituals of life: muffled moans, lascivious whispers, and the sinister choreography of lust. However, time stretched like a torturous abyss, defying the routine of the place. Her unfortunate companions, though noticing the unusual lapse, chose silence, trapped by the assumption that the client had purchased additional hours. When they finally decided to burst into the room, what they witnessed tore at the most sensitive fibres of their souls. The walls, once silent witnesses to countless frenzies, now stood as monuments to horror, shrouded in a mantle of ashes and soot. The air, laden with the nauseating scent of death, stifled any attempt at resistance. Lynn lay alongside the mysterious client, their bodies consumed by a spontaneous combustion that devoured every last vestige of their humanity. Only charred remnants remained of the man, while Lynn''s existence was reduced to a mutilated hand, accusingly pointing towards the heavens, and a scattered foot on the floor, consumed by flames. It was a macabre sight, a spectacle that sealed the brothel''s dire fate. The Plague authorities, teetering on the brink, rushed to the scene, eager to unravel the dark mysteries enveloping it. Once again, the authorities found themselves powerless before the enigma that lay before us, immersed in the perplexity that only the darkest mystery can breed. The perpetrator of such a sinister dance of fire, emerging among the charred remains of the unfortunate, revealed itself as an ethereal presence, a spectre of flames devoid of colour, whose silent dance defied all earthly logic. This fire, lacking the fleshy sounds of crackling and oblivious to any stimuli, burned undisturbed, indifferent to the passage of time and the laws of physics. Only through esotericism did our investigators manage to extinguish the spectral pyre, as no mundane method could subdue its unquenchable fury. The room where the combustion unfolded its infernal ballet remained sealed, as if the fire itself, in its spectral essence, claimed the entirety of the surrounding space. Outside those shadowy walls, the lament of the victims and the echo of their suffering fell into the void, finding no echo or response. Neither the fetid smell nor the presence of blackened soot reached the senses of those outside, manifesting only upon opening the doors to the abyss. Meanwhile, our agents, in a vain attempt to unravel the mysteries that defied all reason, continue their arduous work, exploring with desperation possible solutions beyond the brittle theories that slip through our hands like shadows in the night. Chapter 51: Report The Empty Mirror Chapter 51: Report Continuation of the report... Observations: 1. The ignis, christened as Ghostfire, shrouds itself in invisibility before profane eyes; those lacking the required affinity are not graced with the sight of its radiance. For witnesses of the spontaneous ignition, the heinous crime unfolded before their eyes, yet not the perpetrator, as the fire hid from their view. It was only when the authorities of the Plague cordoned off the area that the fire revealed its presence to them as well. Our agents forged a fleeting alliance with the ecclesiastical authorities of the Plague, and thus, we work on this enigma with divergent interests. Only the [REDACTED] are blessed with the vision of G837-2. 2. The fire refuses to submit to conventional manipulation; it does not extinguish like its mundane counterpart, nor does it flare up through known artifices. It remains in a constant flicker, an ethereal flame to our eyes. Our only containment tactic has been the use of vacuum tubes to confine it and conduct experiments, although these have yielded disheartening results. Ghostfire, later, extinguished itself without any stimulus, as if its intrinsic lustre had faded; that fact is still under investigation. 3. G837-2 has been classified as an anomaly, as we are impeded from categorising it as an object due to our ignorance regarding whether it can be utilised, either for benign or malign purposes. We are completely unaware of its properties, and it lacks the characteristics that would define a conscious and sentient entity. It does not seem to possess life in itself, thus we are compelled to denominate it as an eccentricity, given its properties and the devastating effect it exerts when generating combustion within the human body, as well as in the selection of its victims. Speculations: 1. Artificial Creation: According to this hypothesis, Ghostfire could be the result of failed experiments or dark rituals carried out by powerful witches in times past. It is suggested that these witches attempted to manipulate and dominate elemental energies or supernatural forces in order to achieve some specific goal, such as gaining power or forbidden knowledge. However, something catastrophically went wrong during these experiments, and the result was the engendering of G837-2. Instead of controlling the energy or entity they sought to invoke, the witches unleashed an uncontrollable and chaotic force that now manifests as an anomaly in our domain. It is speculated that G837-2, slipping through the fingers of its creators, has acquired autonomy, transforming into a capricious entity with unpredictable properties and behaviours. Its ethereal essence and its ability to provoke spontaneous combustions could be the result of the influence of sin energies released in the failed experiment. Furthermore, this theory suggests the possibility that G837-2 is intrinsically linked to the original intention of its forgers. It could be that its primary purpose was to serve as a tool of power or as a devastating weapon, and now, free from constraints, it seeks to fulfill that function autonomously. 2. Manifestation of Residual Energy: According to these conjectures, Ghostfire could be the manifestation of residual energy left behind by traumatic or tragic events that occurred in times past. It is postulated that certain events imbued with intense emotions, such as brutal murders, bloody battles, or dark rituals, not to mention the licentiousness of [REDACTED], could have left a lasting imprint on the magical residue of the city. This residual energy condenses over time, forming a kind of "scar" in reality that manifests in the form of G837-2. This fire, in such a case, would act as a supernatural echo of the violence or tragedy that occurred at the site where it appears. It is suspected that this residual energy could be imbued with the emotions and intentions of those involved in the original event. As a result, G837-2 could exhibit behaviours and patterns that reflect the circumstances and nature of the tragedy that spawned it. Furthermore, this theory suggests that Ghostfire could harbour a subconscious or instinctive purpose related to the primordial event. It may crave to reproduce the tragedy in some way, or it could act as a warning or danger signal for those who venture near the location where the original event occurred. To investigate this theory, it would be necessary to meticulously examine the history and circumstances of the events linked to the manifestation of Ghostfire. Researchers should look for patterns among the types of events that trigger the appearance of the fire, as well as its behaviours once it materialises. Additionally, it would be crucial to explore methods to dissipate or neutralise the residual energy that fuels G837-2, if such a thing is possible. 3. Incorporeal Entity: This theory postulates that Ghostfire could be a form of elemental or spiritual entity devoid of a physical body. According to this hypothesis, G837-2 is not merely a manifestation of energy or a simple natural phenomenon, but it possesses some form of consciousness or its own will, albeit rudimentary. It is speculated that Ghostfire could have been engendered by magical or natural forces as an independent entity, endowed with its own objectives or motivations. Unlike other theories suggesting that the fire is the product of past events or natural phenomena, this conjecture hints that G837-2 exists as a living and conscious entity from its inception. However, this entity may lack the consciousness and wisdom that we associate with living beings, as its elemental or spiritual nature could fundamentally differ from that of humans or other forms of conscious life. Instead of harbouring conscious desires or intentions, Ghostfire could act according to its instincts or its original magical programming. Furthermore, it is speculated that G837-2 could have the ability to influence its environment in ways that transcend the simple generation of spontaneous combustions. It may be capable of manipulating emotions, influencing people''s thoughts, or even engaging in some form of communication with those capable of perceiving it. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Investigating this theory would require a multidisciplinary approach that blends magic, parapsychology, and biology, in order to unravel the inherent mysteries of incorporeal entities. Researchers could try methods to establish communication with Ghostfire or to unravel its motivations and origins on a deeper level. Additionally, plans to contact progressive churches for collaborative alliances are in place. 4. Forgotten Curse: The theory outlines the premise that G837-2 is the sequel to an ancestral curse or an act of black magic that has endured over the centuries. According to this hypothesis, the origin of Ghostfire dates back to ancient times, when a powerful figure or group of witches unleashed a magical calamity as an act of revenge or as a means to gain power. The legend tells that centuries ago, in times of intrigues and rivalries between churches, a dark wizard, consumed by anger and thirst for revenge, invoked a terrible curse upon those who dared defy his authority. This curse, taking the form of an invisible and devouring fire, was conceived to pursue the descendants of his enemies, consuming their bodies and souls in endless agony. As centuries passed, the history of the curse faded into the shadows of legend, relegated to oblivion by generations who preferred not to recall the horrors of the past. However, G837-2 persisted, resurfacing in later epochs to claim new victims, thus perpetuating its legacy of terror and destruction. Scholars of the esoteric speculate that the curse may have been fueled by the hatred and despair of those who succumbed to its wrath, nourishing its power over the years. It is rumored that Ghostfire seeks revenge against those who maintain ties with the original enemies of the wizard, and its manifestation is intertwined with current conflicts and rivalries. In this theory, G837-2 not only represents a palpable threat but also a gloomy reminder of past sins and the aftermath of limitless ambition and darkness in the human heart. Its origin blurred in the mists of time adds a nuance of mystery and fatality to its essence, making its study and containment even more daunting for those who face it, supposedly as proposed in the theory of artificial creation and manifestation of residual energy. Ongoing research: The Geom chief in charge of eccentricity proposes a feasible suspension; his verdict suggests that Ghostfire could be the modus operandi of a [REDACTED], so we have focused on supporting such a theory, although we have not yet unraveled whether the fire itself is the instrument or if it is invoked by some artifact. However, we posit an even more bleak hypothesis: G837-2 could be the prowess of a [REDACTED]. If this assertion proves true, the prowess at play and our forces, as well as those of the Plague, are in a considerable predicament, given its danger and how it operates. If this assumption turns out to be correct, we are still debating whether we should deploy the most capable troops for the case and leave the resolution in higher hands. In the event that it is confirmed to be a [REDACTED], we fail to clearly discern the method used to select its victims, as it does not seem to follow a discernible pattern of attack. First, it was Pierce Boddy, a tycoon owner of mining industries, and then, weeks later, a prostitute from a brothel. However, while these individuals may be the protagonists of the tragedy, we are still investigating whether the target of the attack was directed towards any of their companions. We wonder if it was an assault against the prostitutes who accompanied him or the young people who participated in his orgy, and in this context, Pierce got involved along with the others. But we still do not fully understand the situation. The same goes for Lynn Emily; we are not sure if the attack, if it was the work of a [REDACTED], was directed towards Lynn or, alternatively, towards the man who hired her for his services. Less is said about the latter, as he was simply a doctor with a good job from Bafranbu. His mortal remains were found at the scene. If we consider that the main victims were the central axis, Pierce and Lynn, there does not seem to be a connection between them. Both characters did not know each other nor were they involved in any altercation that could have caused their deaths, and much less Lynn. Therefore, despite everything, we cannot affirm with certainty if it is a crime perpetrated by a [REDACTED] that does not follow the rules. Preliminary Conclusions: After exhaustive research and analysis of the data collected to date, the following preliminary conclusions have been formulated regarding the anomaly known as Ghostfire. This phenomenon exhibits properties and behaviours that defy the natural and magical laws known to date. Its invisibility to those without affinity for magic and its inability to be manipulated conventionally suggest a unique and puzzling anomalous nature. Although several theories have been outlined about the origin of Ghostfire, none have been conclusively confirmed. Speculations range from its artificial creation through failed experiments to the manifestation of residual energy left by traumatic events of the past. However, the possibility that it is the ability of a [REDACTED] raises additional concern given its potential danger. Although the exact purpose of G837-2 and the motivations behind its actions have not yet been determined with certainty, an apparent pattern has been perceived in the selected victims. However, the lack of a clear pattern in the selection of main victims suggests additional complexity in the investigation. Given Ghostfire''s ability to cause spontaneous combustions and its possible connection to a [REDACTED] or a [REDACTED], it is considered to represent a significant potential risk to public safety and the magical stability of the region. Based on these preliminary conclusions, further research and coordination between competent authorities and magic experts are recommended to properly address this anomaly and mitigate any threat it may pose to society. Note from the Chief Geom Investigator: In my capacity as Chief Investigator in charge of the study on the anomaly dubbed "Ghostfire," I wish to underscore the magnitude of the situation and the urgent imperative in our response. To date, we have faced an enigma that challenges our conventional understandings of magic and anomaly. The preliminary conclusions clearly point to G837-2 as a potentially catastrophic threat to the security and stability of our society. Its anomalous nature, its possible connection to a [REDACTED] or a [REDACTED], and the absence of a defined pattern in the selection of victims demand immediate and concerted action. It is imperative to intensify our efforts in research, coordination, and containment to effectively address this threat. Close collaboration is needed between local authorities, magic experts, and institutions specializing in anomalies to develop containment and neutralization strategies. We cannot underestimate the seriousness of this situation or postpone our response. Time and organization are at stake, and the destructive potential of G837-2 must not be underestimated. I urge all involved to redouble their efforts and work together to confront this threat with determination and diligence. [DISCRETION] The intercepted report, quasi-exclusively infused with the unavoidable voluptuousness of secrecy, shines with the mysterious aura of the forbidden. Thirty-three percent of its content is confined behind the curtains of clandestinity, shrouded in the seductive veil of mystery, whispering promises of knowledge restricted only to the august Geom chiefs. Only those enlightened by the sacred flame of privilege will be able to unravel the enigmas that lie beyond the thresholds of the permitted. [CONFIDENTIAL] Chapter 52: Two of Wands The Empty Mirror Chapter 52: Two of Wands Though lying within a dream, or rather, a nightmare, my physical body still dwindled, poisoned upon the cenotaph. Slowly, the poison balanced within my stomach until it finally made its presence evident. Not only did my nails, barely visible, show signs of corruption, but my being was affected both internally and externally. Despite seeking refuge in the woods, in the castle, on the cenotaph, in the dream, in the nightmare, my physical body remained vulnerable to illness. Soon, my mind too was afflicted by the ailment; gangrene spread, even manifesting in my nightmares. The poison had been revived, and perhaps only brief moments of agony awaited me before succumbing, both physically and mentally, within this labyrinth of torment. In a manner yet to be comprehended, the poison lingered before taking action, as a mockery of some ungrateful god with reddened noses. Though my fate was not that of instant death like Esme and Hilda''s, the suffering awaiting me would be prolonged until I finally succumbed. For the body, like the mind, is but one component of our identity, where both are closely intertwined. I consumed in agony, as the foods, including the insect fetuses I greedily devoured, exacerbated the degradation in my stomach, thus awakening the poison. Though dangerous to delve into the corruption of Hanging Gardens, for eating those fetuses caused swelling and nausea, among other ills, the worst was that, in my case, they fueled the unquenchable flame of Agonal Breathing, condemning me inevitably to death. Remembering and agonizing, I reached the end of my tale about that cabin, about those people and their tragedy. Crawling, my increasingly gangrenous organs, I relived and recounted that tragedy: the tragedy of Esme, Dougal, Hilda, and my own. Now, moribund, I awaited to expire amidst gasps and moans. Before me, like a spectre emerging from the watery depths, rose that presence, that creature, whose misshapen body unfolded long reptilian limbs. Its stomach, an abomination in constant mutation, tore itself apart with its own extremities, while it stood towering like a colossus before my astonished eyes. Yet, I could glimpse its lower part, revealing a grotesquely twisted fish tail, covered in algae and tangled in the wreckage remains, each fin torn and mutilated as if prey to voracious sea beasts. A mantle of secretions hung over its scales, while a viscous and fetid liquid overflowed from its open wounds, attracting, if possible, marine scavengers with its putrid aroma. Every movement of that tail resonated with a crunchy groan, as if trapped in eternal agony. Such a horrifying sight that even the bravest sailors would wish they had not witnessed it. And though its form might evoke the appearance of a tail, it could rather be described as human corpses cooked, grotesquely amalgamated to mimic the contours of a sea creature. Human feet, disfigured and tortured in a grotesque parody of a fish''s tail, exhale a foul scent of charred flesh and decay, permeating the surroundings. Scorched skin hangs in tatters, revealing charred bones and torn tendons. Twisted fingers contort in unnatural directions, with torn and dirt-encrusted nails protruding like monstrous claws. A viscous, malodorous liquid drips from the open wounds, secretions, mixing with clots of dried blood to form a repulsive mass on the floor. Every step of these deformed feet is followed by an ominous crunch and a hissing crackle, as if they were destined to crawl eternally in unbearable torment. It''s a sight that freezes the blood and induces nausea in those brave enough to behold it, a horrifying amalgam between humanity and the unfathomable depths of the ocean. This creature awaited with sinister expectancy, as if awaiting a transcendental event that only I could perceive or provoke. I found myself laid low in my gangrene, immobile and forsaken, awaiting its deadly blow, whether to extinguish me in the most horrendous of torments or to let the gangrene complete its fatal work. I didn''t even entertain the idea of resorting to defence through "Hunger on trialˇ±, for my being lay dying, devoid of any will. Yet, fate seemed to have stalled in a wicked lethargy; minutes passed with the slowness of a breeze as the poison gradually infiltrated my entrails, corrupting every fibre of my being. In those moments, my mind plunged into a sombre recounting of the events in the woods and the shadows lurking on the castle''s horizon. But, as if my lips were possessed by a dark and inexplicable force, words began to spill from them with a feverish insistence. I recalled the words of the Marquess, the warnings and prophecies, but above all, the image of the fate of the vast. And in an act seemingly beyond my will, my lips trembled as they articulated a sentence like that of a witch, words that injected into my consciousness like an insidious potion. "I am the Page of Wands, the very embodiment of overflowing youth and unrestrained enthusiasm. I represent the tumultuous beginning of a journey infused with creativity and overflowing passion. My appearance in the tarot signals that your mind brims with fresh ideas and your spirit pulsates with vibrant energy, ready to embark on new missions or bold adventures. My zeal is contagious, inciting others to follow in your footsteps and pursue their own burning obsessions. However, I warn with a sepulchral growl about the urgent need to maintain balance and discipline, for my fire can be both a driving force and a fleeting flame that consumes itself in an instant if not carefully controlled. In essence, as the Page of Wands, I personify the boundless potential and radiant promise of a bright future if you know how to direct your energy with prudence and determination." If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. The creature, whose head was a swarm of holes filled with flesh, watched me with its last strength as it witnessed a shapeless mass of crimson flesh sprout from its skull, pulsating and writhing like a living tumour. Groans and hoarse screams echoed from its nonexistent deformed lips as it tore open its own belly, exposing putrefied viscera to the world. Its body, enveloped in a feast of decay and agony, transformed into a walking corpse, while gangrene spread relentlessly from its stomach. With a final gasp, its gangrenous belly detached with a grotesque splash, like the fall of a fleshy mass to the ground in a wet rumble. Beside me, gangrene devoured my own dying body, as I watched in horror as from the belly of the lifeless creature emerged a staff, like a macabre symbol of its gruesome existence. The staff, like a magic wand, stood majestic, defying the limits of the mundane. Its structure, instead of smooth and linear, took on the twisted form of a double helix, like an organic statute, like roots of a cursed tree, woven with the very threads of destiny. Along its length, a mantle of living, green leaves unfolded, pulsating with the primordial energy of existence. However, amid this vegetal exuberance, a dark secret was hidden: some leaves lay wilted and dead, their putrefied brown colour and twisted contours as if trapped in eternal agony. These leaves exuded a pestilent odour of death and decay, enveloping the staff in an aura of decay and despair. Its presence, though grotesque, was impossible to ignore, for it embodied the duality between life and death, between beauty and corruption, in a macabre dance that only a true magician could control, a Page of Wands. However, the most aberrant aspect of all lay on the surface of that magician''s staff, where a mutilated monkey''s paw rested. In the damp gloom lay the mummified limb, cruelly torn from the primate''s joint, like a sinister trophy from some occult ritual. The once smooth and flexible skin was now twisted and hardened like dried leather by the passage of time and decay. A stench of putrefaction permeated the air, a nauseating mixture of decomposition and decadence. The mutilated joint dripped a viscous, dark liquid, while exposed veins twisted like dead serpents. Remnants of putrefied flesh hung in tatters, revealing worn and deformed bones that seemed to writhe in perpetual agony. Upon the skin''s surface, patches of pus and gangrene could be glimpsed, a repulsive layer that seemed to take on a life of its own. The amputated fingers lay twisted in a grimace of perpetual pain, their nails, sturdy and soiled, seeming eager to desperately cling to the life they once knew, as if trying to tear the flesh from their former host or deform it beyond recognition. Every angle of this grotesque relic whispers tales of suffering and terror, a macabre reminder of the fragility of existence and the inevitable arrival of death. The limb seems fused to the staff, with the skin stitched to it in a network of vines, green and sickly like vomit. The hairs that once adorned this limb now hang in dry, tangled tufts, akin to threads of shadow fading into darkness. Among the discoloured and brittle strands, swarms of flies buzz frantically, drawn by the stench of death emanating from the decomposing flesh. Each hair strand retains the subtle echo of death''s whispers, a shadow of the vigour that once animated this hair, now reduced to a desolate spectre of its former splendour. The flies flutter and settle upon this desolate tangle, like heralds of the corruption that has devoured every filament of this macabre trophy. On the fingers, crimson clings desperately to the edges, as if trying to contain the malignancy emanating from its corrupt essence. Each stroke is a sinister caress of horror, a warning of the terrors lurking beyond, as if the simian limb had been painted for a theatrical performance. At the centre of the palm, a circle of blood red seems to pulsate with a life of its own, an open wound that will never heal, a surface that, instead of pigment, appears stripped of skin, leaving only dead tissue in sight. The coagulated blood stands as a chilling reminder of the violence that preceded this monstrosity. This monkey''s paw, once a symbol of agility and dexterity, is now a twisted testimony to decay and corruption, an aberration that defies all reason and logic. Its presence is an invitation to the deepest horror, a repugnant reminder of the fragility of life and the brutality of fate. At the height of my desperation, I lunged towards that foreign staff, as if its mere presence could redeem me from my misery. However, my attempts to reach its wooden surface were in vain, as my increasingly gangrenous and putrefied nails resembled the purulent leather of a purple gangrene. Almost falling, amidst the calamity, my hand and the monkey''s paw met intertwined, their fingers and mine united in a grotesque embrace. As I touched the simian limb, I experienced the sensation of touching a piece of discoloured tanned skin, rough and unpleasant, devoid of life and laden with horror. The underlying muscles and tendons gave an impression of density and power, but I feared its claws would pierce my flesh and begin to mutilate my hands, although such atrocity did not materialise. Drawing closer to me, the mutilated monkey''s paw seemed to vibrate with a vitality that paradoxically seemed to confer to its bearer. As I held it, it transformed into a grip, a grotesque handle where our fingers intertwined, highlighting the monstrosity of its size compared to the delicacy and fragility of a feminine hand. In that moment, I felt an ancestral connection to my primate ancestors, as if the history of evolution manifested through that macabre encounter. Gripping the handle of the staff, which was nothing more than the palm of a monkey''s paw, with rough pads on the limbs that provided a grip associated with agility in climbing and grasping objects, I began to slowly straighten up with the help of this support, while the skin of my face began to decompose with gangrene. The staff, steady and unwavering, kept me upright until I reached a raised posture. My hands now held the lower part of the staff, feeling the rough fur of the paw, as I clung wearily, with sweaty hands at chest height. It was at that precise moment that I realised that this staff, this object, was my true refuge, an essential element, as vital as "Hunger on trial" was to me. But this one was strangely linked to me, imbued with a madness so deep that I would swear this staff was nothing but the embodiment of the forest anomaly known as the "Ace of Wands", the one that made me the Page of Wands. Therefore, the name given to this protective staff could be no other than "Two of Wands". Chapter 53: Fertility The Empty Mirror Chapter 53: Fertility Firmly, I grasped the staff I dubbed "Two of Wands." My hands trembled under its weight as I focused my will on invoking its protective power. My thoughts drifted in a nebula of uncertainty, without clear direction. I inhaled the cold air of the gloom, heavy as a specter''s breath, and exhaled, longing deep within my being. With each breath, the wooden staff began to pulsate, the mutilated monkey paw twisting in a rigid spasm. Its fingers crackled like arthritic bones, each movement a choreography of agony. But then, a dark miracle unfolded before my eyes: the putrefied paw began its own healing, as if a corpse resurrected by an unfathomable impulse. The ulcerated skin began to close, decay receding before a hidden power, and the monstrous paw was reborn, healed beyond all reason. Suddenly, the dismembered monkey paw took on an appearance suggesting a precise, surgical cut, as if a skilled surgeon had masterfully separated its limbs. Instead of coagulated blood and torn flesh, now a supernatural spectacle was glimpsed: the bloodstains had transformed into elegant strokes of crimson, like an intricate makeup design, adorning the edges of the fingers and the contours of the palm with captivating allure. In the center of the hand, a vibrant crimson circle radiated a mysterious vitality with each movement, as if containing within its essence an indomitable power. The revitalized monkey paw began to move with grace and determination, as if eager to fulfill the designs of the "Two of Wands." With a steady hand, I guided its will, and the paw responded with calculated gestures, adopting a posture that evoked elegance and purpose. Its fingers extended outward with precision, forming a triangular shape, while the thumb remained separate and upright in parallel to the others, creating a silhouette of power and mystery. The gesture, holding it with three fingers and releasing the ring finger, evoked the majesty of a crown, a symbol imbued with arms, light, flames, and the arrow of destiny. It was both the lamp that illuminates the darkness and the sacred union between man and woman, an invocation of fortune and divine favour. But beyond its symbolism, this gesture was the creation of a protective shield, a union that strengthened allies, invoking light and life energy to nurture and safeguard. It was the connection to the sacred, a force that infused stability and determination into the spiritual quest. It was a divine blessing, protection granted from on high. And in an instant, this sacred gesture transformed into a sequence of performance, as the monkey paw, in an esoteric ritual, changed the position of its fingers and palm, like a lotus emerging from the sea of the profane towards the purity of the divine. The monkey paw unfolded with a supernatural grace, its fingers reaching out to the confines of the ether, each separated with a natural curve that evoked the fluidity of life itself. The thumb bent towards the base of the index with a delicacy that suggested reverence for the hidden power, before joining in a perfect circle around its counterpart. The other three fingers extended with majestic elegance, not daring to touch either the thumb or the index, as if fearing to profane the purity of this divine gesture. This open formation, this gateway to the unknown, seemed an invitation to the deepest spirituality, a silent plea for the knowledge and wisdom that only the divine can bestow. With an open mind and receptive heart, it seemed to implore the blessings of divine eloquence, ready to receive the revelations that only divinity can grant. The marks on the fingertips and the circle in the centre of the monkey paw''s palm seemed to open like fresh wounds, exuding a thick, dark liquid reminiscent of human blood. Drops of this crimson substance fell heavily onto the wood of the staff, staining it with their ominous presence. In a majestic gesture, the staff, "Two of Wands," unleashed a clamour of energy that resonated in the garden, whispering the birdsong like a distant echo. A barrier, a dome of pale golden light, rose around me, shielding me with its glow while nurturing and strengthening allies within its radius of influence. Reborn with renewed determination and revitalised vitality, my body straightened with grace and dignity, infused by the magical flow coursing through my veins. I felt as if a thousand shooting stars danced beneath my skin, dispersing the darkness that had enveloped my being. Slowly, like a veil lifted by an invisible hand, the shadow receded, revealing the light that lay deep within my being. From the very core of my existence, I perceived how the damaged cells awakened from their slumber, healing and regenerating in the face of the curative power of this ancient witchcraft. The gangrene, which had ravaged my being with its corruption, faded before the magnificence of this ancestral force. My fingers, once withered and barren, were now flooded with radiant vitality, a warmth that permeated every fibre of my being with its comforting embrace. The skin, which had previously languished in the pallor of illness, now glowed with a rosy hue, as if it had been caressed by the first rays of dawn. With each breath, I felt my being shedding the oppression of illness, how the life force returned to my veins with renewed vigour, infusing my essence with restored energy and revived faith. And so, thanks to this miraculous blessing of witchcraft, I embarked on my pilgrimage to healing, leaving behind the shadows of gangrene to embrace the radiant light of health and revitalised life. This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. Then the question struck me of why that vinegar could have been a catalyst in delaying the gangrenous poison. Although I recognised the stupidity of the idea, I couldn''t deny having conceived it. As I lay on the grass, once barren and dry, I was astonished to see how, after being healed by the "Two of Wands," the withered meadow around me flourished with renewed vitality. It seemed that the power of the "Two of Wands" was not limited to me, but its influence spanned a wider area, infusing life into everything it touched. However, despite being freed from gangrene, I collapsed exhausted onto the grass, as if I had expended all my energy in a titanic effort. Yes, my illness had been cured, but the process had left my spirit exhausted, as if "Two of Wands" had absorbed my life force to channel it into its act of healing. It was a fair exchange, although the nature of that energy did not obey conventional laws. It was a complex, intrinsic, and esoteric phenomenon, difficult to comprehend with mere human words. Given the healing ability of "Two of Wands," I felt the need to give a name to that skill, as if it were a ridiculously human act of witchcraft. So, like John the Baptist, I decided to baptize it as the "Fertility Shield," a designation that, while it may seem inappropriate, actually encapsulates its power in a sublime manner. Considering fertility as the ability of an organism to reproduce and generate viable offspring, its name evokes the notion of growth and abundance. Although at first glance it may seem incongruent with its ability to heal wounds, it actually reflects the essence of the regeneration power it possesses. Like the miracle of life emerging from fertility in nature, the magical attack not only heals physical wounds but also fosters rebirth and revitalisation of the body, thus ensuring a prosperous and life-filled future. The term "Fertility Shield" suggests not only protection against external harm but also a defence that strengthens and revitalises the body, fostering its inherent ability to heal and regenerate. It''s like a magical armour, which not only safeguards against external threats but also promotes health and vitality from within. I chose this name because it encapsulates the essence of its power: a barrier that shelters me within a zone-effect dome, safeguarding my health in a deeper, more biological sense. Fertility, in this context, transcends mere childbearing capacity, although it''s inherently linked to it. It''s the ability of a species to adapt and thrive over time, in response to environmental changes and selective pressures. Thus, "Fertility Shield" becomes a symbol of evolution itself, a manifestation of the connection between protection, regeneration, and growth on the vast canvas of existence. In those societies endowed with remarkable fecundity, the likelihood of transmitting their lineages to future generations is increased, which, in turn, may impact the frequency of certain genetic traits over time. This phenomenon, which can be considered both a product and a driver of evolution in species, exerts a transcendent influence on the quantity and genetic diversity of posterity. It wouldn''t be an unreasonable assumption to think that "Two of Wands" regarded me, either as a user or even as a specimen, a primate belonging to the human species, recognised for our advanced cognitive capacity, elaborate communication, and notably sized brain. But besides that, I am a female, a woman, which, with all caution and deference, suggests that "Two of Wands" might have healed me to preserve my health based on my reproductive capacity. It''s a complex notion and, I admit, somewhat forced, but it''s the thread I''ve followed in the dark machinations of "Two of Wands." Although lacking consciousness, it follows a pattern of behaviour guided by evolutionary imperatives. These conclusions, though provocative to my pride, have been the result of careful reflection, an intellectual journey through which I have navigated cautiously, aware of the dangers lurking in Hanging Gardens. But the ability dubbed as the "Fertility Shield" was not limited solely to fostering reproduction. Its intent did not lie in the unrestrained multiplication of grass, but in the preservation of the individual. In my case, its purpose was to safeguard the life of a human primate, whereas in the case of the grass, it sought to protect livestock fodder. Essentially, the "Fertility Shield" manifested a healing capacity, a gift that needs no further scrutiny, for delving into its mysteries could lead us to madness. Though I admit the idea that "Two of Wands" intended to preserve the vitality of a female human primate made me uncomfortable. To be seen in that light, even by myself as I exercised my own self-awareness to assess the situation, reflected our human propensity to fantasise about being the epicentre of the universe. Additionally, we often feel uncomfortable being labelled as males or females, preferring to refer to ourselves as men or women to soften that perception. In summary, this situation provided me with an opportunity to reflect on the complexity of "Two of Wands.ˇ± Thinking of myself as a female biologically destined to reproduce and have offspring left me with a sense of disconnect, although I did not dislike my sexuality. I simply found the terms related to reproduction strange, whether in the context of the preservation of human primates or, at worst, on the opposite end of seduction. These terms seemed to be like oil in the ocean, a valuable but potentially dangerous resource in the wrong hands. So we come to the crux of the matter. While I have already explained the name of the ability "Fertility Shield," it is now time to address why "Two of Wands" bore that name and why I considered it as the divine will of the "Ace of Wands." This peculiar reasoning was, I believe, due to the intervention of the Marquess. If I''m not mistaken, the Marquess, with her keen insight, could not overlook my poisoning. Even if she had not detected it in a more esoteric manner, she would have noticed the slight gangrene spreading at the tips of my fingers, on my fingertips. Though subtle, even to an ordinary observer, such a sign would be evident with enough attention, and even more so to the wise Marquess, with her vast experience and vigilant eye always fixed upon me. From the moment I took up the tarot deck, it was apparent that the Marquess was already aware, even before I was. Therefore, it is logical to conclude that the Marquess took action against the poison. Perhaps she was the one behind the "Two of Wands." Behind this entire journey lies a game of chess between multiple entities, beyond my understanding. I am simply a piece on the board, perhaps a pawn, or maybe a queen, but merely contemplating the hidden, the esoteric behind this entire superficial facade, is as terrifying as it is incomprehensible. Chapter 54: Healing The Empty Mirror Chapter 54: Healing In the sacred nightmare sanctuary, where the Marchioness, with her penetrating eyes that delve into the soul, cast the cards of destiny upon the crimson ethereal cloth. Her ancestral wisdom flowed like a dark river in the night, revealing the threads of the past, present, and future intertwined in a cosmic tapestry. The arcana aligned, like threads of fate woven by the fates, and in the smoke of flickering candles, emerged the ominous portent of the "Two of Wands." The Marchioness, with her gaze piercing the veils of time, had glimpsed the insidious shadow of gangrene gnawing at my flesh, poisoned by hidden forces. With her divine gift, she had blessed my pilgrimage, but she had also foreseen the dangers lurking in the shadows of the forest. The choker, like a coiled obsidian serpent around the neck, bore the weight of the sentence of insatiable hunger, an unrelenting judgement that could dictate the fate of my soul. In the subtle murmur of her words, the Marquess unraveled the secrets of the talismanic "Hunger on Trial", a veiled warning about the dangers that awaited in the dark abyss of the unknown. Through her enigmatic teachings, she hinted at the possibility that someday I too might forge and unravel the mysteries of esoteric artifacts, perhaps to find salvation or damnation in the folds of destiny. In the abyss, where shadows circulate to the whispers of the wind, I found myself faced with the challenge of taming and harnessing the latent power of "Hunger on Trial", a primordial force that resonated in the depths of my being like an ancestral echo. The Marchioness, in her inscrutable wisdom, chose not to hand me the staff directly, perhaps aware of my fragility after the trauma that had ravaged my soul in the darkness of the cabin and the macabre spectacle of the circus. Her silence was a tacit warning, an indication that I needed to heal my wounds before claiming my legacy. "Hunger on Trial," alien to me in its essence, acted as a catalyst to awaken the life force dormant within me, a fleeting spark that illuminated the darkness of my uncertain fate. I learned to wield this esoteric force in a rudimentary manner, like a castaway clinging to driftwood in a tempestuous sea. The enchantment that emerged from my lips, dark and mysterious like the depths of the abyss, was a distant echo of an ancient knowledge, a forgotten tongue resonating in the bowels of the universe. Where did this spell originate? Was it perhaps an invocation of my own mind, an echo of thoughts forged in the crucible of experience and necessity? In the darkness of the night, I could only glimpse the surface of an enigma whose depths remained hidden from my mortal eyes. In the unfathomable labyrinth of the human condition, we find ourselves imprisoned in a sinister puppet dance, where society, parents, the church, and the education system stand as masters of the strings, manipulating our thoughts with the skill worthy of a deceiver. Transformed into puppets of imposed doctrines, we dance to the rhythm of preconceived narratives, condemned to intellectual servitude. Like vassals of a foreign will, our minds become receptacles of alien ideologies, powerless against the onslaught of dogmas and beliefs. We are prey to an invisible oppression, where the flame of free thought is consumed in the will-o''-the-wisp fire of conformity. In this theater of shadows, where truth fades in the face of the might of dogma, the boundary between reality and illusion blurs, leaving us wandering lost in a maze of deceit. Only those bold bastions of thought, capable of challenging the chains of orthodoxy and piercing the veils of perception, can aspire to the true freedom of the spirit, thus freeing themselves from the oppressive yoke that suffocates the soul of man. The monster, with its twisted reptilian limbs and fish-like tail, loomed as an aberration before my astonished gaze. Was it perhaps a manifestation of divine will, a living creature born from the bowels of the Hanging Gardens, or a messenger of the Marchioness, bearer of a message encrypted in the shadows of the occult? Did it possess its own will, or was it simply an instrument of forces beyond our comprehension? My thoughts tangled in a whirlwind of uncertainty, unable to find answers to the questions that crowded my mind like shadows in the night. How had this abomination taken shape? Was it capable of communication, or was its existence confined to the darkness of mystery? Perhaps, in its grotesque manifestation, lay the key to unraveling the enigma of "Two of Wands," a somber premonition embodied in the twisted flesh of a being that defies all logic and reason. Although its presence filled me with indescribable terror, its role as a messenger of an uncertain fate became increasingly evident. The monster, with its macabre gesture and ominous presence, was a grim reminder of the dangers lurking in the shadows of esotericism, a harbinger of the horrors hidden in the folds of the unknown universe. Among the shadows of the labyrinth of my mind, the mysterious messenger of the Marchioness awaited silently, like an actor withholding his lines on stage, waiting for the opportune moment to spring into action. As if following the script of an unintelligible tragedy, his presence intertwined with the plot of my destiny, a tense wait marked by the echo of an incantation yet to be uttered. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. He withdrew, in his enigmatic role, momentarily from the scene, like an actor retreating to the shadows of the wings, to return at the precise moment when my consciousness was ready to invoke the latent power of a Page of Wands. But before healing the physical wounds of gangrene, I had to confront and accept the emotional scars that had marked my soul in the darkness of the cabin. I embraced the raw and painful truth of my past actions: the murder of Dougal, Hilda''s death at the hands of wickedness. In the dawn of acceptance, the shadows of my trauma dissipated, revealing the light of truth. I wept the pain, faced it, expressed it, thus liberating my spirit from the chains of the past. And then, like a salmon swimming upstream to its source, the incantation sprang from my lips, granting me the redeeming power of the "Two of Wands," a tool to heal the physical and spiritual wounds that had marked my journey through the darkness. The fire dancing in the fireplace was not merely an intrinsic presence but a burning symbol of redemption and hope, a flame illuminating the path to overcoming the scars that marked my skin and soul. Like a beacon in the darkness, its glow reminded me of the urgent need to move forward, to find purpose amidst desolation. While I saw the fire, warm and comforting, Esme and Hilda remained unaware of the poison lurking in the shadows, the poison that, in a future now unfolding as my present, would snatch away their lives and hope. But despite the fracture in my ankle, their miraculous healing in the heart of the forest whispered the mystery of a hidden force, a divine intervention that averted my fateful destiny. Beyond the vinegar, beyond the mysteries of the "Ace of Wands" and "Two of Wands," lay a disturbing truth, a harbinger of horror rooted deep within me like an insidious parasite. This sinister development, this constant growth of unspeakable madness, was a macabre echo of forces operating beyond human understanding, a shadow looming over my fate with relentless darkness. In the depths beyond the reach of human understanding, the shadows of darkness intertwined with whispers of the inexplicable. Far from the realms of logic and reason, unfolds a macabre drama where gangrenous decay is but a symbol of a greater evil, an evil that lurks in the shadows, beyond mortal comprehension. The staff, with its mutilated monkey paw, rises as an emblem of a dark will, woven in the threads of destiny. Was the Marchioness merely an instrument of this entity beyond understanding? Or was there an even more terrifying will, a primordial force directing the dictates of the nightmare itself? In this dark trial, where life hangs by a thread between the mundane and the esoteric, an agreement between indomitable forces is glimpsed. Was the Marchioness my advocate in this macabre drama, or simply a pawn in a game whose rules elude human understanding? The staff, emblem of the "Ace of Wands," holds at its core the very essence of protection, a guardian of life in a ruthless world. But how could the Marchioness, or perhaps an even older and more sinister entity, channel this will into an artifact of power? In the choreography of anomalies and mystical objects, small clues are revealed that form a puzzle of cosmic proportions. Are "Two of Wands" and "Ace of Wands" two facets of the same anomaly, or are there deeper differences that elude our limited understanding? At the heart of darkness, on the threshold of the inexplicable, lies the truth that escapes mortal sight. And in the shadow of uncertainty, we find ourselves, lost in a labyrinth of mystery and terror, where answers fade into the mist of the unknown. In the dark weave of reality, where shadows intertwine with forms, emerges a subtle yet palpable distinction between "Two of Wands" and its precursor, "Ace of Wands". They are not identical, but they share an essence that unfolds in layers of meaning and mystery. "Two of Wands," although bearer of the will of "Ace of Wands," does not embody the entirety of the forest anomaly. In essence, they are distinct entities, though united by a common purpose: to keep the bearer safe. However, the nature of this protection differs in its manifestation. "Ace of Wands," rooted in the deepest spiritual realm of the forest, operates on a more subtle plane, weaving its designs in the invisible threads of destiny. On the other hand, "Two of Wands" manifests more directly and physically, fulfilling its purpose with brutal efficiency. Though both bear the will of protection, the difference lies in the nature of their existence. While "Ace of Wands" seems to have been created with this purpose from its origin, "Two of Wands" appears to have been mutilated and degenerated by unknown forces, as if its symbolism hides a darkness twisting beneath its primitive appearance. At the crossroads between the material and the spiritual, "Two of Wands" exhibits signs of degeneration, as if it has been touched by a profane force that perverts its original purpose. Behind its facade of wood and primate skin lies a twisted obedience, a corrupted will revealed in its actions and its very essence. Reflecting on my dialogue, in the vast loom of existence, the pillars of human language rise like monuments erected in the landscape of consciousness. We, self-affirmed beings, cling to terms like "man" and "woman," as if they were linguistic deities meant to elevate us above the animal kingdom. But what are we but creatures woven into the same tapestry of nature, whose essences intertwine with the threads of life itself? What distinguishes us, if not the spark of consciousness that separates us from mere existence? The concepts of "male" and "female" lie in the rawness of the animal kingdom, while "man" and "woman" are mere projections of human ego onto the stage of language. However, these words, like dancing shadows in a cave, lack intrinsic meaning; their essence fades with the changing tides of languages, silent witnesses to the linguistic richness that adorns our species. Language, that tool of the human mind, thus becomes the crucible where our identity is forged, the tool that distinguishes us not from animals, but from ourselves, from our own essence. In this eternal dance between the animal and the human, between consciousness and word, we find the very essence of our existence, always in motion, always in search of meaning. In the vast abyss of understanding, I find myself compelled to confront the harsh reality of cognitive biases lurking in the depths of my own psyche. Like a mariner in this ocean of uncertainty, I acknowledge the fragility of my perception and the subtle influence of my own prejudices. With each step I take in search of truth, I find myself surrounded by the mist of my own predispositions, like shadows darkening my vision. Can I, perchance, trust in the clarity of my thought when the fog of subjectivity threatens to distort my judgement? In this eternal tug-of-war between knowledge and illusion, I find myself compelled to question even my most deeply rooted convictions, to unravel the invisible threads that weave the fabric of my perception. On this journey towards understanding, I must remain vigilant against the seduction of intellectual complacency, resist the temptation of blind faith in my own ideas. Only by facing my biases with courage and humility can I aspire to glimpse the truth, though the shadow of doubt lurks at every turn of my mind. Chapter 55: Symptoms The Empty Mirror Chapter 55: Symptoms After a deep reflection on the enigmatic artefact known as the "Two of Wands," I held it with determination as I rose from the ground, feeling my energy renewing. My eyes fixated on the rod, whose top displayed a sickly appearance, with an amputated monkey paw that sent shivers down my spine and caused a lump in my throat. I adjusted the choker around my neck, the one bearing the name "Hunger on Trial," and amidst a hint of hangover, I remembered why I considered myself as the Page of Wands. Though the idea was implanted in my mind by the Marquess as part of her plan to invoke the rod, there was a faint understanding of what it meant to be a Page of Wands. The Marquess had hinted in her prophecy, or rather in her tarot reading, that she was the Queen of Wands, suggesting that I was linked to this theme in a more modest manner. Considering my role as the master of arms of the "Ace of Wands," the anomaly of the forest, it was clear that I too had a connection to the minor arcana of wands. However, the true meaning of belonging to the minor arcana of wands remains a mystery to me to this day, as I do not precisely understand what it entails to be part of this category. Following the relentless hierarchy of wands, I understood that, not being a queen and far from the Marquess''s level, my role within this framework was destined to be that of a Page of Wands, according to tarot interpretations. If we considered only the human cards within the wands family, which represent manipulators rather than subjects, my position was relegated to that of a Page of Wands in this intricate plot. However, this conclusion was merely an assumption, a rudimentary theory based on the information I had gathered and the musings I had delved into on the subject. Thus, as I roamed the enigmatic domains of the Hanging Gardens, I relied on my protection granted by "Hunger on Trial" and "Two of Wands," finding some calm amidst this nightmare. Still, like a wizard traversing a foreign realm with staff in hand, I could discern through the dense grey mist the monsters lurking in this monument. In addition to the gigantic insects whose deformed figures loomed in the gloom, there was a constant fear of being discovered by these insectoid creatures of colossal proportions, with their repugnant membranous wings and their fatty, putrefied proboscises. Though fear engulfed me, I remained vigilant, ready to use "Bite" from "Hunger on Trial" or somehow employ the "Two of Wands" staff, should the need for a more direct confrontation arise rather than the simple healing effect it offered. As I wielded the staff, I felt it emanate an inspiring presence that instilled a sense of purpose and determination, strengthening my resilience and adaptability. It seemed to make me stronger and more capable of withstanding enemy onslaughts, reflecting the constant process of evolution and growth embodied by the staff. However, its scope and duration were shrouded in a complex occult mystery that eluded my understanding. Upon reaching one of the terraces of the Hanging Gardens, I found myself compelled to feed once again due to the hunger curse imposed by "Hunger on Trial". I watched suspiciously as some of those plants I had dubbed "Curse," especially one that seemed on the verge of giving birth to one of those abhorrent insectoid creatures. It wouldn''t be far-fetched to think that, within hours, the plant would spawn its hideous offspring. Still, I had time, if time passed similarly within this nightmare, although my temporal perception was an aberrant chaos, both here and in the tangible reality since I ventured into the forest, since I entered the castle. With caution and a light movement, like a feather falling slowly, I approached the plant, stabbing it repeatedly to prevent its spores from entering my lungs. Although the plant was taller than me in stature, it became vulnerable to my attack when left unprotected from its defenses. I reduced it to flesh and dying petals, with the fetuses inside lying beneath my slashes. I ventured inside the plant with horror, unable to fully adapt to the aberrant sight and the act I was carrying out. It''s worth noting that these plants were already large in size on their own, almost reaching the height of my chin, but when pregnant, if we can call it that, they became even larger and plumper, forcing me to slightly tilt my head upwards to glimpse their apex, which was even more repugnant. They were so bulky that if I attempted to hold them, I had to stretch my arms to their fullest extent to barely cover their bulkiness. However, despite their imposing size, they remained vulnerable to any physical attack once they lost their ability for independent movement, becoming mere insectoid breeding grounds. Once the plant died and withered, I would sneak inside to stab the still defenseless fetuses. I sharpened my knife with surgical precision, slicing through the placenta with a meticulousness almost ritualistic, eager to uncover the viscous and repulsive interior. My suspicions were confirmed as I beheld those insects, grotesquely tiny compared to the horrendous death that had befallen it among the vines. Perhaps shared gestation had further marred them, though their size remained immense. The membranous sacs that housed them resembled huge sacks of putrefied cloth, while the fetuses, barely born, lay twisted and tangled within them like rotten ropes, occupying the least possible space. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. I devoured them greedily, lamenting the lack of a spoon to savour them more leisurely. A gut-wrenching laughter escaped my lips as I swallowed that grotesque and nauseating feast. I wasn''t concerned about leaving part of the corpse intact; I had sated my hunger enough for the lust of Hunger not to torment me for a good while. With agile movements, I resumed my path, feeling satisfied but struggling against the vomit threatening to rise in my throat. The mutant insects, blind to my presence, buzzed above my head, reminding me of their deformity and their complete deviation from the natural norm. Amidst the grotesque wonders of the Hanging Gardens, I stumbled upon a sight that chilled my blood: a tree, but not a common one. This tree was composed of muscles and skin, as if the wood of the trunk had split open to reveal rotting tissues twisting in reddish and blackish tones, permeating the air with a foul stench and oozing a yellowish pus that intensified the discomfort. Its roots, instead of sinking into the ground, resembled severed human limbs, with mutilated feet, fingers, and legs extending like twisted appendages in search of sustenance. At the top, instead of branches, an intricate bony lattice rose above the tree''s canopy, formed by bones torn from the rotten muscles that composed its being. It seemed that, instead of sap and resin, an amorphous mass of liquefied human bodies flowed within it, their putrefaction still exuding a sickly sweat. Though it boasted leaves among the distorted and deformed faces that adorned it, I hesitated to classify it as a plant; rather, it seemed like an aberrant creature, a mixture of life and decay. My amazement turned to horror when the tree, sensing my gaze, emerged from its lethargy and began to move, slowly but determinedly, on those mutilated human legs. I couldn''t discern if these limbs were an inherent part of its being or were grotesquely attached, as if they were defective appendages torn from torn human bodies and wrapped in dark skin that betrayed their human origin. The tree, however, showed no interest in me and, confused, settled onto the ground and began to sink its roots into the barren soil of the garden, as if seeking to re-establish itself. Its roots, deformed extensions of human legs, remained buried as the tree stood motionless, feeding solely on the decay of a desolate ground. Though my heart continued to beat strongly in my chest, I decided to ignore the presence of the tree, hoping not to encounter more of these strange aberrations of nature and fearing the potential consequences of provoking guardians like these in the Hanging Gardens. After this grotesque and unsettling encounter, I was fortunate to once again find the translucent plant that provided me with water, or rather, its saliva. I preferred to feed on insect fetuses and quench my thirst by drinking saliva than to die; the path I took was an even more macabre torment. However, it was evident that the constant influence of the "Two of Wands" kept me safe, for I understood that the sustenance from the Hanging Gardens was nothing but a form of contamination, a degeneration of the monument''s greatness, like ingesting pure oil. Besides the gangrenous poison that lurked around me, the "Agonal Breathing," whose fatal laceration was a constant threat, there was a sinister uncertainty that seized my mind: Would dying in this nightmare also mean death in reality? The symptoms of the poisonous gangrene plunged me into an agony that hinted at a grim fate, but I didn''t know if this poison, originating from the world outside Hanging Gardens, would have the same lethal effect outside this place. The line between nightmare and reality blurred before my eyes, challenging me to question the true nature of my existence here. The lack of need for sleep and the perpetual twilight in this place only heightened my confusion, leaving me trapped in a whim of uncertainty. What I did know was that the "Two of Wands" acted as an antidote against the corruption of Hanging Gardens, purifying my body from its malignant effects. Under a relentless rule, I watched as gangrene crept between my fingers, gradually spreading until it hid beneath my nails in a subtle retreat. My body seemed to be trapped in a perpetual state of illness, where the poison fought to extinguish me while the gangrene advanced, only to be suppressed and healed by the "Two of Wands". This process left my being exhausted beyond the physical, spiritually agitated to the point of recklessness. In some mysterious way, the "Two of Wands" activated passively, at least in my hands, though I sensed that its effect could come at a considerable cost in the future, perhaps even robbing me of my sanity. The truth was that the "Two of Wands" did not heal me individually, but its influence spread like a wave, uniformly curing the illness within me. However, this healing was not perpetual; when the disease reached a critical level, the "Two of Wands" would automatically activate, or in the face of abnormal increase in the degeneration of Hanging Gardens, heralding my downfall. Although it was inevitable that the contaminating spores would penetrate my lungs and cause additional havoc, the "Two of Wands" continued to work tirelessly to purify my body from the external corruption of Hanging Gardens. Amidst my madness, unanswered questions tormented me. What was it pursuing, and why was I compelled to ascend to the top of Hanging Gardens, without knowing what secrets they hid or what my role was in all of this? No one had explicitly told me; I simply felt dragged, seduced by a mysterious force towards an unknown destiny, towards the realization of something perhaps unspeakable. What horror loomed over Hanging Gardens? Even the Marquess, indirectly, seemed to await my reaching the end of this place, eager for me to discover something in her name. What was that? Ah, yes, now I remember: something called "Neanderthal" or something of the sort. Whatever it is, I know it''s important, something beyond my comprehension but possessing a unique and special significance, capable of influencing the course of destiny. I felt compelled to fulfil a purpose I didn''t understand, yet still, I felt enamoured to press on, without will, like a reanimated corpse. Trapped between the crushing weight of expectations and the illusory freedom, humans dance on the tumultuous stage of existence, portraying predetermined roles in a play whose script they never had a voice to sign. Forced to wear the mask of what is expected of them, they tread the narrow path of conformity, sacrificing their authenticity on the dark altar of social acceptance. However, in the silent rebellion against this imposed fate lies the spark of hope, the possibility of finding meaning in the denial of imposed norms. In this constant battle between what is expected and what is desired, the fundamental paradox of the human condition is revealed: in the tireless pursuit of freedom, we find ourselves bound by the invisible chains of others'' expectations. Chapter 56: Sculpture The Empty Mirror Chapter 56: Sculpture I wandered, Miss shrouded in black mourning, cloaked in a cape of imperial purple hue, upon whose neckline lay a choker imbued with curse. In my trembling hand rested a wizard''s staff, its tip cradling the mutilated extremity of a simian, while in the other, I wielded a knife of snowy blade. But above all, my hair displayed the white glow of the spectral, resembling a creature extracted from the most ominous corner of the human mind. However, no peculiarity in me rivaled the dread of Hanging Gardens. Even I, the embodiment of albino horrors, paled at the sight before me. Reaching a section of the gardens, I found myself engulfed in a dense fog, where motionless marble statues lay. Arranged in perfectly ordered rows, both horizontally and vertically, as if it were an exhibition of supernatural art, these figures displayed impeccable structure and sophisticated delicacy in their craftsmanship. Yet, these statues were nothing but replicas of each other, grotesque emanations of nocturnal terror, for they represented only the lower extremities of human beings. Someone here harboured a dark fetish for the mutilated parts of the human body, especially those that lie in the deepest darkness. Those statues resembled male legs, boasting a more masculine structure than feminine. The rows of these sculptures were composed of two male lower limbs, sculpted in marble, at least that''s how my sight perceived it, or rather, what they induced me to believe. Who knows what material those abominations were actually made of. The fact is that, despite their stony appearance, the marble surface accurately depicted the anatomy of human legs. You could even discern the hair covering them, like an expression of perfect art or a chilling dream, so realistic that I feared they were corporeal and simply whitewashed. Although the hair present on the legs was not excessively abundant, but barely enough to denote its presence, the statues were not entirely barefoot. Among them were some that, devoid of footwear, showed their feet and toes, nothing gloomy, just masculine legs with normal digits and a charming structure. However, other statues wore shoes: a pair of bulky white shoes, whose appearance, instead of stony, resembled stiff and dry leather. These deformed shoes had a bulbous tip, meticulously sculpted to the point of showing the untied laces, falling negligently to the ground. The sculptures, despite their marble appearance, exhibited a aspect that defied logic, a lipoid covering that eluded description in my words. Enigmatic and mysterious, these figures of human legs constituted an endless source of confusion in every aspect and detail. They seemed to simultaneously evade and assume a bulbous structure, although no genitals or any other defined features were discernible on the upper part of the legs. At first glance, they resembled statues of nude bodies, except those wearing shoes. However, their culmination was nothing but a repulsive and grotesque mass, swollen in appearance like a tumor in constant metamorphosis. It gave the impression that this marble mass was crawling, reveling on the surface of the statues, eager to collapse to the ground in a grotesque splash. Despite their limestone appearance, this shapeless mass seemed to pulsate and contort amidst gasps. Perhaps it was only the tension of the moment that induced me to perceive such movements. The legs, however, remained inert, although the fear persisted that those entities, which I considered statues, were actually living organisms, and that the apparent marble structure was a rigid and putrefied skin, akin to the leather of a white gangrene. In the midst of this macabre spectacle, I had no choice but to traverse the rows of statues to reach the next section of Hanging Gardens. Holding the staff firmly in sweaty hands, I feared these figures would start to move, to walk, to run after me. However, none of this happened. Only behind me, I could hear the sound of footsteps on a greasy surface. Without looking back, I continued my path between the endless rows of statues until reaching the next balcony. In the next scene, I witnessed the manifestation of two of those aforementioned trees, made of muscles, but I overlooked them, and of course, I avoided their proximity before they began to walk with their branches of deformed and arthritic bones, for indeed, they were branches composed of bone, decomposing and regrowing, in a cycle of excessive decomposition and bone regeneration, a deplorable aberration. Meanwhile, on the garden floor, the mould was beginning to proliferate. Gradually, its upward advance engulfed me in a walk where my steps splashed on a surface of mould with a moist, spongy, and hairy consistency. However, this mould did not exhibit the green hue of vomit that I had previously observed; instead, it adopted a deep brown colour, akin to a carpet in a state of decay, from which decomposition bubbles constantly emerged. The odour it emitted was a blend of decay and stagnant moisture, pungent enough to twist the stomach with disgust. The brown hue of the mould resembled the crust that forms at the bottom of a muddy swamp. In this walk, it became increasingly difficult to advance through such dense vegetation, holding the staff firmly while trying to continue my journey. Suddenly, the mould began to ascend my attire, enveloping me in its repulsive presence. If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Like clusters of mould mass, they writhed on my clothes in an attempt to ascend my body. These masses of mould were distinguished by their unique appearance: a wrinkled and curved mass, with furrows and folds, smooth and gelatinous, with a rough surface evoking the texture of an organ. This mould seemed to possess a dirtier colour, oscillating between shades of brown and grey, as it insidiously slid towards my body, without a defined purpose but with a malevolent intention. Realising this sinister invasion, I was overcome by a deep alarm and redoubled my efforts to flee. However, my body was quickly immobilised by the weight of the large clusters of greyish mould. Aware that I had no other choice, I decided to resort to "Hunger on Trial," focusing with forced calm amidst the gasping and panic. I extended my hand in a clenched fist, feeling the prominent blue veins on my delicate white skin. With a supreme effort, I uttered the name of the ability "Devourer of Souls," and, as I opened the palm of my hand with determination, I felt the suffocation of "Hunger on Trial." The tumultuous grip of the brown mould abruptly faded, and the clusters fell to the ground like withered living beings, acquiring a deeper grey in their apparent death. Free from the suffocating embrace of the mould, I did not hesitate to run with all my strength, fearful that the mould would try to ensnare me again. Reaching the tip of the garden, where the mould diluted into the spilled surface, I experienced immense relief at having escaped its lethal influence. Fortunately, the mould did not seem to possess a hive mind, but consisted of a cluster of independent beings, equally dangerous in their unrestrained voracity. Despite the adversities, I knew I had to continue, even amidst the perpetual twilight enveloping Hanging Gardens. I had already faced the unsettling statues and now the mould that eagerly attempted to invade my senses. However, the torments and affliction persisted, and I even feared for my own artifacts, as my experiences with "Hunger on Trial" and "Two of Wands" were still not entirely clear in my mind. Above all, after invoking the power of "Hunger on Trial," I felt the weight of hunger more intensely, as if those artifacts had stripped away a vital part of my essence. I felt fatigued, yet I could not discern the exact cause of my tiredness. As for "Two of Wands," I held it in higher esteem, as it was an extension of the will of "Ace of Wands," at least in my perception, and moreover, it continuously healed my wounds and gangrene. With this jumble of thoughts, I continued my journey, trusting to find food along the way, although my concern did not diminish. The membranous flutter of insects hovered over my thoughts, while the terraces, approximately 120 meters long and 40 meters wide, seemed to become a torment with each step. As I ascended, I noticed that the upper terraces became narrower, while leaving behind the lower ones of Hanging Gardens. However, the uncertainty about how many terraces I had ascended persisted, amidst my constant dread and lack of reference. Nevertheless, I pressed on, increasingly leaving the lower terraces behind on my way to the top. I pushed forward with all my strength, despite the exhaustion that engulfed me. However, this place, which the Marquise defined as a nightmare, or at least related to the interior of one, stood before me as a distorted version of reality. In Hanging Gardens, the perpetual twilight and the greyish mist that enveloped everything created a suffocating and unsettling atmosphere. I tried to fall asleep, but it was in vain; this place was the dream itself, while I lay asleep in reality. Fatigue overtook me in an unusual, inexplicable, and abnormal manner. In those moments, when the fatigue became unbearable, I was forced to stop and pretend to rest, although I knew that true rest would never come. However, what I feared most was the return of the vine, that ruthless creature that seemed to represent the greatest danger within Hanging Gardens. It even reveled in the annihilation of the giant insects that swarmed in this place. In comparison, I was just a insignificant fly before such a monstrosity. Fortunately, I had the powerful protection of "Hunger on Trial," thanks to which my choker did practically all the work. Without it, undoubtedly, I would have perished from the moment I entered Hanging Gardens. At this point, everyone would question what on earth is happening on this journey, and I myself am among the perplexed. I reached a forest, ventured into a castle, and, as one would expect, any romance with a supernatural being faded like the mist of forgetfulness. This story awaits to be unveiled, but now I find myself immersed in a nightmare, in a garden that serves as a monument to degeneration, trapped in a cenotaph of uncertainty. Of course, such a turn of events is as unusual as leaving the main conflict in the castle, like a whimsical child. However, this is the charm of the situation, a biting mockery meant to challenge any notion of credibility and mystery. Someone, undoubtedly, is having fun with this farce, laughing uproariously behind the veil of disbelief and enigma that shrouds everything, just like that castle, just like that man. Nothing is as it seems, nothing is as it appears, like a mischievous girl tearing apart the shelves of predictability with a flirtatious smile, adorned with grotesque lipstick. Deformed, abnormal, degenerate; a harlot, with a promiscuous gaze that defies all social conventions. As I wandered, I came across an unusual plant. Its roots, flexible and delicate, spread entwining in the ground, while its stem, weak and sickly, rose with a pale green hue. Along the stem, sharp and greenish leaves unfolded, so vivid they seemed painted with vomit. On the stem and scattered leaves, a subtle carmine hue was glimpsed, like lipstick, and freckles dotted the surface of the plant. However, the most striking aspect was the web that crowned the plant, a sort of spiderweb of remarkable dimensions compared to the fragile stem that supported it. The web seemed ancient and frayed, almost spectral, as if a mere breath of wind could carry it away. It moved with a slow lethargy, as if each moment were the plant''s last. Though large, the spiders inhabiting it were even more remarkable, with hairy, twisted legs hanging upside down like dormant tarantulas. They seemed to have been placed there, rather than having woven the web, for they lay motionless as if they were dead. With caution, I approached the plant, feeling how the web seemed to slowly close around me, as if it intended to trap me in its deadly embrace. The web opened before me like a rusted door, seemingly fragile but ready to ensnare me. With a sound that cut through the air, it closed forcefully, but my intuition made me stagger back. Perhaps the web was much sturdier than it appeared, with metallic threads weaving a trap cleverly disguised as vulnerability. The strands of the web seemed so sharp they cut through the very air; had I not retreated in time, I wouldn''t even have had the chance to invoke "Hunger on Trial" to save myself. I would have been shattered among the metallic threads of the web, my body dismembered and bloodied, torn and shredded in the loom of the Hanging Gardens. Chapter 57: Brass The Empty Mirror Chapter 57: Brass During my journey, I ventured along a path where the garden trees bore an apparently conventional appearance. Their trunks, of somber wood, stood majestically, while their canopies, shrouded in dark green, cast a haunting shadow. However, in this nightmare realm, normalcy took on grotesque nuances. Some gardens displayed a warm green, while others appeared withered, yet the quality they always shared was their bizarre essence, rendering them surreal spectacles in their own right. A bustling pathway wound its way through this nightmare scene, illuminated by a strange glow emanating from lanterns suspended among the trees. These oil lanterns seemed veiled in rust, flickering in a yellowish gleam that barely managed to penetrate the dense fog. They inevitably evoked memories of Esme''s lantern. They hung in great numbers, scattered among the sturdy branches of the trees, beyond my reach, as if the oil fueling their flame would never extinguish, condemned to radiate that dim light for eternity. Encased in an oil shell, these lanterns seemed to come to life, swaying and spinning in the air like hypnotic fireflies, defying the mist enveloping Hanging Gardens. Amidst this surreal encounter, stood some bushes with a peculiar appearance, their defiant shapes adding even more mystery to this macabre sight. The twisted thorny bushes, wrapped in a verdant surface brimming with vitality, stood out with a lighter shade of green compared to the canopies of the surrounding trees. Though of considerable size, they seemed to stir, moving and intertwining among the trunks with an inexplicable choreography. However, their movement did not seem to stem from their own will but rather directed by a supernatural force governing that lantern-lit pathway. The bushes approached me with their thorns, while I, unperturbed by their peculiarity, pushed them aside with my walking stick. The scene evoked the absurdity of a botched comedy, as if plucked from the most mundane passages of some dubious-quality joke book. Nevertheless, the bushes, indirectly, lacerated my skin with their thorns as they swirled around me, diverting me from the path I intended to follow, as if guided by the chilly wind carrying the sinister breath of loneliness. Some of them reached such heights that they obstructed my vision, plunging me into a green sea of yellowing leaves. However, after a long period of struggle, I managed to free myself from this vegetal labyrinth, reflecting on the journey that, while Hanging Gardens and the forest of anomaly were not so dissimilar in their extravagance, while "Ace of Wands" shielded me from the outside world, Hanging Gardens stood as a nightmare, an aberration seeking to snatch away my life with its spawn, in a constant state of agony. Across the terraces lay pools of stagnant, black water, like remnants of a never-happened rain. Amidst this amalgam of darkness, I spotted a stream that, at first glance, ignited hope in my heart of finding crystalline water, thanks to its subtle glow. However, as I approached, leaning on my walking stick, I discovered that its shine was more intense, yet more disturbing. Upon closer inspection, it revealed its secret: fish-like shapes that resembled automatons encased in metal. They moved with a metallic whisper, each of their motions resonating like gears in motion, gliding in a mechanical ballet. Their bodies, forged in rusted metal and brass, exposed their mechanical innards as they swam in circles. Their tails, reptilian-like, curved upwards in a simulation of eyebrows, tapering into sharp points, evoking the penetrating gaze of an eye. On their sides, each fish displayed a painted eye, its light blue iris fading amidst the rust, as if a memory of a forgotten sight. Thin, toothed metal zippers stood upright at the top, reminiscent of human eyelashes. When these fish crossed paths in their eternal dance, they seemed like a pair of eyes gazing into the soul of the hapless onlooker. With a captivating presence, despite their unsettling nature, these mechanical beings appeared destined to move thus for all eternity, independent of any power source, like silent guardians of a realm plunged into darkness. However, I noticed a peculiarity: they did not swim in water. That stream, instead of water, turned out to be a bed of crystals, and with that, my heart sank in disillusionment. Liquid hope faded in the face of the harsh reality of a torrent composed of tiny shards of glass. Though the crystal, transparent and enigmatic, managed to deceive from a distance, mimicking the waters that once flowed, it was nothing but a cruel mirage. Amidst the crystalline debris, the brass fish sailed with disdain, creating a cacophonous clamour as they collided with metal and glass in a symphony of discord, echoing in my ears like the lament of souls lost in the darkness. Standing by the stream, harsh reality imposed itself strongly, urging me to lean with caution to avoid falling into that sea of sharp crystals. The fragments, stirred by an invisible force, flowed like tumultuous waters. With a bare and trembling hand, I dared to take one of the crystals, so sharp and delicate that it seemed ready to cut my skin with the slightest carelessness. I decided to return it to its place of origin, aware of the latent danger it posed. The fish, distant amidst the labyrinth of transparent crystal, remained out of my reach, and I resigned myself to keep my distance, aware that approaching would only bring the risk of harm, with no benefit to justify the recklessness. Venturing into the terraces of Hanging Gardens, I left the stream behind and encountered a surprising sight: a waterfall that defied all laws of nature. It was not an ordinary waterfall, flowing downwards, but one that rose towards the sky from the depths of the underground, like an upward stream towards the heavens, vanishing into the ether. This marvel left me perplexed, for what flowed from it was not water but a black, viscous substance, resembling oil gushing from the bowels of the earth. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. This relentless flow defied gravity, degenerating into a grotesque manifestation of nature. The current splashed with its black and bizarre foam, impregnating all vegetation with a necrotic and dangerously alkaline substance. The viscosity of this substance challenged physical norms, as it did not flow like a conventional liquid, nor did it possess usual density. Instead, it behaved like an inverted waterfall, a jet of oil emerging from the depths of the darkest abyss. This substance, devoid of order and not occupying all available space, defied all logic and understanding. It did not expand indefinitely or mix with its surroundings but remained as an enigmatic and disturbing presence in the midst of the garden. Avoiding the black jet fading into the ether, I stumbled upon a cave whose twisted contours resembled the bones of the very abyss, an open mouth to the depths of hell. A stench of decay permeated the air, invading the senses with its nauseating presence. The cave''s skin was covered in suppurating pustules and open sores, oozing a viscous and repugnant liquid, akin to the black jet that preceded it. The atmosphere was laden with an acrid and putrid smell, while the ground, covered in a fatty substance, writhed like larvae in a macabre vortex. Every step in this underground enclosure was an experience that challenged sanity and tested the resilience of the soul. Yet, it seemed a safer refuge than the exposure of Hanging Gardens. Therefore, despite the risk of being buried in this cave, I decided to stop for a moment to rest. With the walking stick leaning on the ground and my arms wrapped around my legs, I sought respite amidst the oppressive journey. But my brief relief was interrupted by strange noises emanating from the cave''s interior. As I attempted to leave out of concern, I found myself being pulled further inside, while the fatty ground flowed like a swarm of larvae. It was then that, on the surface of the cave, I glimpsed an egg, an ominous presence that foreshadowed danger and triggered a new chapter in my harrowing odyssey. On the threshold of the grotesque and the surreal stood an egg of considerable dimensions, its cracked shell revealing an interior that seemed to be slowly disintegrating. A viscous and sticky mass oozed from the egg''s edges, dripping with a repugnant consistency that defied all logic. The once smooth and gleaming surface is now marked by cracks and protrusions that seem to come to life. A pungent and putrid odour emanates from its interior, filling the air with an ominous and nauseating presence. Every movement of the egg produces a dull, bubbling sound, as if it were struggling to contain the mass writhing within. It''s a spectacle that defies reason and disturbs the senses, an aberration of nature that teeters on the thin line between the living and the dead, the real and the unreal. To my astonishment and horror, I was paralysed as I witnessed the birth of a monstrosity from within the egg. Although I had already witnessed the emergence of grotesque creatures in the bowels of Hanging Gardens, the pressure of the moment caused me to lose my composure. However, in a desperate frenzy, I managed to regain control and, without hesitation, fled the cave, not allowing the monstrosity to gain the upper hand. I barely caught a glimpse of its upper part before fleeing, leaving behind that macabre spectacle unfolding on the threshold of sanity. The creature''s head is a twisted amalgamation, with a prominent skull that curves backward, endowed with a sloping forehead denoting sinister intelligence. Its jaw, powerful and strong, holds an open mouth, filled with uneven, sharp fangs oozing black, viscous saliva, akin to burning tar. The eyes, situated on the sides of the head, are sunken in empty sockets, surrounded by a mucous membrane that gleams with a sickly light, as if emanating from the very depths of hell. They resemble lifeless white pearls, clustered around the sockets, as if the creature were deprived of sight, plunged into eternal darkness. The nose, flattened and deformed, barely protrudes among the grotesque features of its face, while the ears, large and pale pink inside, stand as mobile sentinels, capable of picking up the most imperceptible sounds in their surroundings. They taper to a point, covered in hair, like the rest of its face and possibly its body, which is enveloped in black, coarse fur, imbued with grease and degeneration. It''s an image that defies all logic and disturbs the mind, an incarnation of horror twisting in the shadows, lurking in the darkest recesses of reality. I fled the cave without stopping to contemplate that monstrosity, feeling the creature''s breath on my back as I ran at full speed. Compared to the horrors I had already faced, like the deformed insect and the voracious vine, this creature seemed to be faster despite its grotesque size and deformity. In contrast, the monster distending its stomach didn''t even seem interested in pursuing me, appearing before me with slow, deliberate movements, as if it lacked concerns. This new aberration, however, demonstrated surprising speed and agility, with long and nimble legs far surpassing those of a human being. Without a second thought, I threw myself into the undergrowth growing beneath the balcony, suffering only minor injuries thanks to the walking stick which, like steel, withstood the impact without damage. The dense vegetation cushioned my fall, protecting me from an even crueler fate. From the upper terrace, a path of stone rubble opened downwards, and I dashed down it without hesitation. However, the creature did not falter and within seconds, it was on the same terrace as I, lurking from the balcony. It had descended gliding with its wings, revealing its complete aberration before my astonished eyes. This monstrosity possessed a broad and muscular chest, granting it the necessary strength to climb and move with agility among the tree branches. Its well-developed ribcage housed vital internal organs, if this creature indeed had such organs and not bulging masses of bloody flesh inside, corrupt organs defying all understanding. It adopted an upright posture, giving its chest a distinctive shape compared to other mammals, if it could even be classified as such, given its monstrous and perplexing appearance. Its hands, highly specialised upper limbs, were adapted for a wide range of functions. With five fingers, including an opposable thumb that allowed for precise object grasping, and long, black nails resembling sharp claws. The palm of the hand had a fleshy pad that provided cushioning and facilitated gripping. The fingers, equipped with flexible joints, allowed for extensive mobility to manipulate objects with skill and perform complex tasks. Additionally, the skin of its hands, deep black and rough-textured, was highly sensitive to touch, enabling it to perceive textures and temperatures accurately in its environment. Its feet, of extraordinary strength, are designed to propel it at dizzying speeds. Each one has two long, sturdy toes, topped with a large black nail. These nails, firm and sharp, not only contribute to the creature''s balance but also provide formidable defence against any threats it may encounter. The skin covering them is thick and scaly, resilient enough to propel its imposing body during its races across the land, capable of inflicting irreparable damage in case of attack or defence. Chapter 58: Whip of Vitality The Empty Mirror Chapter 58: Whip of Vitality The hue of his skin is of a sickly, pale pink, contrasting with the hair that covers his body entirely, a black, undulating mane resembling large feathers. However, his chest presents an exception, devoid of hair on the pectorals and abdomen, revealing a smooth, naked surface. His eyes, pearlescent and lifeless, suggest blindness that forces him to rely on scent and echolocation, skills he hones with his large, hairy ears, whose pale and delicate membranes help him perceive the world around him. Yet, the most enigmatic aspect of that creature was a pair of wings, membranous and formed by a thin, elastic skin that extended between the fingers of its upper limbs and its body. This membrane, akin to human hand skin but much thinner and more elastic, granted him the ability to glide, although his wings were short and wide, of a deep, enigmatic black like the darkest night. However, they seemed defective and deformed, like everything inhabiting the Hanging Gardens, struggling to glide rather than flying with grace and skill. As I hid among the foliage, fearing discovery by the creature lurking in the garden, I tightly grasped the "Two of Wands" staff, my heart pounding and nervous sweat beading on my forehead. Despite the silence surrounding me, the creature, hatched from a putrid shell, sensed me. With a sharp, guttural cry, it lunged towards me, gliding with all its might to rend me in a grotesque death, its wingspan reaching at least 2.5 meters. Its mouth was lined with long, sharp, broken teeth, and in its saliva, I could see my own reflection, a grim omen of the impending doom looming over me. Yet, the thought of departing so easily did not dwell in my mind, or rather, "Hunger on Trial" would not allow its bearer to succumb so soon. Thus, on the brink of oblivion, while pondering how to fend off the assault, with my reasoning slower than the monster''s onslaught, I experienced a sudden tug on my neck, so vehement that it felt as if my cervical vertebrae were about to dislocate. Then, the sharp and unsettling sounds of hungry teeth resonated, on the verge of devouring, indeed, the immediate onslaught of "Bite". However, the attack did not have the desired effect, as it was not directed by me, but by the passive force of "Hunger on Trial", the one that watches over its bearer, effective, although now the curse loomed with unyielding firmness. Still, in my predicament, the onslaught proved effective, as the creature, being so close, succumbed to the force of the bite. The ruthless "Bite" tore and dismembered one of the creature''s limbs in mid-air as it lunged towards my position. In a choked, hoarse lament, the creature writhed in convulsions on the barren grass. I, of course, harboured not the slightest intention of granting it a chance to regain composure after the attack. However, instead of resigning itself and accepting its fate, the creature began to crawl painfully with its hands and the sole remaining leg, slowly rising as its mutilated limb lay in a pool of blood like tar. Faced with such a heart-wrenching scene, I felt compelled to act. I had considered once more resorting to "Hunger on Trial" to deliver the final blow and end its suffering once and for all. But this option proved unfeasible, for, as expected, I had already used the choker previously, unleashing the power of the curse in a moment of desperation. Now, with the passive bite activated, the curse accompanying the choker became even more sinister and menacing. Even in the midst of this horrifying trance, I felt my insides twisting with insatiable hunger. Undoubtedly, resorting once more to the power of the choker would entail a fate both dire and indescribable. However, amid my deliberations, which lasted but a moment, like a blinkˇ­ The horrendous creature spread its membranous wings in a sinister flutter, poised to consummate my execution. With a heart pounding with fear, I turned my back and ran. However, the outcome was tragic and surprising, for despite its mutilated limb, its charge proved fatal for me. It lunged with wings outstretched and landed close to my back, triggering a surge of panic and adrenaline within me. I tightly gripped the knife in my hands and attempted to wield the blade to strike the aberrant monster. However, as I tried to pierce the skin of its belly, I felt my wrist give way instantly, almost causing me to drop the weapon. The creature''s skin was rough and rigid, preventing the blade from penetrating beyond a slight scratch. Meanwhile, the force''s impact on my hand twisted my wrist, plunging me into sharp pain. The beast, with graceful deliberation, swiftly rose, its slightly short wings extending its claws towards me with the intention of tearing my skin apart. Its jaws threatened to devour me, but fortunately, we were now sufficiently separated for its claws not to reach me. The mere idea of its overwhelming bulk was enough to grasp the danger it posed; the simple fact that its body would bear down on mine was enough to seal my fate, such was the disparity between us. I staggered back, aware that this time I could not escape. I had to end this here and now, while the beast lay wounded. With determination and longing, I called upon the "Two of Wands", fervently wishing it would defend me with a relentless attack against the creature. Feeling my spirit merge with the staff, I watched as the beast approached, extending its long claws. Channeling the energy of the staff, I quickly meditated and, with a fluid movement, spun the staff over my head, tracing an arc in the ether as if guided by mysterious hands. A supernatural sensation washed over me as the staff moved through the air, forming a spiral of pale green and golden light that snaked and flowed like a magical touch. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. At the top of the staff, the amputated simian paw seemed to bleed at the edges of the fingertips and in the red circle of the palm, forming an artistic gesture implying a range of emotions, from sadness to happiness. This gesture, resembling a claw or a crab''s mouth, held a wealth of meanings, like an archery lesson. The gesture involved the thumb bending inward and positioning against the base of the index finger, while the other three fingers remained extended and separated. The hand took on a slight curvature, shaping a form reminiscent of a beak or a hook. The paw seemed to want to hold a necklace of pearls or flowers, to hold a disc, but everything was subject to the interpretation of the uninitiated. These intertwined and simultaneous emotions manifested in a single hand movement, revealing the complexity of the human soul. With a sudden snap of the staff, the spiral of light materialised into a whip of magical energy, extending forward with a resonant hum. The whip, gleaming and radiant, sliced through the air with a sharp hiss as it lunged towards the target enemy with impeccable precision. Upon impact, the whip engulfed the target in a flash of magical energy, inflicting physical damage and, simultaneously, imbuing a sense of stagnation in its growth and regeneration. The creature, stiff and defenceless, seemed to experience its vitality gradually fading away, weakening under the influence of the power of involution. Its body appeared marked by a genuine leather whip near the belly, its strength fading into the ether. Blood from its mutilated paw flowed incessantly, where wounds refused to heal, causing an unstoppable hemorrhage. The creature, as if deprived of all life, lay pale and still, as if death itself had claimed it. It was such a sudden moment that I could scarcely believe what my eyes witnessed: a single, precise whip strike, swift and subtle, stripping it of all vitality and condemning it to a state of irreversible decay. Finally, the whip faded into the air, leaving behind a trail of magical energy dissipating slowly as I prepared for my next move. Amidst wails of horror and in the midst of an insatiable frenzy, I found myself compelled to approach the corpse, lying inert without a doubt. Despite the vertigo threatening to make me faint, I succumbed to desperate impulse and dire necessity, and began to devour the monster''s body. I once again drew my knife and, upon the wound inflicted by the magical whip near its belly, prepared to open the creature''s skin and flesh. After several attempts and finally cutting through the creature''s rough and rigid skin, I watched as blood as black as tar gushed from its body in a copious hemorrhage, mixed with clots. With vomit rising in my throat, I proceeded to eviscerate the creature, cutting with trembling hands and the knife, delving into its entrails and devouring them. My hands quickly stained red, my mouth and dress smeared with blood. I chewed and swallowed the flesh with disgust, savouring its unpleasant texture, as if I were eating pieces of damp leather. It was so rough and tough that it could barely be chewed, and my human teeth seemed to reject it, but I had no other option. The curse of "Hunger on Trial" caused an insatiable hunger in me as a side effect of its blessings. I devoured the corpse with revulsion until my appetite was sated, thus avoiding the fate of the choker. I drank its blood and ate its flesh, but instead of quenching my thirst, it left a bitter, metallic aftertaste in my mouth and throat. I could not quench my thirst; I was in a state of perpetual thirst and decay. Amid bites of this extravagant fare, I christened the staff''s ability as the "Whip of Vitality". At the same time, I confirmed the influence of the "Two of Wands" to purify the degeneration of the Hanging Gardens, whose corruption infects the plants and creatures that thrive within it. Who knows what horrors this degeneration would cause in the human body, but nothing pleasant, perhaps bodily mutations and the purest physical horror. Therefore, I was deeply grateful to the "Two of Wands" for exorcising that corruption from my being as I fed on the creatures of the Hanging Gardens. However, every blessing comes with its curse, and mine were not long in coming. An unstoppable force distorted the shape and structure of my body. I looked at my hands, with gangrene spreading between my nails, while the monkey paw of the staff manifested its curse upon me. My hand turned into an oversized limb, my bones seemed to expand and rearrange themselves into a grotesque bone mutilation. The bones elongated and the phalanges deformed, taking on a closer appearance to bony flesh and cartilage. The skin of my hand became like an old leather glove, barely covering the bones twisting beneath. The pain was unbearable, gut-wrenching; I began to cry and scream with all my might, until I was hoarse and writhing in pain on the ground. My tears fell upon the Hanging Gardens as I felt my eye sockets sinking into my skull. The pain was so monstrous and aberrant that it seemed to try to hinder my interaction with the outside world. Amidst the most grotesque agony I had ever experienced, supposedly, I fell unconscious. Upon coming to, I was unaware of how much time had passed in the abyss. The first thing I did was to check the condition of my hand, and to my surprise, it seemed to be unscathed. The bones, skin, and flesh were intact. I moved it cautiously and only experienced slight discomfort, barely a tingling sensation, as if I had suffered a minor injury. I almost believed I was delirious, but what convinced me of my sanity was the presence of calluses on my hands, areas of thickened and hardened skin that had cracked, perhaps as a result of interaction with the staff. They were rough and somewhat painful due to the cracks, and they seemed to have a yellowish tint resembling pus, although they posed no real danger. I woke with my heart racing in my chest, drenched in sweat all over my body. I doubted whether I had truly lost consciousness, for it felt as if I had been plunged into a double deep sleep, within a nightmare. Perhaps the agonising pain had plunged me into a state of rigid madness on the ground, unable to move. However, for some reason, whether due to the pain or some supernatural force, my memories were clouded, as if my mind were trying to protect my sanity. Nevertheless, to my dismay, all the deformity in my bones was an undeniable reality, nothing but a cruel curse imposed by the "Two of Wands". Chapter 59: Experience The Empty Mirror Chapter 59: Experience In the vast panorama of the occult, a dichotomy between two mystical artifacts could be glimpsed: "Hunger on Trial" and the sceptre "Two of Wands". While the former leans towards offense, inflicting passive damage with relentless precision, the latter is dedicated to defense and vitality restoration. In the scale of comparisons, the choker would rise above the staff, as a duality emerged between both objects. "Hunger on Trial" boasted intrinsic precision and power, but stability marked the greatest difference. The choker exerted a more refined control over its blessings and curses; the hunger it awakened was sustainable and relatively remediable, although the fear of being consumed in one bite always loomed. On the other hand, the staff "Two of Wands" was prey to instability. The will that seemed to emerge from the forest permeated the relationship with the staff. While it soothed wounds and neutralized deadly poisons, its unpredictable nature posed a challenge. It exorcised the corruption of Hanging Gardens from my being, but its curse plunged me into mutation and degradation, like a contradiction in its very essence. Protection and torment intertwined in a dark musical, stitched by the veins of the supernatural. Like a deranged lover, "Two of Wands" conquers you with promises of love and envelops you in its possessive and hostile embrace. It''s an amalgam of contradictions and abnormalities, where restraint seems a distant echo. Sometimes, its touch is torment that transforms into healing, in a grotesque and surreal process that twists reality. Other times, its energy seeps into my being, but its suffocating presence turns my nostrils into thickets and trees shaped like women. It''s a healing that, in its excess, threatens to devour life itself, or unleashes delusions and phobias that corrode my sanity. It''s an embodied paradox, distant from the loving touch of "Ace of Wands". Regarding the choice of the name "Whip of Vitality" for the staff''s second ability, the reasons are both evident and hidden. Its ethereal form resembles a whip that strikes the skin like the hooves of a runaway horse. This whip leaves its victims marked by death instantly, at least the abominable creatures of the Hanging Gardens. The irony lies in the contrast between the name and its effect, for far from kindling vitality, its attack is a manifestation of individual hostility, inflicting an anti-healing effect and a loss of vitality that submerges wounds in pestilent waters and corrodes the body towards involution. With these accounts in mind, I am about to draft a report on "Two of Wands", following the presentation established by the Marquess. But before proceeding, it is necessary to narrate a peculiarity of "Hunger on Trial", one that has left me perplexed on more than one occasion. For, according to my experiences, if we can call them that, understanding experience as an amalgam of perceptions channelled through the senses of our ephemeral biological existence, interpreting it as the information flowing from the outside world to our own physiognomy, and the reflection that arises in response to such perceptions. With these words, I found the impression that the cursed choker seemed limited in its attacks only towards biological entities, towards those beings endowed with life. It''s not so much about the incapacity to corrode steel with its bite, but rather how its abilities, so to speak, are intimately linked to the victim rather than the bearer of the artifact. Allow me to explain: when "Hunger on Trial" was unleashed against the insectoid aberration on the outskirts of the Hanging Gardens, its attack was tailored to the very nature of its target. It wasn''t a subtle thrust or an unrestrained outburst, but rather a proportional act, as if being guided by a force beyond the bearer. On that occasion, I wasn''t even aware of using the choker effectively; I simply activated its ability in proportion to the challenge at hand. The same happened with the vine; an attack with the same ferocity directed towards the giant insects wouldn''t have been sufficient to confront this new threat. Thus, it executed a proportionate assault, adapting to the nature of its opponent in each encounter. However, this phenomenon of proportional attack, as I''ve mentioned, manifested independently of the bearer. Something beyond the user''s consciousness seemed to guide the intent of "Hunger on Trial". And here comes into play a theory that lurks in the shadows of the mind: the very essence of the choker is imbued with hunger, a voracity that transcends the simple act of wearing it. In this deductive analysis, we discard the presence of the bearer as the epicentre of influence, for any attack directed at the enemy triggered in the bearer an equally voracious sensation, in proportion to the quantity and complexity of skills employed, but not to the magnitude of the adversary. Consequently, the influence didn''t emanate from the hungry bearer, but rather from the victim. And in the dark confines of the Hanging Gardens, where nature disintegrates and corrupts, the voracity of the insects equals the threat they pose. It''s as if we were to say that the hungrier you are, the more intoxicated you feel; that''s the inherent proportion in the aberrant essence of the Hanging Gardens. Therefore, the victim''s voracity translates directly into the level of inflicted danger, as if the enemy''s threat were balanced with the damage caused. However, this is based solely on a theory, a complex construct of imagination where laws of association are shaped, grouping related ideas to determine the impact of hunger, threat, and critical damage. Now, let''s continue with the analysis of the staff. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. "Two of Wands" emerges as a magically imposing staff, imbued with tangible power that transcends the mundane. Forged from the weathered wood of a tree forgotten by time, its surface bears intricate engravings that encapsulate the very essence of the universe''s flow. From its roots to its peak, the staff seems to pulse with its own life; its double spiral structure is a twisted staircase to doom, with leaves and buds that emerge and vanish in an eternal cycle of renewal. At its apex, writhing like a manifestation of torment, rests a monkey''s paw judged and disfigured, stained with dark red at the fingertips and the palm''s centre, its dry and dull fur merging with the staff''s wood in a grotesque symbiosis. The monkey''s paw, sometimes clenched in a macabre fist and other times open in a deformed palm, is infested with rotten flesh and hemorrhagic larvae writhing in a dance of decay, awaiting to be kindled. Its sharp and twisted nails, blackened by death, seem eager to tear the bearer''s flesh or disfigure it beyond recognition. Blessings (Abilities): 1. Fertility Shield (Area Defence): With a vigorous gesture, the staff radiates an expansive wave of magical energy that envelops all allies in a glowing halo. This shield, woven with the very threads of life, not only protects against enemy onslaughts but also nourishes and strengthens those within its radius. Wounds heal swiftly, and the allies'' resilience is magnified, endowing them with renewed fortitude and rejuvenated vitality, with a probability just shy of 50%. 2. Whip of Vitality (Single Target Attack): By channeling the essence through the staff, the bearer unleashes a spiral of pale green and golden light that materialises into a whip of magical energy. This whip, sharp as a surgeon''s scalpel, projects precisely towards an individual target. Upon impact, it not only inflicts physical damage but also implants in the target a sensation of stagnation in their own process of growth and renewal. Wounds heal slowly, and the enemy''s vitality gradually fades, weakening them as the power of involution descends upon them, with a probability exceeding 50%. Curses (Negative Side Effects): 1. Uncontrolled Growth: This curse manifests as an unleashed force that distorts the flesh and bones of the bearer. As the staff channels its energy, the user''s body may begin to grotesquely expand, resulting in monstrously oversized limbs, bulging torsos, and distorted facial features. This painful and disfiguring metamorphosis turns the bearer into an aberrant creature, hindering their interaction with the outside world and their peers. 2. Magical Instability: Unbridled energy lurks within the bearer of the "Two of Wands", threatening to unleash the staff''s magical power explosively. In moments of intense concentration or emotion, the accumulated energy can escape uncontrollably, wreaking havoc on the user and their surroundings. These sudden bursts of power leave the bearer exhausted and vulnerable, unable to master their own abilities and exposed to unexpected dangers. 3. Psychological Disfigurement: This insidious curse infects the mind of the bearer of the "Two of Wands", causing hallucinations and disturbing visions. Immersed in the connection with the cycles of life and evolution, the user may be assaulted by dreamlike landscapes and ghostly figures that blur the line between reality and illusion. This mental confusion leaves the bearer at the mercy of their own distorted perceptions, plunging them into an abyss of alienation and unease. The initial description of the staff is based on when my eyes first set upon it, it was as if time itself stood still. The amputated monkey''s paw, in its initial state of inactivity, seemed like a forgotten relic, its stiffened joints barely responding to touch. Would the staff and its companion, the monkey''s paw, come alive again upon finding a new bearer? Its ancient appearance suggested a history lost in the shadows of time, but I was unsure if its weathered look was the result of prolonged neglect or an inevitable process of decomposition upon separation from the bearer. I could only theorise, let my mind wander into the mysteries surrounding that enigmatic object. As for the second attack, the whip, I considered it an individual threat, aimed with surgical precision at a single target. I chose to employ a binary approach, following the example of the Marquess, calculating the probabilities of success with a margin of uncertainty greater and lesser than fifty percent. Was the Marquess''s strategy based on criteria beyond that threshold? It was an enigma that I could only solve through my own experience, relying on my ability to adapt to changing circumstances. The shield, on the other hand, stood as an impenetrable bulwark against enemy assaults. Its protective aura enveloped me in a dome of safety, where no threat seemed capable of penetrating, at least in theory. My conclusions about the curses were based on an analysis biased by my limited experience, although I had not yet faced any of them really directly. However, the first signs of mental deterioration were beginning to manifest, feeding my fears about the staff''s stability and its influence on my fate. My hand transformed into a worn leather glove, then revived, was just the prelude to a series of mental challenges that left me exhausted. Was "Two of Wands" the reflection of my own instability, or was it simply a coincidence in the chaotic universe in which I found myself trapped? After the skirmish with that monster of bulging chest and rough fur, I continued my journey towards the peak of the Hanging Gardens. Although time seemed to stretch into eternity, each step barely brought me closer to the desired goal. During this odyssey, I found myself compelled to feed on those unborn beings, questioning my own nature in the process. Had I become some sort of witch devouring unborn creatures? Despite consuming those depraved foetuses, the monster that emerged from its shell did not seem freshly arrived in the world. Was it hiding inside that egg, waiting to lure unsuspecting prey like an aborted fetus returning to the maternal womb? Perhaps, or perhaps not. Maybe they simply emerged from the embryo as fully formed adults, unlike insects that transform in the blink of an eye. In the course of my pilgrimage, I came across another specimen similar to the monster born from the egg, although fortunately at a prudent distance, devouring trees composed of muscle and flesh. It was then that I realised that the Hanging Gardens were nothing more than an open-air latrine, for urinating and defecating, where the physiological needs of human beings still persisted, except for sleep. Chapter 60: Creeper The Empty Mirror Chapter 60: Creeper The reason that compelled my pen to name the vegetation giving rise to grotesque insects as "Cursed" is nothing but a reflection of the entirety of the Hanging Gardens, a landscape and monument steeped in curse in every aspect. With its deformities and atrocities, its degeneration and peculiarity, "Cursed" emerges as an epitome of the Hanging Gardens themselves, transcending the mere title I''ve bestowed upon one of its specimens to embrace the very essence of the Hanging Gardens. However, I cannot ignore the fact that such bulbous plant, whose womb harbours life, is indeed an omen of fortune and an avenue of escape for the biological aberrations that lie within this mortuary. These placental sacs, as I prefer to call them, are the epicentre of gestation for the horrifying creatures that populate this gloomy place. As I delve into the study of these placental plants, the cursed nature of the gardens and their enigmas becomes evident, as well as the symbiotic relationship with their specimens. The placental plants act as gestating wombs for these monstrosities, housing within them the genetic material of the giant insects. If I manage to discern any beneficial relationship between the insects and the vine, using the placental sacs as an ointment, it could signify a favourable turn in my destiny and grant me an unsuspected advantage. This idea sprouted in the recesses of my troubled mind in a moment of deep reflection. I concluded that in this realm of nightmare, the only path to ascend towards the peak and validate theories, rather than formulate them, was through experimentation and the experience that such audacity would offer. Therefore, I decided to experiment with the curse lurking in the gardens, employing magical artifacts, the choker, and the staff. Leveraging my proximity and resources, I stealthily approached one of the gestating plants, secluded from the conglomerate, ensuring it appeared vulnerable and unlikely to spawn in the near future. Lurking, I approached and, with the sharp blade of the knife, pierced it. I penetrated its entrails, unveiling the gestation of one of those corpulent insects, wrapped in a placental chorion. I utilised the "Bite" attack of the magical artefact "Hunger on Trial", directing the strike with precision and determination. At the initial contact, I glimpsed the possibility that my theory regarding the proportionality of the attack was plausible. The magnitude of the threat seemed to be proportional to the victim''s hunger and, consequently, to the critical damage inflicted by the choker. However, aware of the imprecision of this initial test, I did not place all my trust in it. My assumptions, though grounded in observations, were just that: mere conjectures about a phenomenon beyond my full understanding. With the inspiration granted by the "Two of Wands" staff and the invocation of the "Whip of Vitality" ability, I ventured into a sequence of events that, while proving fruitful in their outcomes, was a whirlwind of experiences and discoveries. I outlined a faint theory upon observing that the "Whip of Vitality" attack seemed to feed solely on living beings, sapping their vitality and leaving them in a state of stagnant health, unable to heal. Thus, when applying this ability to the fetus resulting from gestation within the plant''s entrails, it was shattered with the first strike of "Hunger on Trial", and now, completely corrupted by the power of "Whip of Vitality". My first test subject had become useless, so I was compelled to repeat the process. I located another gestating plant with the same characteristics and, with meticulousness and determination, proceeded to exterminate it, delving into its entrails and experimenting with the fetuses, often encountering more than one. I deformed and mutilated them in various ways in my desperate quest for answers to my afflictions. Throughout, I exercised caution, both with the specimens and the magical artefacts, and my own safety. I moved stealthily and fearfully among the bushes, satisfying my basic needs to avoid succumbing to the curses of both magical objects. I attempted to evade the side effects with hope as my only ally, even as my trembling hands were covered in sores and crusts, my palms full of calluses opened in pus and gangrene, whose wounds were slow to heal due to the friction and use caused by the staff. The skin of my neck, nearly torn by the choker, exhibited signs of extreme dryness, crust-like in appearance, a consequence of the prolonged use of "Hunger on Trial". However, these very afflictions made me more cautious and less fearful of the curses of both artefacts, always seeking a balance between the knowledge gained and the risks faced. Engaged in a perpetual game of hide-and-seek, I plunged into an endless cycle of unmet needs and painful experiments, healings and mutilations. This state of constant affliction and quest for answers in the Hanging Gardens stood as the most harrowing and distressing chapter of my odyssey. I do not know how much time passed in this state of decay and forced vitality, immersed in despair to find salvation. In the gardens, dusk was eternal, shrouded by a perpetual mist that enveloped every corner. My senses sharpened at each stimulus, except sleep, which refused to visit me in this endless nightmare. My counterfeit hours were consumed in a whirlwind of frenetic activity, without a moment of true rest. Sanity slowly faded, making room for paranoia and delusions of persecution, which relentlessly haunted me in every corner of my makeshift study. Despite it all, I persisted in my tireless quest, fuelled either by ingrained habit or by the spark of hope that still beat in my heart. I continued my almost frenzied analysis until I finally glimpsed results. But my victory seemed questionable, as the "Two of Wands" staff was corrupted by an insectual secretion, a desperate cry for help that resonated as my last hope against my enemy in the Hanging Gardens. Finally, I concluded my inquiry with results that infused hope, traversing Hangings Gardens once again with renewed determination after my previous stagnation. However, as I progressed, the shoots and vines rose like bulbous tendrils, lurking among the debris and tortuous paths of the garden. In the shadows, that creature emerged slowly, and I knew it had been watching me from the shadows, fearful of the power of "Hunger on Trial". If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. I came to a sudden stop as I watched the vine twist and meld with the hive mind, transforming into a dusk giant towering over the monument. It was the final showdown, the rematch between the monstrosity of the Hanging Gardens and a fearless blasphemer. The battle unfolded with dizzying speed, scaling the slopes of the garden. I remained in a raised position, impassive, resigned to my fate. I knew fleeing was futile; in the blink of an eye, it would reach me and subject me to its will. The nature of the vine was that of a torturous executioner, tearing into the entrails of its victims and slowly suffocating them. A slow, agonising torment awaited me, one that could last an eternity if it so desired. This time, despite its primitive intellect, I would evade the critical damage of "Hunger on Trial" and satiate its insatiable appetite with my suffering. I knelt on the earth, awaiting my imminent fate of being decapitated by the vine, whose strands gleamed as if forged in brass. This noble metal, an amalgam of different elements, symbolised unity and strength, promoting mental clarity like the wise drawn from the depths of the earth. The blacksmith, akin to a priest of the power of metal, knew the secrets of metallurgy by exploring the bowels of the earth, where fire and forge gave life to new creations. In my desperation, I sought a ray of hope beneath the surface, focusing my faith on finding that shining metal that could save me. I grasped the staff with my aching hands, and the monkey paw began to tremble as if pricked by a dirty needle. Blood welled from the fingertips and formed a circle in the palm of the paw, while a divine glow materialised before me, a secretion crying out for help, like a plea for rescue in the night. Meanwhile, in the skies of the Hanging Gardens, a swarm of giant insects congregated like a horde of locusts, advancing towards my position with insatiable voracity. Their heavy wings beat the air, some falling under their own weight while others mutated, hungry and thirsting for blood, ferociously closing in on the guiding plant with their bulbous stems. In my role as a herbalist, I witnessed this macabre spectacle with fear and determination. The creeper slid over the stone structure of the monument like a torrent of yellowish vomit, but it was already too late when some of those giant insects emerged from among the tops of the colossi and from the very structure of the Hanging Gardens. Their bulging and deformed bodies moved with grotesque rigidity, some plants broke like fountains sprouting from a pregnant belly, and these creatures emerged from among them, deformed and crawling on the ground before taking flight towards the creeper, which I will call: Creeper. However, the creeper was cornered. The insects waved their proboscises and wings, mutating their greasy bodies to devour the Creeper, but it defended itself with its distorted forms. With its flexible stems, it trapped the insects and, showing no mercy, mutilated them and emptied their entrails. The last ones groaned in their final throes, but they persisted, blinded by hunger and instinct, following my call for help. Starving, some insects piled up and began to consume the Creeper, but it reacted quickly, annihilating them with ease. More and more vines emerged from the hive mind, joining the battle and forming an impenetrable herbaceous mass, like a dome growing incessantly. Even around me, the vines sprouted from the cracks in the marble, ignoring me as they joined the Creeper''s vomit, which seemed to be influenced by my call for help, defending the very nature of the Hanging Gardens with its insatiable hunger. Although the creeper seemed starved, it refused to feed, knowing that only the insects feasted in that bacchanal of voracity. Quickly, more and more insects were born and converged towards the sensory essence of the Creeper. There were so many that even some, in the ether, splattered fleshily to the ground, like a rain of fat. Consequently, the Creeper faced increasingly greater difficulties. When the SOS signal seemed to slowly fade away, I understood it was my last hope, my final call for help, and I couldn''t issue another. As for the staff, the double-helix wood seemed to unravel like gnawed cables, and the monkey paw atop the staff, convulsing, began to portray a theatrical scene. Bleeding with a dark blood, it formed a peculiar gesture: it raised the hand with the fingers together and extended, while the thumb was placed at a right angle towards the palm of the hand. The hand remained upright and steady, as if it were a flag waving in the wind. The fingers stayed together and stretched, not bending at the joints, creating a rectangular or square shape. The wrist leaned slightly forward, hinting at an upward movement conveying a sense of firmness and authority, evoking the image of a flag waving in triumph or dominance. The monkey paw seemed to regain its vigour after the degeneration caused by the hunger of "Hunger on Trial", stopping the bleeding and exhibiting a beautiful makeup of bright red on the fingertips and the circle in the centre of the palm. It was a salute, a display of power, authority or celebration, influenced by the wind, gentleness, moonlight or intense sunlight. It represented the path of good deeds, the shape of a sword, prohibition, oath, blessing, dew of water, fairness, or the elimination of fear. With the imperial purple cloak waving like a flag, I rose from the ground and held the staff with determination. As I healed from gangrene and the staff exorcised itself from the degeneration of appetite, branches like loose cables broke and reformed in a perpetual cycle, while the monkey paw convulsed slightly. Then, in the sinfulness of the Hanging Gardens, I slowly made my way towards the hemorrhagic battle, determined to confront its spawn and corrupt specimens. Prepared for the final assault, I planned to deliver the decisive blow to that degeneration, exorcising the Creeper with "Hunger on Trial". Like a faithful nun seeking salvation, I knew it wouldn''t be easy; the Creeper was cunning and a formidable stalker. Chapter 61: Pheromone The Empty Mirror Chapter 61: Pheromone The trembling hands imprison the artifacts of sorcery entrusted in this ominous realm. "Hunger on Trial" and "Two of Wands" pulsate with an ominous energy, as if they were living entities awaiting my commands. But instead of feeling empowered, I feel vulnerable, like a mouse among cats. Curiosity and fear intertwine as I delve into the primal inquiry. I resemble an antiquated alchemist, striving to unravel the mysteries of these gloomy artifacts. I meticulously contemplate every detail, every engraving, every gleam, tracing clues about their nature and gifts. "Hunger on Trial" especially haunts me. How can a necklace devour souls? What kind of spiritual energy can it absorb? My hands tremble as I activate its abilities, feeling the tingling of the unknown slithering across my skin. I close my eyelids and abstract myself, pretending to understand the essence of this dark sorcery pulsating around me. I cannot conclude there. I also need to confront the challenge of understanding "Two of Wands." Its power seems more manageable, more palpable, but equally whimsical. How can I grasp its energy for my purposes without succumbing to its curses? My hands blur with ink as I feverishly jot down notes, attempting to capture every thought, every conjecture that crosses my tormented mind. At times, I feel like a madwoman in an asylum, conversing with inanimate objects and seeking answers in forbidden and shadowy abysses. Nevertheless, I persist, for I know those answers represent my only hope of eluding this ominous place. With each discovery, each advancement in my understanding of these magical objects, I feel that I am getting a bit closer to supposed freedom. And though fear never entirely forsakes me, I also perceive a spark of hope burning deep within me. My mind teems with questions and speculations as I transition from initial exploration to the conception of a conjecture. How to employ the assimilated knowledge about these arcane artifacts to find a path of escape from this cursed terrain? The notion takes shape gradually in my troubled mind. "Hunger on Trial" harbours the ability to devour souls, to attract and engulf spiritual energy. And "Two of Wands" holds the capability to erect protective shields and launch offensives, albeit equally plagued by curses that warp reality and lurk to unleash pandemonium. But what if I could capitalize on those curses to my advantage? What if I could harness the corruption of "Hunger on Trial" to spawn a pheromone that draws the colossal insects towards me? It''s a bold, even reckless, idea, yet in this nightmarish enclosure, conventional rules seem to lack relevance. My fingers tremble as I imprint my conjecture on the canvas of my consciousness, feeling the weight of responsibility upon my shoulders. Will I truly be able to master these dark forces and wield them to my benefit? Or will they consume me before I even attempt? Yet, I have no time for doubts or hesitations. If I desire to survive, I must act. And this conjecture, however extravagant it may seem, represents my strongest hope of finding a way out of this realm of death and desolation. With a trembling sigh, I push aside my fear and prepare to take the next step in my desperate quest for advantage. I had a theory, whose seed of suspicion sprouted in the fertile soil of my distrust. I didn''t believe that everything consumed by the insatiable "Hunger on Trial" vanished into thin air; it must find its destiny in some remote corner of the inner world. With no certainty, I felt compelled to search for traces of its feast, like one scrutinising the shadows of a throat housing a digestive and spiritual system, hidden from mortal sight. In a panic, I noticed that after each bite of the lethal choker, my eyes succumbed to bewilderment, flickering like fireflies in the dimness. Yet, that description was insufficient, a faint approximation to the inexplicable: something faded before my eyes, a blurry spectre, more opaque than the golden hall of "Two of Wands", like undulating tentacles in an ethereal sea of milk or ash, hard to define but palpable in its essence. It was, one could say, the very essence of the spirit, corrupted by the liquor of Hanging Gardens devoured by the "Hunger on Trial". I suspected that this corruption, which I will call "degeneration" for now, manifested differently in Hanging Gardens, in "Hunger on Trial", and in "Two of Wands". While the corruption of the gardens was the most virulent, the voracity of the hungry choker could rival its ravages, as I had witnessed on multiple occasions. "Hunger on Trial" seemed to be the most effective weapon against the abominations of the gardens, while the corruption of "Two of Wands" was subtle and weak in comparison, as if it were still in an evolutionary process. With this uncertain theory rooted in my senses and experiences, I conceived the idea of ??confronting these corruptions in the coliseum of alchemy, where the throes of destiny would dictate their verdict. My hands, trembling before the magnitude of the task I am about to undertake, cling to the fragile balance between courage and fear. Aware of the abyss lying at my feet, I prepare to manipulate forces whose dark designs and unfathomable powers eclipse the light of reason. But I have no alternative. The urgent need to escape this hell compels me to continue, even as every fiber of my being shudders at the spectre of fear. I gather samples from the plants that nurture the ill-fated giant insects, and a chilling shiver runs down my spine as I approach the breeding grounds of these aberrations. The twisted and corrupted nature of this cursed garden awakens in me the desire to retreat, yet I know I must advance if I even hope to glimpse a glimmer of hope. With trembling hands, I unfold the "Devourer of Souls" ability of "Hunger on Trial", eager to absorb the spiritual essence of the plants and extract samples of their corrupted genetic material. Each step in this odyssey brings me somewhat closer to the abyss, but I persist, driven by desperation and determination. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Once in possession of the precious samples, I delve into the dark territory of pheromone synthesis. Guided by the knowledge gained from my previous inquiries and by the observations of magical artifacts, I proceed with caution, aware of the danger lurking around every corner. The "Voracious Bite" ability of "Hunger on Trial" stands as my loyal ally, speeding up the synthesis process and enhancing the chemical reaction required to forge the coveted pheromone. Every flicker of light emanating from the choker reminds me of the price I must pay for my craving for freedom. As I continue my work, terror grips me, as if I am playing with fire, knowing that at any moment the flames could consume me entirely. Nevertheless, I press on with determination, aware that this is my only chance to escape this living hell and find the redemption I fervently long for. With lips trembling like the leaves of a tree whipped by the wind and a heart beating to the rhythm of a frenzied drum, I plunge into the titanic challenge of synthesizing the pheromone that I crave to be the key to unlocking my chains and leading me towards the longed-for freedom. The samples of corrupted genetic material rest before me as silent witnesses to the horrors hidden within the bowels of this accursed enclosure, emitting an ominous aura that envelops the room in a cloak of tangible darkness. I strive to maintain serenity as I combine the elements, each of my movements meticulously calculated, recalling with crystal clarity every nuance of my previous observations and experiments. The "Devourer of Souls" ability of "Hunger on Trial" pulses in my mind like a sinister echo, reminding me of the dark power that lies locked within this choker and the high tribute I must pay for defying it. Guided by the knowledge painstakingly acquired in my initial research and the clues found in the magical objects, I advance with reckless determination. Every drop of sweat beading my forehead seemed to carry the weight of oppressive anxiety, but I persevere, driven by the hope of a tomorrow beyond the bounds of this sinister labyrinth and its collection of horrors. The "Voracious Bite" ability of "Hunger on Trial" becomes my faithful companion once more, hastening the pace of synthesis and enlivening the alchemical reaction that transforms the samples into the elusive pheromone desired. I close my eyes and immerse myself in the task, discarding all thoughts unrelated to the work at hand. Every moment seems like an eternity as I await the final result, fearful of what my efforts may unleash. But at last, when I open my eyes and behold the fruit of my labour, a spark of hope radiates from the depths of my being. The pheromone is ready, and with it, a glimmer of possibility illuminates the path to an escape from this infernal maze. With the pheromone captive in the fragile rod of my hands, I am about to embark on the efficacy tests, aware that this step is crucial to ensure my survival in this gloomy scenario. My fingers, barely perceptibly, tremble under the weight of the responsibility they now bear, holding the essence that could be my ticket to the longed-for freedom, but also my sentence if fortune''s designs turn against me. I decide to carry out the tests in a relatively safe corner within the monument of perversion, seeking to minimize risks as much as possible. The mist enveloping the corrupted garden under the perpetual twilight adds an additional layer of oppression to the environment around me, further darkening the horizon of my hopes. With trembling hands, I disperse a minuscule amount of the pheromone into the air, cautiously observing any hint of change in the atmosphere. My senses, sharpened like the edge of a sword on the eve of battle, remain alert, every fiber of my being tense, eagerly awaiting the outcome of my experiment. Moments pass that feel like eternities, and I perceive with growing anticipation a subtle change in the surrounding atmosphere. The giant insects, grotesque winged creatures that soar the skies of the monument, show signs of unease, as if they had sensed the presence of something foreign to their world. My heart, pounding in my chest, races at the fascinating and terrifying sight of how the winged colossi begin to converge in my direction, drawn by the pheromone I have released into the air. The tension in the atmosphere becomes palpable, and I feel adrenaline coursing through my veins as I eagerly await the outcome of this crucial test. For a fleeting moment, I am intoxicated by the illusion of control, as if I had managed to tame the untamed forces surrounding me for my own benefit. But this ephemeral sense of triumph is quickly overshadowed by the cruel reminder that I am still a prisoner in this gloomy den, and that my struggle for freedom is far from over. Nevertheless, amid the shadows of my fears and doubts, a small flame of hope shines in my chest. For the first time since my arrival in this infernal place, I glimpse the possibility of escape. With that faint light as my guide, I prepare to face the challenges that stand like walls between myself and the freedom I so desperately crave. After verifying the efficacy of the pheromone and attracting the winged colossi, I understand that my work is far from over. While it is undeniable that the essence takes effect, I cannot afford errors. It is urgent to refine and adjust it meticulously, ensuring its maximum effectiveness and avoiding any unwanted side effects. With the valuable substance in the ape''s paw, I return to my ephemeral and makeshift study within the heart of the corrupted monument. My thoughts are besieged by unease and anxiety, but also by the firm determination that guides my actions. This is my chance to escape from this den of nightmares, and I cannot afford to fail. I delve into the review of my mental notes and records of past experiments, scrutinizing every line for clues and patterns that will lead me to the desired improvement. Every detail, however trivial it may seem, is of crucial importance; every observation could be the key that unlocks the path to success. Once the necessary changes are outlined, I return to the arduous task of synthesizing the pheromone. Using the gathered information, I carefully adjust the proportions of corruption and refine the synthesis process, hoping to increase its effectiveness and minimize inherent risks. The ability "Voracious Bite" from "Hunger on Trial" emerges as my faithful ally, accelerating the chemical dance that transforms the samples into the desired essence. Every step I take is imbued with tension and anticipation, but also with determined ferocity. After multiple trials and adjustments, I finally possess a new version of the pheromone ready for testing. I prepare to face the danger once more, hoping that my efforts and sacrifices have found resonance in this new iteration. With my heart pounding in my throat, I disperse a slight amount of the pheromone into the air through the rod and cautiously await any hint of change in the environment. This time, I trust that my hard work and sacrifices have been rewarded, bringing me one step closer to my longed-for goal: escaping from this cursed realm and finding the redemption I so desperately crave. Chapter 62: Paper Flowers The Empty Mirror Chapter 62: Paper Flowers In the intricate web of destinies and theories, a masterful plan was being forged by the capacity of the "Hunger on Trial" choker. Through its voracious appetite, it devoured the biological tissue of the insect''s gravid bellies, unleashing a degeneration that corrupted the genetic material of these grotesque creatures. Enshrouded in the veil of decadent spirit, this corruption transmuted into a secretion or pheromone, as if the obese insects themselves had excreted it, emitting a sinister hunger signal that beckoned the specimens to devour eagerly, like a horde of famished beggars. But for this distress signal to be propagated, it required an intermediary: the "Two of Wands" staff. Thus, the choker, in its sinister blasphemy, infected the staff and the monkey''s paw with the secretion, turning them into a sort of antenna that broadcasted the signal of desperation. Among the wounds of the monkey''s paw, amidst the sanguineous hemorrhage, oozed a substance of a subtle hue, a pale or translucent yellow, with a texture akin to light oil or aqueous liquid, with barely perceptible viscosity, allowing it to disperse easily in the environment, being detected by other individuals of the same degenerate ilk. In the surge of my onslaught, I found myself facing that vegetal tangle, a thicket of herbs with a blend of yellow and green hues suggesting unease in nature. Though I trusted that the insects wouldn''t attack me until that plant was eradicated, my confidence was fragile. At this moment, I couldn''t afford to dwell on it; I had to focus on the task at hand. If it was completed, then I would consider my options, though I already glimpsed potential failures on the horizon. I placed my faith in my champion, that swarm of giant insects destined to annihilate my opponent, but the certainty of their success eluded me. Furthermore, they could turn against me at any moment once the plant was defeated, akin to trusting a boxer knowing they''ll beat you afterwards. Put politely, these spawn, once the distress signal and secretion were unleashed, darted towards the nearest and most substantial mass for sustenance, devouring ceaselessly. They seemed insatiable, but I knew that, in time, the pheromone would lose its effect, fading into the ether and leaving its prey vulnerable. Time, as always, would be their executioner; for everything, eventually, succumbs to its relentless march. Let''s call it what we will: secretion, save our souls, pheromone; they are convenient terms, but they are nothing but the manifestation of the voracity of "Hunger on Trial", corrupting the creatures of the Hanging Gardens through the "Two of Wands" staff. However, in that crucial moment, all my plans, expectations, and experiences seemed to fade into the abyss of hell. Despite the "Creeper" being considerably superior to the grotesque insects, it couldn''t find an escape or turn the tide of the battle. As more and more insects were born and converged on that vomit mass, between us, amidst that spectacle of horror, I watched in terror as if the vine was fixing its gaze on my soul. Although, in fact, the vine lacked eyes on its face, and I, in any case, lacked a soul. Nevertheless, it did something that defied my expectations: instead of trying to annihilate me, reduce me to decomposed flesh, amidst the fray, with anger and cowardice, it unfolded to kill me in every possible way that a sane and wandering mind could imagine. But it didn''t. Instead, that herbal mass of vomit began to expand, gaining more volume and dismembering the insects in its corpulent interior, almost engulfing me in its verdure. It was then, at that precise moment, that my second sequence of events unleashed my unrestrained plan. I grasped the staff firmly and, like in a bold feint, invoked "Hunger on Trial". I directed the course of the "Carnal Corruption" assault with a precise gesture, slightly extending my elbow into a clenched fist before opening it with the precision of a master craftsman. However, the onslaught didn''t target the "Creeper"; I directed it towards the swarm of insects lying being devoured at the foot of the vine. It seemed as if the "Creeper" itself had succumbed to the relentless corruption of the choker, as the insects surrounding it began to undergo grotesque mutations. Their bodies swelled and expanded, their exoskeletons and rotten flesh morphing into a spectacle of corporeal horror. They amalgamated into an amorphous mass, attempting to adhere to the vine and thereby induce the "Creeper" into mutation. I, hungering, watched as the vegetal mass began to transform, its drained and mutilated vegetal structure intermingling with human flesh, creating a repugnant amalgam. Branches resembled bones, clots akin to black tar pulsated with dark, viscous blood. The entity swelled and contorted, in an aberrant fusion between nature and humanity, in a whirlwind of deformed horror. Amidst triumphant groans, I thought I had secured victory, but I made a grave mistake in underestimating the "Creeper''s" countermeasures, which seemed to defy my hubris with a defiant "Catch me if you can," as if I myself had issued that challenge. The ivy, the "Creeper," unleashed its roots like tendrils from its anatomy, piercing the earth with the determination of a drill in search of its salvation. But already its physical form had been corrupted by the cursed influence of the choker, leaving it only the fate of being consumed by the "Devourer of Souls". This was the final piece on the board of doom, what was about to happen, even if it meant exposing myself to the curses of "Hunger on Trial". However, before I could even consider it, the earth began to shake with a fury that defied gravity itself. Beneath my feet, the ground cracked, shaking the monument with a ferocity that made the columns waver like toys in the hands of a furious giant. The deafening roar of the earth fracturing filled the air as I struggled to maintain balance amidst the unleashed chaos. The sky seemed to sway and the plants of the Hanging Gardens quivered, their roots desperately clinging to the earth slipping beneath them. It was a ballet of destruction and disorder, and I found myself trapped in the epicenter, a powerless witness to the fury of nature in its purest and most terrifying form. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. The "Creeper" had clung to the centre of the Hanging Gardens monument, coiling around the structure itself in desperation as it battled against the mutation unleashed by the "Carnal Corruption" attack. Amidst its agony, it tangled itself in the monument''s entrails, trying to escape the insatiable corruption of hunger consuming it. However, its hive mind prevented it from fleeing into the depths of the Hanging Gardens. The restriction imposed by "Hunger on Trial" kept it bound, unable to dissipate to preserve a part of its original form. Like a viscous and repulsive vomit, the "Creeper" adhered to the monument, while its biology distorted, merging with the flesh and fat of the giant insects writhing around it in agony. The plant transformed into a nauseating blend of flesh and leaves, and its final display of resilience triggered the earthquake that brought all of Hanging Gardens crashing down in a horrifying cataclysm. Although I have no doubt the plant attempted to conspire around my investigation, the corruption caused by the staff and the choker prevented it from taking action against my deeds. In a last desperate attempt, it tried to fight back to counteract the curse of "Hunger on Trial", but it was in vain. Even giants fall prey to hunger. But the tragedy did not end there. Amidst the collapse of the colossal structure of Hanging Gardens, with debris falling in the form of huge stone blocks from the upper terraces, I feared being crushed and reduced to a shapeless mass of fat and skin in a moment of desolation. In the midst of chaos, I dared not even glance up at the twilight sky looming above us, hidden amidst the mist and disorder caused by the mutation of the "Creeper". I resorted to the last resort of salvation, invoked the "Devourer of Souls" in a desperate attempt to gain advantage. I guided the attack with my hands slightly extended from the elbow, fingers intertwined, as if I were grasping an invisible energy between them. I managed to snatch the soul of the "Creeper", or whatever its life essence was if indeed it lacked a soul. The attack took effect and the plant began to wither, acquiring a brown hue before fading into the air. The insects and the pheromone also dissolved into the ether. I, hungering, felt a voracious desire to tear my cheeks from inside my mouth to devour them. And when everything seemed to have come to an end, the earthquake seemed relentless. However, as if the mother structure of Hanging Gardens had vanished, the terraces began to fall, fracturing and piling on top of each other like grimaces on accursed ground. It was the inevitable collapse following the death of the "Creeper", the support that held the Hanging Gardens structure together crumbled, and with it, everything else. Amidst the chaotic tumult, still not fully conscious of the whirlwind surrounding me, I leaned on the staff, weary and hungry, like one driving a spade into a graveyard. The staff, in response, unleashed a series of wondrous events. A tingling sensation invaded my hands as I raised one of them and watched in astonishment as green grass leaves sprouted from my palm, still holding the staff with the other hand. Between my fingers, a verdant moss began to come to life, as if nature itself were reclaiming my skin. As I caressed the stems with my hands, I experienced a singular and enigmatic sensation, as if a tree of life were sprouting from my own hand, its branches and roots extending like the blood vessels of a life-giving placenta. Meanwhile, the staff convulsed, as if performing a delirious choreography. The monkey''s paw rose gracefully, the fingers extended elegantly while the palm remained open and flat. The thumb bent inward, gently meeting the base of the index and middle fingers, creating a shape reminiscent of a deer''s head, conveying a sense of calm and concentration, like the claw of a demon or the horns of an Oni. The monkey''s paw, at that moment, traced three lines across my forehead, like a seal of devotion, like a severe austerity carved in excrement, reflecting before the women, the fear, the discord, the call to the beloved, the opportunity, the order, or the self; such were the nuances that gesture embodied. Then, as if rooted in the very earth itself, the staff began its dance of blooming and withering in a perpetual state, in a cycle of doom. The paw, still holding firm in its intentions, remained steadfast, like a shovel digging a grave for its deceased. At that precise moment, as the terraces began to collapse onto one another, they sharply parted ways, with a dry snap, and started to move away from each other, forming a sequence reminiscent of a staircase, where the mounds of earth separated like continents after an earthquake. The mounds seemed to float, even the one I occupied began to rise, as if suspended in the ether, in the skies. The monument known as Hanging Gardens was undergoing a transformation, a mutation and corruption of its ancient dermis and nature. It was a metamorphosis that abandoned the concept of gardens protruding, moving away from the interpretation of an impious monument distant from our reality, to be reborn with a new concept of eternal return, Hanging Gardens of the imagination. In the dawn of wonder, the earth, cradled by the terraces, rose suspended in the ether, under the influence of the "Two of Wands" staff. I, humble, prostrate before the earth, could barely believe what was happening around me. The terraces, once lying like stars in the firmament, amidst marble debris and non-Euclidean architecture, now stood as mounds of barren land, swaying like pendulums. But then, amidst truncated expectations, the terraces began to resurge with vitality. The plants and flowers, once hidden, began to sprout, turning the sterility of Hanging Gardens into lush greenery, a garden of fertile soil suspended in the air. Grass and herbs flourished in a sea of green, between the terraces and the marble, the vegetation rose majestically. They now appeared as small floating islands in the sky. The first metamorphosis, triggered by the "Two of Wands," halted the earthquake and separated the gardens, swaying them like seesaws. The second transformation caused the vegetation to bloom, despite the monsters still lurking among nature, like demons in the shadows. But even halfway exorcised, the final and third act was unleashed. My nose bled, a sequence of scarlet blood, as the staff throbbed like a heart on the monkey''s paw. And then, with a roar, like the roar of a wave breaking against the bow of a ship, a sequence of bulbous and colossal stems emerged between each garden, intertwining with each other, like clear paths ascending towards the summit of Hanging Gardens. These stems, like scaly snakes, twisted, releasing their will in an unrestrained festivity. Chapter 63: Cape and sword The Empty Mirror Chapter 63: Cape and sword From an almost deep coma, I emerged, barely aware of my existence, incredulous at the scene unfolding before my eyes. I approached with fear, observing how the gesture of the monkey''s paw faded into a grave grimace. The panorama that stretched around me was overwhelming: the sky, once a perpetual twilight, now transformed into an eternal dawn, an aurora persisting amidst the mist that still enveloped the gardens. Those same gardens resembled hourglasses, with earthy hair falling like dust into a bottomless abyss, shrouded by a spectral mist. As I rose, an indescribable fear seized me, and I grasped the "Two of Wands" staff, but its vitality had vanished, appearing as a mere empty shell, immune to any stimulus. As I wiped the blood from my nose with the sleeve of my dress, I knew that the poison was awakening within me, and that the corruption of the Hanging Gardens was consuming my being. I could no longer rely on the staff for healing; it had fallen into a state of lethargy, while I helplessly watched gangrene ascend my limbs, creeping beneath my nails. I feared, but I also gathered courage and advanced cautiously, navigating past the monsters lurking in the shadows. I knew I was beyond the halfway point of the journey, and so, with a gangrenous body, I continued towards the new Hanging Gardens, shrouded in overwhelming illusion. I advanced once more, my back bowed by the venom snaking through "Agonal Breathing", while savouring the corpses of insects, not those disfigured by the choker''s incisors, but those that perished in the fray. Afterward, I sated myself with the plants'' saliva, for the monstrosities of the Hanging Gardens still lingered, albeit now transfigured, adopting a new appearance, a reinvented concept. Amongst the undergrowth and leafy trees, I found myself before one of the stalks connecting to another garden. This stalk, bulbous and colossal, allowed for more than two people to walk together, side by side. It was enveloped by vines of a darker green, slightly inclining upwards to reach the terrace. The vines hung under the weight of gravity, and with vertigo pulsing in my knees, I traversed this extension, akin to the "Creeper," but devoid of full life, only the passive existence of a plant without will. My feet splashed upon the mass as I battled the vertigo, until finally reaching the edge of the terrace. I had ascended and continued my journey, with the buzz of corpulent insects swirling in the skies of the Hanging Gardens. Fearful and cautious of the atrocities of this place, tormented by the fear that some abomination might emerge, like that born from the egg. My mind, reeling, pondered over all that had occurred: the metamorphosis of the Hanging Gardens and how, amidst the stormy mist, the staff had acquired a new significance, marking a fresh beginning for these gardens and dispelling the curse that afflicted them, so that their own essence could reign. At the threshold of my suffering, I conjured the image of that creature writhing in agony, and also the figure of the Marquess, but above all, reverberating in my mind was the pomp of the bullfight, a memory that the weight of the spectacle also dissolved. It happened at the heart of the bullfighting circus, and so it was that the horse made its entrance into the arena, in the dimness of the plaza. The noble steed emerged from the rider, a majestic silhouette marked by the traces of time. Where once his coat gleamed, now lay a mantle of dark brown, speckled with patches of sweat and dust. Scars from past battles adorned his body, silent witnesses to his bravery in the arena. A black veil covered his eyes, concealing the gaze of the illustrious horse from the tumult of the ring and the ferocity of the bull. Through the shadow of the veil, his eyes still shone with determination and courage, ready to face the looming challenge. Within his ears, scraps of cotton offered modest protection against the roar of the illusory crowd and the bellowing of the bull, an essential precaution to maintain serenity and focus amidst the chaos of the bullfight. Upon his back rested a worn leather breastplate, an improvised armour shielding his chest from the bull''s onslaught. Crafted by the passage of years, the leather exhibited cracks and tears, yet its solidity still promised to defy the onslaught of the adversary. Ornaments of rusted metal and worn-out straps completed the ensemble, adding an air of roughness and authenticity, like a shield that protects. The saddle, a structure of tanned leather and scraps of fabric, clung tenaciously to its back, offering an improvised seat for the rider who guided it into the fray. Stains, silent witnesses to the hours of effort and shared sacrifice between horse and rider. Its horseshoes, worn-down iron, worn by countless steps in the sand, emitted a dull and steady sound with each stride, marking the rhythm of its advance towards the encounter with the bull. With each step, the horse exuded an air of dignity and determination, its eyes reflecting the wisdom accumulated over the years. Despite its age and the traces of time, its presence in the arena still impressed, a living testimony to the indelible bond between man and the noble steed that carries him into battle. The old horse, like its rider, had years behind it, but together they were a force to be reckoned with in the bullring. Stolen story; please report. Across the vast expanse of the arena, rode an elder, a figure carved by the harshness of time and life''s onslaughts. His countenance, lined with deep furrows and tinted by the relentless sun, told tales of battles fought on the battlefield and beyond, mapping out his struggles and victories. Silver hair, like strands of silver woven by the hands of fate, clung tenaciously to his skull, like the last grass on barren ground, silent witnesses to the relentless march of time. His once robust and upright body now bore the indelible marks of ageing and fatigue. A prominent belly protruded beneath his tattered jacket, a vestige of feasts and past glories, now relegated to oblivion. His hands, once skilled and steady, trembled slightly under the weight of the lance, tangible testimony of decades of effort and sacrifice. Despite his withered appearance, he radiated undeniable dignity, a strength glimpsed in his weary gaze. Each step resonated with the echo of a life marked by courage and determination, an existence devoted to the noble task of facing the bull in the arena. And though time had stolen some of his vigour and vitality, it had not managed to extinguish the indomitable flame that burned deep within his being, emerging like a shadow amidst the dust and sweat, defying oblivion with every gesture and every sigh. His attire, a collection of rags and fabrics worn by the passage of time and the onslaughts of battle, recounts the feats of countless encounters in the bullring. A leather vest, now marked by scars from past clashes, clings to his torso like an improvised shield. The frayed threads of his jacket intertwine with skin toasted by the sun and effort, a testimony to resilience in the face of the bull''s fury. The trousers, once shining in whiteness and finery, are now barely the faded echo of their former splendour. Torn and patched, they hang loosely over his legs, revealing the signs of a life devoted to the challenge of the bull. His boots, once shiny and polished, now lie covered in mud and blood, silent judges of the battles fought in the shadow of the sand. Every fold of his clothing tells a story of bravery and sacrifice, an epic of courage in adversity. And as the picador prepares to face the bull, his tattered attire stands as a symbol of rebellion against established conventions, a bold affirmation that true bravery does not reside in the splendour of attire, but in the indomitable heart of one who faces danger without hesitation. The picador''s lance stands erect like a weapon of old, an extension of the rider''s spirit and bravery who wields it. Its sharp edge, forged in metal tempered by fire and toil, gleams with a cold and menacing light under the sun that gilds the sand. Every groove and nick, evidence of use and countless skirmishes between man and beast, tells its story carved in battle. The handle, rough to the touch and worn by the sweat that flows from the picador''s hands, provides a firm and secure grip to guide the dance of combat. Wrapped in weathered and tanned leather, the handle is a constant reminder of the harshness and brutality of the world in which they fight. With iron armour guarding their lower limbs, only these four wills stood in the arena, alongside their respective counterparts, the matador and the bull, the rider and his steed, ready for the fight. The rider surged forth, a beaver hat resting gracefully upon his head, a handmade piece that evokes distant times and venerable traditions. Its broad brim, elegantly curved, cast a protective shadow over the weathered face of the elder, shielding his eyes from the ruthless spectral glare that inundates the arena. Crafted from noble beaver felt, the hat exuded a gentle warmth and an aura of distinction. The marks of time''s passage, barely perceptible, bestowed upon its surface a patina of nobility and character, akin to the wrinkles left by years on the skin of a fearless elder. A worn leather band encircled the base of the hat, adding a touch of rusticity and authenticity to its appearance. Though the leather bore the signs of use and wear, it still retained a subtle sheen, like a memory of the inherent beauty in well-crafted simplicity. I, standing tall in the stands alongside Constance and her malice, fervently watched the spectacle of their men, eagerly anticipating the knight''s endeavour, as he sought to weaken the bull''s strength by inserting the lance into its neck and back, in order to level the playing field and mitigate the risk for the matador, who stood alone, watching over the course and audacity of the bullfight. In this bloody theatre, the picador''s choreography began, while the bull, imposing and wild, emerged from the supposed pens, its misty breath mingling with the warm breeze. The rider, atop his old and weary mare, advanced towards the centre of the ring, his hat tilted in a gesture of resolve. The lance in his hand trembled slightly, reflecting the tension saturating the atmosphere. The bull charged with fury, its gleaming horns slicing through the air with a deadly hiss. The knight''s steed, stoic and brave, took a few steps back under the onslaught, but the rider remained unflinching in his saddle, his right hand guiding the lance towards the animal''s neck, while the matador, in turn, awaited his moment. A whisper of astonishment crossed my mind as the lance sank into the bull''s flesh, eliciting a roar of pain and fury. The picador, with half-closed eyes and tense jaw, withstood the charge, his countenance marked by concentration and effort. The bull, weakened by the blow, momentarily retreated, allowing the picador and his steed to regain their composure. With a gesture of determination, the picador urged his mount to advance again towards the adversary, ready to face any challenge that fate might bestow upon them in the fierce struggle between man and beast. After several onslaughts, the bull lay sufficiently fatigued and wounded for the matador to complete his task. The matador burst onto the stage with all his magnificence while the gentleman and his horse faded into the twilight, perhaps melded in a grotesque and repugnant clown costume. The bullfighter wore a montera that rose on his back like a reliquary of power and lineage. Forged in sturdy leather and adorned with silver details, it transcended its mere decorative function; it was an emblem of the bravery and skill of the matador in the arena. Its design combined elegance with utility. A row of compartments stretched along its back, each intended to house a banderilla ready to be wielded at the opportune moment. The leather, worn by use and marked by the passage of time, told a story engraved in scars and scratches. The silver reliefs gleamed under the spotlights of the arena, granting a touch of distinction and splendour to the ensemble. Filigree and engravings beautified the edges of the montera, adding a patina of majesty and solemnity to the bullfighter''s ornament. Chapter 64: Disfigured Corpse The Empty Mirror Chapter 64: Disfigured Corpse The matador''s banderillas rested on his montera, like lethal daggers waiting to be wielded in the fiery battle. Their smooth wooden shafts faintly gleamed under the dim light of the arena, while the metal tips sparkled with a cold and menacing shine. Each banderilla was wrapped in white paper, like bandages concealing their true essence. Through the shadows, the contrast between the pristine white of the paper and the deep black of the steel tips could be seen, a visual representation of the conflict between purity and ferocity that defined bullfighting. With each movement of the matador, the banderillas would come to life, becoming deadly projectiles slicing through the air with lethal precision. And though their appearance might seem simple and monotonous in black and white, their presence in the arena would add a touch of drama and passion to the deadly battle between man and beast. With graceful and determined steps, the bullfighter made his way to the centre of the albero, his montera gleaming proudly on his regal countenance as the excited crowd roared with anticipation. In his right hand, he held a banderilla, a sharp dart eager to pierce the bull''s skin. The bull charged with fervour, its fiery pupils reflecting the unrestrained passion of the beast. The matador, agile and determined, evaded the onslaught with skill, his red cape waving like a defiant banner against the bull''s bravery. With a swift and precise motion, the bullfighter plunged the banderilla into the bull''s back, eliciting a roar of pain and fury. The amphitheatre erupted in cheers and canned applause, celebrating the daring of the bullfighter and the audacity of his confrontation with the bull. But the bull would not yield so easily. With renewed vigour, it charged once more, challenging the matador to a life-or-death duel. The skilled matador, his eyes fixed on his target, prepared for the next assault, ready to face the bull with courage and skill to the last breath. Thus the spectacle continued, fierce and contested, but the bullfighter emerged as the victor, having planted several banderillas in the bull''s body, which lay crucified in the sand, after the trance of the veronica. In the centre of the bullring stood the matador, his cape unfurled like a scarlet mantle challenging the bull, painted as a clown, with its vivid radiance. With majestic bearing, the bullfighter advanced towards the beast, his gaze fixed upon it as he held the cape with grace and determination. The bull charged with fury, its eyes flashing a mixture of ferocity and defiance. But the matador did not falter. With a fluid and precise movement, he slid the cape to one side, creating an optical illusion that confused the brave animal, diverting its charge away from its target, marveling with his skill and grace as he executed the veronica with masterful dexterity. Once again, the bull charged, but once again, the matador deceived it with the cape, dancing across the sand with a prowess that defied both gravity and logic. With each step, each movement of the cape, the bullfighter demonstrated his mastery over the beast, controlling its impetuosity and ferocity with the simple yet powerful tool of a piece of crimson fabric. And thus, as the deadly dance continued in the arena, the matador and the bull faced off in a duel of cunning and courage, where only one would emerge victorious. Completely exhausted, as if an ethereal blade had already cut him down in life, I witnessed at the end of the spectacle the following: with a steel-shaped balloon, the beast fell in a grotesque sequence, becoming the absurd parody of a merciless and mocking god. Thus, the bull and the bullfighter vanished into a mixture of repulsive makeup, concluding everything in an anticlimactic manner, worthy of the twisted mind that, like vomit mixed in a cauldron, conjured up a circus, a bullfighting ceremony, the sewers, and a nightmare. What a perverse mind was capable of imagining such nonsense, impossible to assimilate, a hallucination befitting a monster! The end of the bull ceremony left in my memories the reason why time was precisely subtracted in that sequence of events: to preserve my sanity, while an aristocratic family was perpetually tortured, mocking tradition. In the midst of a torrent of rage, the constant chants of "ol¨¦, ol¨¦, ol¨¦, ol¨¦, ol¨¦, ol¨¦, ol¨¦!" echoed, accompanied by canned laughter from an old movie. It was a desolate and tragic perspective, where, despite the sins of the aristocracy, I longed one day, if ever, to behold Chimeria with my own eyes and pay homage, not out of faith, but out of respect. But if this is not possible, so be it; I only wish not to be alone, like a lovestruck maiden. At the zenith of my unveiled reveries, I was struck by a scene never before beheld: a sort of vision, a prophecy woven into my journey through Hanging Gardens. Against a radiant backdrop of whiteness, like a daguerreotype, appeared a group of five individuals: three men and two women. Some wore a trench coat of glossy black or grey, of exquisite craftsmanship and martial ornaments in iron. Made of waxed linen, they provided warmth and resilience, ideal for chilly climates. Cut straight or slightly tailored, they imposed a majestic presence, with rows of buttons at the front, of distinguished metal, and epaulettes to confer a more structured and martial appearance, close to the chest. However, there were those who sported a short jacket, draped over a single shoulder, leaving the dominant arm free. These garments, crafted in linen, replicated the elegance and martial details of the trench coats, but with an even more intricate range and ornamentation, evoking a power that transmuted into a sense of dominion. Single-shoulder jackets allowed for free movement for weapon handling, an asymmetry that stood out, granting an elegant and slender appearance, facilitating greater freedom of movement during horseback combat. Waxed linen, in shades of black or grey, lent a touch of distinction and sobriety to these martial garments. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. They wore linen shirts in hues of bone white and beige, of ancient and vintage style, with a simple design, with high collars closed with buttons. Some wore a pair of gloves, while others dispensed with them, and there were even those who wore a single glove. These gloves, made of linen, boasted a relatively simple design, with individual fingers and a section that covered both the palm and the back of the hand. Some featured a strap or cord to adjust the wrist and keep the glove in place, thus providing protection during outdoor activities such as riding, hunting, or combat. Additionally, they had additional reinforcements in the palm and knuckle areas for robust protection. The men wore trousers of waxed wool in black or greyish tones, cut straight or slightly fitted, designed to be practical and comfortable, with pleats at the front to facilitate movement. They had functional pockets at the front and back, belt loops, and reinforcements in areas prone to wear, such as the knees and crotch. On the other hand, the women wore long skirts also of waxed wool, cut straight or slightly flared to allow mobility, in earthy tones that complemented the palette of the era. They all wore high boots that reached up to just below the knees, made of leather that provided strength and durability in the heat of the battlefield. These boots offered additional protection for the legs and ankles, while imposing an imposing and authoritative appearance. Of robust and functional design, they had sturdy soles that ensured traction on adverse terrain. They appeared to be equipped with laces at the front for a secure fit, as well as straps or buckles to provide greater support and stability. At the back, they had belt loops to hold the gaiters, which protected the legs from mud and moisture. At the waist, they wore leather belts, between 2 and 3 inches wide, adorned with metal rivets that added ornamental details. The buckles appeared to be made of metal, such as iron, brass, or silver, each buckle bearing a strange and unique symbol. On these belts rested sword scabbards, perhaps intended for hand-and-a-half swords. These leather scabbards, sturdy and durable, protected the sword blade and facilitated its extraction and storage. With a tubular or semi-rigid structure that encompassed the blade and fitted to the hilt to keep it secure, the scabbards featured a closure system, such as leather straps or metal clasps, that secured the sword in place and prevented accidental falls. These closures, ranging from simple laces to elaborate buckles, along with the belt loops for attachment, ensured comfortable and secure transportation of the sword. Perhaps that belt harboured secrets of esotericism, for although they were only five individuals, I knew I would be the sixth memberˇ­ In the endless passage of time, in this perpetual dawn where the greyish mist encompassed multiple terraces and traversed several gardens, reaching the shoots that bound them, ascending their vines, I tirelessly confronted my most basic needs to avoid death. In this labyrinth of horrors, I was unaware of the true meaning of the transformation of Hanging Gardens, the intentions behind the staff, or the mysterious premonition that, without understanding why, I glimpsed as a prophecy of the future. Perhaps because we understand that the tribulations of our outer existence reflect our inner state. It is painful to acknowledge our own inability to heal ourselves. And once again, I found myself on the brink of death. The poison had returned, staining my skin with dark and bluish hues, numbing the infected area with constant pain, as if the very pulse of life had been extinguished in that place. The skin, dry and wrinkled, decomposed while still alive, showing signs of decay both on the outside and deep within my being. Sharp torment in the abdomen, nausea and vomiting in a circle of necrosis, along with fever and chills, formed an amalgam of suffering and misfortune, where my body was once again the epicentre. The hands, punished by the constant friction of the old and worn staff, were covered in calluses, blood, and pus, turning almost as white as the marble of a corpse. Between the fingers, the nails had almost disappeared, victims of gangrene, while my skin inexorably decomposed. But what confers the status of prophecy to a prediction? Is it perhaps a statement about forthcoming events believed to emanate from a divine source or esoteric knowledge? Increasingly, I am overwhelmed by the sensation of slipping into the utmost madness. I am unaware of the distinction between truth and illusion, at the limit of my nature; I never conceived the existence of such aberrations, of this nightmare, much less that of artifacts like "Hunger on Trial" or "Two of Wands". It is a frenzied madness, without a shred of coherence, and everything happens around me. At this point, I have almost completely lost my reason. I am a witch, questioning whether witchcraft is a tangible reality or if I am already in hell. Or perhaps witchcraft manifests as the true reality, while what I considered real was nothing more than a mere fallacy? Witchcraft, however, is nothing but the shadow of a religion, of multiple orthodox beliefs, representing the repressed qualities of faith and humanity, for faith, indeed, is capable of moving mountains. They are the hidden mysteries of a pagan, a "hoc est corpus," I declare. This body, this corpse in which I am now trapped, in perpetual decay, is it perhaps the vessel of black or white witchcraft? Such is the enigma that consumes me. The nightmare, or rather, the supposed nightmare, washed its hands of the psychological harm it inflicted upon me. However, it also exerted a therapeutic effect. Perhaps the nightmare of Hanging Gardens was nothing but an emotional catharsis to my afflictions. But I questioned, why was it not a conventional nightmare? Why did it not confine itself to the trivialities of falling out of bed, being late for an exam, or the typical sensation of nakedness? This was a nightmare of abominations, perhaps with a subtle organisation that escaped my understanding. Perhaps the nightmare was simply a form of release, like a consuming blaze, like a fire that devours everything in its path. Maybe my hidden trauma was being exorcised by this eccentricity. I don''t know. Perhaps it was just another torment, perhaps a demon now sat upon my chest, in a coffin while I slept. Although it was not a case of sleep paralysis, I was delirious. And as I trudged through the grass, the threats seemed inconsequential. I felt as if I had become invisible. But amidst it all, breathing became difficult because of the poison. Perhaps it was true that a demon sat upon my chest, obstructing my breath, and in an instant would cause my suffocation. A demon capable of slipping even through a keyhole, impossible to evade, with its buttocks pressed against my chest, with that mocking smile. I longed with all my might to scream, "Oh Baku, devour this evil dream that afflicts and torments me!" It would devour this nightmare, but if it were not satisfied, it would eat my hope and dreams, leaving me with an empty and meaningless existence. But what did that matter if my life was already painful and empty? I no longer cared about dying. However, I reached the peak of Hanging Gardens, and what I saw there was a horrific vision. Chapter 65: Performance The Empty Mirror Chapter 65: Performance At the zenith of the Hanging Gardens, after a journey plagued by shadows, Giselle finally reaches her long-awaited destination. There, standing above the mist like a celestial colossus, she feels transported to the heights, piercing through the fog enveloping the monument. She walks upon a bed of mist, as if defying the very clouds of the sky in an eternal dawn. This verdant paradise, saturated with greenery, emerges as an oasis in the desert of nightmare, a refuge for the wanderer navigating without compass amidst the mist. Beneath her feet, the ground fades into the mist, a pure and vivid blue canvas that stretches into infinity. Each step is a leap into the abyss, a surrender to altruism in this ethereal and eternal world, where every cloud is an endless dream. Despite the presence of aberrant insects, with their fatty proboscises and membranous wings, Giselle feels free, defying the poison lurking in the shadows. At the summit, where supposedly the enigmatic "Homo neanderthalensis" should await, the Marquise seeks an essence that transcends her understanding. However, amidst the clarity of dawn, the sky abruptly falls into an eternal night, a firmament black and devoid of constellations, plunged into the chaos of nothingness. Upon an infernal throne, rises a deity of the profane, its twisted figure defying all reason. Its skin, marked by sores oozing a black and viscous liquid, is the feast of worms and larvae writhing upon its surface. Three vicious heads emerge from its neck, each with jaws full of sharp teeth and eyes gleaming with malice. Its membranous wings, covered in pustules and sores, flap with a repulsive snap. Its limbs, a twisted amalgamation of flesh and bone, bear sharp claws dripping with degeneration and corruption. A nauseating stench envelops it, a mixture of sulphur and death that makes even the most ruthless monsters recoil in disgust. The moans and lamentations of the damned souls resonate around it, a macabre symphony accompanying its infernal presence. The gaze of its incandescent eyes penetrates to the depths of the soul, filling spectators with primal fear and absolute despair. This lord of the abyss is a vision of indescribable terror, an incarnation of the darkest and most horrible nightmares. Its body, traversed by the fluids of depravity, emits an indescribable wickedness. A giant member hangs from its being, a symbol of pure lust, while virgin nipples crown its throne of sin, a grotesque manifestation of the deepest lechery. The curse afflicting him is an affront to nature, a condemnation imposed by the very stars he defied with his sensuality. It begins as a slight discomfort, an itch beneath the skin that soon turns into a piercing and relentless pain. His flesh contorts and distorts as if consumed from within by infernal fire. His bones become fragile and brittle, while his muscles atrophy and entangle into twisted knots. Every movement is an indescribable agony, every breath a struggle for the poisoned air invading his lungs. His mind plunges into a whirlwind of madness and despair, besieged by visions of his own downfall and the eternal darkness that awaits beyond. As the curse progresses, his physical form slowly disintegrates, transforming into an amorphous mass of twisted flesh and bone. His cries of anguish and desperation fill the air, a symphony of suffering resonating through the infernal realms. In the end, he is reduced to a shadow of his former self, trapped in a state of eternal torment from which there is no escape. The curse of nature has fulfilled its purpose, condemning him to an existence of unimaginable suffering for all eternity, in a perpetual cycle of regeneration and torment. The curse of unquenchable voracity afflicting him is a torture unparalleled, an insatiable hunger that devours every fiber of his being. It begins as a slight tingling in his stomach, a fleeting longing to satisfy a need that seems impossible to appease. But soon, that tingling transforms into a searing pain, a sensation of emptiness that ravages everything in its path. No matter how many condemned souls he feeds on and revels in misery and suffering, the hunger persists, growing with each bite. His throat becomes a bottomless pit, his mouth a voracious trap that devours everything it touches. The scent of fresh meat and warm blood becomes a sickening obsession, clouding his mind and consuming his thoughts. Every moment of starvation is an indescribable agony, a torment that knows no respite. His body withers and twists under the yoke of necessity, his bones protruding like sharp thorns through his taut skin. His eyes gleam with a feverish light, his mind tormented by visions of endless feasts that are always out of reach. Even in moments of apparent satiety, the hunger persists, lurking in the shadows like an invisible predator. He is doomed to wander for eternity, consumed by a hunger that will never find satisfaction, a curse that consumes him from within until there is nothing left but emptiness and darknessˇ­ The deity''s mental state is an abyss of madness and despair, a labyrinth of psychological torment from which there is no escape. His mind, once a bastion of cunning and malice, is now tainted by the deepest shadows of his being. His thoughts are entangled in paranoia and delirium, his memories distorted by the curse devouring him from within. The voices in his head are a constant clamour, sibilant whispers urging him to acts of violence and destruction. Each night is a feast of nightmares, grotesque visions haunting him even in his waking moments. Reality blurs around him, the walls of his mental prison closing in tighter and tighter, crushing his sanity beneath their relentless weight. His emotions are a whirlwind of pain and despair, a cacophony of anguish threatening to engulf him entirely. Passion burns in his chest like a searing fire, fear paralyses him in place, and sadness plunges him into a sea of hopelessness. Every day is a desperate battle to hold onto sanity, to cling to the last thread of reason left in his torn mind. His body writhes with violent spasms, his hands turning into twisted claws grasping desperately at reality. Mental illness consumes him from within, devouring his identity and leaving only an empty, contorted shell in its place. He is a shadow of what he once was, a spectre tormented by the demons of his own creation, condemned to an existence of eternal suffering in the depths of the abyss. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. The deity lies chained by a twisted tangle of cables and circuits, a grotesque amalgamation of flesh and metal that keeps him imprisoned in a state of eternal suffering. The cables snake around his mutilated body, piercing his skin with rusted cybernetic implants and corroded connections. Each cable is an invisible chain binding him to the world of technology, an electronic prison holding him in an endless loop of pain and agony. The flesh around the cables is reddened and inflamed, marked by burns and scars where the connections have fused with his skin. Cybernetic implants twist and hum with a life of their own, emitting flashes of sickly light that illuminate his contorted figure in the darkness. The sound of cables twisting and snapping against his skin fills the air, a discordant symphony of suffering and despair. The deity struggles against his copper bindings with every fibre of his being, but the cables are relentless, clinging to him with supernatural force. Every attempt to escape only increases his torment, triggering electric shocks that course through his body like a burning whip. His mind is connected to a network of distorted virtual reality, where his worst nightmares come to life again and again in an endless cycle of suffering. The line between man and machine blurs in his tortured state, with each beat of his mechanical heart resonating in his skull like a war drum. The deity is doomed to be a slave to technology, a cybernetic demon trapped in a limbo of pain and despair, condemned to exist at the intersection between the divine and the inhuman for all eternity. Giselle found herself immersed in a reality alien to her senses, where she only perceived the presence of heads that gazed upon her with pity and carnal desire. She kept her head bowed towards the pit of her tomb, immobilised and with her mind plunged into a chaos of dark thoughts that nearly led her to complete madness. The most horrendous psychological disorders gripped her, blocking her senses: she could not speak, hear, or see. Her eyes shed desperate tears, unable even to swallow saliva. Her body felt inert, as if only the skin were the sole witness to her existence. The bones seemed to yield under pressure, while her tongue lay inert in her mouth. Her glassy eyes almost lost sight, and her legs trembled on the brink of collapse. The skin began to decompose more rapidly, the fingers and nails breaking like stone from a statue. Gangrene oozed from her lips, like tar from the stomach. Then, amidst the torment, only darkness reigned, with no sound but that of the infernal abyss. But something, her neck, was mutilated by the chokerˇ­ "Hunger on Trial" reacted to the threat and strived to protect the bearer as if facing its worst enemy. It unleashed the "Voracious Bite" attack as a passive manifestation, but with the artifact''s maximum critical damage capacity, far surpassing attacks against the ivy. However, the blow was deflected, reflected. At that moment, the choker around Giselle''s neck broke, its incisors and jaw shattered into a silent sound as Giselle''s throat was mutilated. Simultaneously, the staff on which "Two of Wands" leaned broke like a piece of old wood, the monkey paw vanished into the abyssal darkness. The "Voracious Bite" attack betrayed its bearer: tooth marks formed in the darkness like a spectral bite, and in a heart-wrenching act, half of Giselle''s face was devoured, mutilated. Gangrene oozed from her corpse like a pool of blood, yet she still lingered in agony, casting a sideways glance at the deity before her, fearing, for that deity was a vampire. Giselle''s body teeters on the edge of collapse when everything takes on a white hue, like a vast ocean of milk surrounding her. Hanging Gardens vanish around her, leaving only her and the deity, as long, colossal black tentacles, as gigantic as cities, begin to shape reality. The sea of milk shapes the deformity, as Giselle''s blood falls to the ground and blood from her mutilated body gushes from her nose. Then, the god chained by cables breaks free from his bonds upon touching the blood of the white-haired virgin. The blood of her sacrifice splashes the god''s skin, and in an instant, he sheds the cables with an electric sound, freeing himself from technology. His body stops mutating through evolution, his stomach stops suffering hunger. He rises from his lethargy, still grappling with his mental issues, his gigantic wings towering over Giselle''s body, which falls into a state of suspended time. Then, the deity is freed from his curses, though he cannot leave the castle, as he has not yet regained his identity or complete consciousness. He will remain thus perpetually until lust returns to the world, observing with his three heads until the prostitute regains control of the world. The virtuous weep and the wicked celebrate the return of the god of indulgence and sex. In the dense air of uncertainty that follows this performance, questions crowd together, entangled, like in a frenzied dance. The truth behind the presence of that deity atop the Hanging Gardens, their identity veiled beneath the cloak of mystery, lies beyond human understanding. Their purposes, the reasons behind their torment, the very essence lying beneath the veils of their sufferings, all slip like shadows in the minds of those who contemplate their figure. Giselle, amidst her demise, plunged into deep uncertainty, questioning the mystery behind the apparent paradox. How could someone so powerful succumb to degradation? What was the true essence of their being, that figure embodying lust, yet whose chains unravelled upon touching the blood of a mere human? "Hunger on Trial" and "Two of Wands" bowed before their presence, before the fluctuating manifestation of their three heads, whose corpulence is shrouded in mystery, while their great member hangs like a symbol of their might. Hunger and nature, which have tormented this deity so much, have been mutilated, stripped of their power. Giselle, on the other hand, bore the weight of misfortune with the dignity of the virtuous. She was devoured, dragged into the jaws of nightmare by the choker and the mere presence of the deity. Perhaps, this was all the purpose from the outset, and all, from Giselle to the Marquess, from the anomalies to the star entities, were mere pieces on a Chinese checkers board. Giselle''s fate seems dark, as the deity struggles to regain consciousness. The end in Hanging Gardens and the truth behind the castle walls loom ever closer, like flickering lights in the darkness of the night. Chapter 66: Underground The Empty Mirror Chapter 66: Underground In a rotten time, within the walls of the Lunatic Castle. In the unfathomable twilight of his estrangement, he finds himself engulfed in a tumult of unanswered questions. What is consciousness, if not the disquieting echo of divinity, or perhaps an illusion concocted by his troubled mind? He questions whether consciousness is the voice of God, whispering in the depths of his being, guiding him towards the light and away from the shadow. Or is consciousness merely the reflection of his own experiences and convictions, shaped by his trajectory and environment? He feels trapped in an unsolvable dilemma, like a castaway in an ocean of confusion. Should he trust his consciousness as a beacon of truth, or will it be nothing more than a fleeting chimera in his troubled mind? Perhaps the answer lies in the intimate nature of his being, in his relationship with the divine and the human, or perhaps with the demonic. Is he truly a being forged in the image and likeness of God, endowed with free will and moral responsibility? Or is he simply a wandering spectre in the abyss of existence, desperately seeking meaning amidst the chaos? In his delirium, he seeks answers where he only finds more questions. Who is he to unravel the mysteries of consciousness and awareness? Is he perhaps a mere spectator in the vast stage of life, or is he destined to play some drama in this reel of the constellations? In the vampire''s mind, words become a tangle of unanswered questions. What do these words conceal from another perspective? Are they mere fleeting flashes on the canvas of reality, or do they contain deeper meanings that elude his understanding? He wonders if consciousness is truly the immutable inner being that transcends time and space, or if it''s simply a transient manifestation of the mind, shaped by actions and sensory impressions. Or perhaps consciousness is the very perception of the external world, filtered through the five senses and the mind, like distorted images in a mirror? He wrestles between the teachings of ancient sages and his own doubts and confusions. Is it possible to attain enlightenment and break free from the cycle of birth and death, or is he doomed to wander endlessly in the darkness of ignorance and suffering? Perhaps the key to understanding consciousness and awareness lies in the practice of meditation and contemplation, in the silence of the mind and heart. Can he find the ultimate truth within himself, beyond the illusions of the phenomenal world, or is he destined to forever seek outside himself what is already present within his being? He''s lost in a corridor of questions without clear answers, once again. Who is he truly in this vast universe? Is he merely a fleeting spark in the eternal fire of the primordial, or is he something more, something that transcends time and space? Are they merely abstract shadows or do they conceal a deeper background, elusive to his understanding? He wonders if consciousness is only the intimate experience of reality, an emergent phenomenon gestated by the neuronal pulse in his brain, or if it''s something more, something that transcends matter and intervals. Or could it be that consciousness constitutes the key to unraveling the very essence of being, the threshold that paves the way to understanding existence and its intricate fabric? He debates between the teachings of great thinkers and his own uncertainties. Is it feasible to fully grasp the nature of consciousness, or are we destined to wander eternally in the shadows of the unknown and doubt? Perhaps the key to unraveling the enigma of consciousness and awareness lies in exploring the multiple currents of thought, from idealism to materialism, from existentialism to rationalism. Can he find the ultimate truth in the recesses of the human mind, or is he condemned to endlessly pursue answers that fade beyond his reach? He gets lost in a sea of blood with no clear answers. Who is he truly in this vast universe of ideas and concepts? Is he merely a passive spectator in the vast curtains of life, or does some crucial role await him in the quest for truth and wisdom? What do they truly encapsulate? Are they merely erratic terms or do they harbour a crucial distinction between them? He wonders if consciousness is simply the ability to be alert to oneself and the surroundings, while awareness stands as the subjective perception of such experience. Or are they two facets of the same coin, fused and inexorably intertwined in the human fabric? In his state of mental unrest, he grapples with theories and psychological dilemmas. Is consciousness merely the result of neurobiological processes in his brain, or is there something deeper in those hinges? Is it just a fallacy woven by neuronal activity, or rather the manifestation of something more transcendental, something that escapes his rational understanding? He questions whether consciousness is the product of the complex interaction between biology and environment, or if it is rooted in the deepest part of the human being, in what defines him as a species. In his delirium, he plunges into the abyss of the psyche, exploring the theories of scholars and other masters of analysis. Is consciousness the echo of internal conflicts and unconscious processes, or rather the expression of the psyche as a whole? He wrestles between the teachings of these mental titans, seeking answers amidst the haze of his confusion. But as he delves deeper into his inquiry, more questions arise, like demons lurking in the shadows of his troubled mind. Is it possible to attain a comprehensive understanding of consciousness, or is he doomed to wander endlessly in the shadow of ignorance? Is consciousness merely the harvest of biological evolution, or is it something more, something that transcends the boundaries of science and reason? Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. How did ancient civilizations interpret these terms? He questions whether in ancient times, consciousness stood as a divine gift, a link with the gods that bestowed wisdom and discernment. Or was it glimpsed as the materialization of divine will, a force that guided and shaped the destiny of men? Navigating through the pages of history, he encounters sages and thinkers who pondered the essence of consciousness and awareness. From the dawn of ancient Greece, with Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle, to later periods such as the Renaissance and the Enlightenment, each era brought forth new visions and theories on this intriguing subject. He wrestles between the teachings of the great masters, attempting to discern truth amidst the historical abyss. Is consciousness merely a product of the human mind, as outlined by rationalist philosophers, or is it something more, something that transcends reason and logic? He wonders if conceptions of consciousness have shifted over time, or if there are aspects of it that are timeless and universal. But as he reflects on the past, more questions arise, like spectres of yesterday haunting him in the darkness of his madness. Is it feasible to unravel the truth about consciousness through history, or are we destined to wander eternally in the shadow of ignorance? He debates between theories and interpretations, eager to find a thread of truth in the tapestry of human history. What do ancient esoteric practices conceal in their folds about these mysteries? He wonders if in the legacies of mystics and alchemists lie the answers to his deepest inquiries. He immerses himself in sacred scrolls and occult arts, seeking the ancestral wisdom of vanished civilizations. Is consciousness a glimpse of divinity dwelling in every human being, a link to the primordial source of all creation? He debates between the interpretations of sorcerers, trying to discern truth amidst the veil of uncertainty. But as he progresses in his quest, more questions sprout in his troubled mind. Is it possible to attain enlightenment and transcendence through esoteric rituals and meditations, or are they mere chimeras spawned by his troubled mind? He faces an unresolved dilemma, like a lost thaumaturge in a maze of symbols and enigmas. In the abysses, he found the light of the consciousness theory, a truth that seems to reverberate in the depths of his being. Is consciousness truly the result of the dance between the brain, the body, and the environment? He wonders if consciousness is the expression of an act of observation, a choreography between the different layers of reality. In this new vision, he is immersed in an interconnected cosmos, where every thought, every action, every experience contributes to weaving his own reality. Could consciousness result from the feedback between his mind and the surrounding world, a joint creation that transcends the boundaries of time and space? He wrestles between the revelations of this revolutionary theory, struggling to assimilate its impact on his conception of the universe. But as he delves into this new perspective, more questions sprout in his troubled mind. Could consciousness be the key that unveils the mysteries of reality, an entry to higher dimensions of existence? He faces an unresolved enigma, like a visionary lost in an ocean of infinite possibilities, finding a strange serenity in embracing this truth. Who is he to question the wisdom of the titans, when that theory resonates so deeply within his being? He plunges into the certainty of this revelation, accepting his role as a co-creator of his own reality, in a constellation where consciousness is the thread that weaves the fabric of existence. Now, clarity brings him the longed-for answers: What is consciousness? What does it mean to be conscious? Consciousness stands as the faculty to perceive and experience the surrounding environment, to possess a sense of existence and to be aware of oneself. But what lies beyond that conscious perception? Is there something more transcendental, something that surpasses our earthly understanding? Yes, that''s what a theory of thought suggests. It proposes that consciousness far exceeds mere individual perception, that it''s a spatial force that binds all living beings on a deeper level. So, are we all interconnected through this consciousness of the constellations? Are we part of something larger than ourselves? Exactly so. The truth hints that consciousness is not confined solely to our being, but constitutes an interconnected network that spans the entire solar system. And what does this imply for him, here in this castle? How can he relate to this notion of consciousness of the stars? Even though he finds himself in this shadowy and claustrophobic place, he can still tune into that consciousness of the constellations. Through meditation, introspection, and exploring his own mind, he can open himself up to that connection and find a sense of serenity and understanding beyond these walls. Therefore, even in the darkness of this enclave, a glimmer of hope shines. A deeper connection that transcends his current situation. What lurks in these shadows crawling along the walls? Are they mere thoughts or something even more sinister? The voices, like venomous snakes, whisper in the crevices of his mind, injecting their poison into his thoughts. He cannot escape their icy embrace. Where does the light lie? Where is the exit from this labyrinth of fractured mirrors and withered dreams? Frozen hands seize him from the depths of the abyss, dragging him into a bottomless void. Muffled screams reverberate in his ears, fragments of a distorted reality. Who is he amidst this chaos? Does he even exist or is he just a lost echo in the wind? Tongueless faces watch him from the shadows, empty eyes reflecting his own despair. He finds no refuge in this pit of madness. Time twists and distorts around him, like the twisted branches of a withered tree. How long has he been here? How much more must he endure this torment? Words crumble in his mouth, turning into a torrent of lamentations and incomprehensible whispers. Is there anyone out there capable of understanding his pain? Reality fades like a withered leaf in the wind, leaving him trapped in an endless dream. There is no escape, only the eternal darkness of a fractured mind. Where does the way out lie? Where does the light shine at the end of this tunnel of nightmares? He cannot move forward, cannot bear this endless agony any longer, but finally, his consciousness has been set free. Chapter 67: Pisces The Empty Mirror Chapter 67: Pisces With wonder and amazement, the weave of destiny was contemplated, crafted with divine gold in the venerable scrolls of the past. Before the eyes of the beholder unfolded the splendour of ancient texts, where carefully carved stone inscriptions revealed a profound reverence towards the celestial. In time immemorial, the sages of the ancient land in advance, with their keen gaze and skilled pen, traced a canvas of divinity whose brushstrokes were as varied as the stars adorning the night sky. The deities, intertwined with the primal forces of nature, manifested an eternal quest to understand the vast universe and our ephemeral position within it. In those ancestral tales, glimpses were caught of the very evolution of the divinities, from primordial gods to the most complex figures, endowed with human attributes and earthly passions. Would it not, perhaps, be a reflection of humanity''s own evolution, from humble contemplation of the sacred to fervent pursuit of a more intimate connection with the divine? Or perhaps it was a projection of their own struggles and triumphs, depicted in the celestial pantheon as constellations of meaning? Thus, one delved into the depths of reflection and wondered: how could they assess that religion, that worldview which had shaped entire civilizations with its indomitable influence? Could it not merely be a cultural expression, a human attempt to give meaning to the vast mystery surrounding us? Or was it, perhaps, something more transcendental, an open window to the ethereal that transcended the bounds of time and space, inviting them to contemplate the unfathomable with eyes of wonder and reverence? The written word, like a rushing river coursing through the ages, carries with it the beliefs and visions of past generations. In the stream of knowledge, the ancients found chants that exalted the majesty of the gods and rituals that linked the earthly with the divine. They are like pillars upholding the temple of faith, erecting a sacred structure for life and social coexistence. But beyond that horizon of knowledge, a vast ocean of understanding extends in the ancient scrolls. Here, in the depths of spiritual wisdom, scholars ventured to explore the eternal truths hidden within the bosom of existence. It was a journey into the unknown, an effort to unravel the mysteries of being and reality. And then emerged the myths, the sacred narratives that intertwined the tapestry of mythology and morality. In these tales, gods and heroes walked among mortals, imparting lessons of virtue and justice. Each story was a mirror reflecting the hopes and fears of a society in perpetual transformation. What teachings could be drawn from these sacred writings? Were they mere relics of the past, or did they contain timeless truths that still resonated in our hearts and minds? Perhaps the answer lay in the very search itself, in the unquenchable human yearning to understand the divine and find meaning in our journey through this world. In the panorama of spirituality, practice stood tall like a serene river, carrying with it the teachings of the enlightened one. Through the centuries, this river had divided its waters into multiple streams, each with its own flow and destination. In the ancient lands of the pathways, glimpses were caught of the purity of primordial teachings, guarded like precious jewels within the bosom of tradition. Here, sages meditated in the depths of the soul, seeking liberation from suffering through understanding impermanence and the absence of self. But beyond the ancient paths, stretched the vast horizon of a great vehicle, where the spirit of compassion blossomed like a lotus in the pond of existence. In these lands, compassionate souls wandered among mortals, radiating the light of awakening to all sentient beings. It was an expansive vision, embracing the entirety of the universe with love and mercy. And in the high diamond summits, lay the path of lightning, a route of swift and direct transformation towards enlightenment. Here, practitioners delved into the mysteries of the teachings, employing powerful methods to awaken the divine energy dormant in the deepest recesses of being. What lessons could be drawn from this diversity of schools? Were they perhaps different paths towards the same goal, or did they reflect different facets of the supreme truth? Perhaps the answer lay in the very unity of the human experience, in the universal quest for liberation from suffering and realization of being. In the web formed by human experience, one discerns a thread that traverses all cultures and eras: the recognition of suffering and the quest for its cessation. In ancient manuscripts, one glimpses an eternal wisdom that unveils the primordial truths of existence. The first truth resonates like an echo in the void, pulsating in the hearts of all sentient beings: suffering pervades all spheres, in palpable and imperceptible forms, in fleeting joy and deep pain. It is a reminder of our fragility and shared humanity. The second certainty stands as a compass pointing to the root of suffering: the insatiable desire that binds us to the endless cycle of birth and death. It is an invitation to scrutinize our own minds and hearts, and to discover the truth behind appearances. The third reality shines like a light in the shadows: the possibility of liberation from suffering, the cessation of desire, and the attainment of inner peace. It is a glimmer of hope in a world filled with challenges and tribulations. And the fourth presents itself as a path unfolding before us: the noble path, a path of wisdom, ethics, and meditation that leads to emancipation. It is a call to action, to cultivate the noble virtues that guide us beyond suffering towards supreme culmination. What can we extract from these universal truths? Are they merely philosophical principles, or do they encapsulate a deeper message about the very nature of existence? Perhaps the answer lies in our own experience, in the individual quest for meaning and fulfilment amidst flux and transience. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. In the sands, the devout people emerged like a beacon of resilience and fervour amidst the storms of history. From the ancient dawn of a wandering patriarch to the splendour of royal and wise courts, a chronicle of struggle and hope, of faith and disloyalty unfolded. In the domains of a region, the children of the sacred forged their identity as the chosen people, guided by the imperceptible hand of the divine through deserts and promised lands. Their prophets, like voices in the desolate vastness, cried out for justice and fidelity to the eternal covenant. But the saga of the people was marked by suffering and dispersion. From the ruin of the temple to persecutions in distant lands, believers endured exile and oppression. Yet, amidst adversity, they kept the flame of their faith burning, preserving the teachings of divine laws as an invaluable treasure. Exile, like a river winding in all directions, led the offspring of a saint to distant lands, where they preserved their unique identity while mingling with surrounding cultures. In every nation and era, the devout left an indelible mark on history, contributing to the flourishing of human civilization. What teachings could be drawn from the chronicle of the people? Was it merely a tale of tribulations and victories, or did it contain deeper lessons about the nature of human destiny and the pursuit of a transcendent purpose? Perhaps the answer lay in the strength of the human spirit, in its capacity to persevere and find meaning even in the darkest abysses. In the crucible of history, the religious practices of the people underwent evolution and adaptation over centuries, like a tree that grows and branches out, yet always rooted in the soil of its ancestors. From the dawn of the temple, where priests offered ritual sacrifices on behalf of the people, to the churches scattered worldwide, where the faithful gathered to pray and study sacred scriptures, a continuous transformation in worship and devotion was perceived. The interpretation of the law, legality, resembled a labyrinth of pathways, where sages and kings debated and deliberated every detail, seeking to unravel the divine will and apply it to everyday life. In each era, new challenges and circumstances demanded a reinterpretation of ancient traditions, leading to the creation of new regulations and customs. Nevertheless, even amidst this diversity of practices and opinions, there beat a common thread that intertwined all communities: the pursuit of justice and righteousness, compassion and kindness. Throughout the centuries, followers of the saints served as beacons of light in the darkness, defending the eternal values of faith and humanity. What teachings could be drawn from this evolution of religious practices and interpretations of the law? Were they mere cultural adaptations over time, or did they reflect a constant quest for divine truth in a perpetually changing world? Perhaps the answer lay in the very dynamics of existence, in the need to adapt and grow while maintaining fidelity to the fundamental values that distinguish us as human beings. In the wilderness, a religion emerged as an oasis of faith and guidance amidst the shifting sands of history. From the days of the prophet, the divine messenger, to the present time, there was observed a constant evolution in the sources of authority that directed the community of believers. The scriptures, like an eternal spring of divine wisdom, had been the pulsating heart of faith since its inception. Its verses, intoned by the prophet in the cave of revelation, were like stars in the nocturnal darkness, illuminating the path of the faithful towards truth and virtue. Throughout the centuries, scholars had scrutinized and debated every word, seeking to understand its profound meaning and its application in collective existence. But alongside the books, tradition shone like the moon in the firmament, reflecting the divine light in the life and teachings of the prophet. The narratives, traditions, and teachings attributed to the sage were like a compass guiding believers in every aspect of life, from prayer to ethics and morality. Throughout the centuries, these sources of authority had been interpreted and applied in various ways by different schools and communities within that creed. From the golden times of hegemony to the contemporary challenges of the globalised world, believers had sought to find a balance between fidelity to the original teachings and adaptation to changing circumstances. What could be drawn from this evolution of knowledge and tradition as sources of authority? Were they merely sacred texts and cultural traditions, or did they contain a deeper truth about the nature of faith and the pursuit of justice and virtue in the world? Perhaps the answer lay in the wisdom and understanding that each generation brought, in its yearning for truth and justice in a world in constant flux. In the constellations, a variety of hues and configurations could be discerned, reflecting the diversity of beliefs and practices within the community of believers. The dichotomy between the majority and minority currents was just one facet of this complex panorama, a reflection of the currents and tensions that had shaped history over the centuries. The majority followers, akin to the branches of a lush tree reaching towards the sky, comprised the majority in the religious sphere, adhering to the teachings of tradition and heritage in their most orthodox form. They had been the bastion of orthodoxy, preserving the precepts of the prophet and defending the unity of the community of believers. On the other hand, the minority were like a stream flowing in a different direction, following a different spiritual lineage that traced back to a key figure, the prophet''s cousin and son-in-law. They had kept the flame of devotion towards the prophet''s kin, enduring persecution and marginalisation throughout history. But beyond this primordial division, there were further derivations within this orthodoxy that reflected diverse interpretations and approaches to faith. From the mystics longing for mystical fusion with the divine to the reformers challenging established traditions in search of spiritual revitalisation, each current in thought brought its own unique voice to the spiritual dialogue. What teachings could be drawn from this diversity of currents within the creed? Was it simply a manifestation of the complexity of human experience, or did it reflect a deeper truth about the nature of faith and the quest for meaning in an ever-changing world? Perhaps the answer lay in the ability to adapt and evolve, always maintaining its core of fundamental values and beliefs, thus offering a spiritual path for all people in all times. Chapter 68: Nosferatu The Empty Mirror Chapter 68: Nosferatu In the deep confines of an ancient stronghold, amidst dim flickerings and echoes of forgotten times, an enigmatic entity, alien to its own nature, delves into introspection that challenges conventional notions of existence. This vampire, whose ethereal figure seems to blend with the darkness that surrounds it, engages in an inner dialogue, unraveling the mysteries of invisibility from a perspective that blurs the boundaries between the tangible and the fleeting. Without purpose, without a defined past, the vampire confronts the concept of invisibility with a sharp mind and a heart full of unrest. In its inner discourse, it plunges into the depths of the abyss of existence, questioning the very essence of its being and the forces that have shaped it into what it is. "What is this shadow that envelops me, this absence of presence that delineates me?" it wonders, with a whispering voice that barely punctures the sepulchral silence of the stronghold. "Am I perhaps the result of a degenerate nature, an unwanted mutation in the fabric of the constellations?" As it explores the complexities of its condition, the vampire delves into a stream of theories, seeking answers that seem to elude its grasp. From the depths of primordial time to the intricate strands of the genetic code, it scrutinizes every hiding place of natural history in search of clarity. "Is invisibility perhaps more than a curse, a stigma imposed by the whim of the gods or the cold grip of evolution?" it questions, with an intensity that even eclipses the shadows that surround it. "Is it perhaps the very denial of life, an aberration in the world of existence?" Without defined answers, without certainties to hold onto, the vampire continues its inner dialogue, exploring possibilities with an open mind and a chained will. For it, invisibility is more than a lack of light; it is an enigma that challenges the boundaries of knowledge and understanding. As the enigmatic vampire persists in his quest for answers among the shadows of the castle, his attention is drawn to another aspect of his existence: the longevity that has marked him since time immemorial. In his discourse, he explores the paradox of eternity chained to a form of life that defies the very laws of nature. "What is this extension of existence beyond the limits of conceivability?" he questions, with a mixture of fascination and horror that reflects the complexity of his being. "Am I perhaps the result of a botched experiment, a genetic aberration doomed to wander through endless centuries?" Delving into the depths of his own biology, the vampire delves into the shadows of the past, seeking answers in the remote meanders of time. From the dawn of life on Earth to the mysteries of inheritance, he explores every facet of his being in search of clarity. "Is longevity more than a curse, a burden imposed by the icy hand of science?" he wonders, with a palpable anguish that reverberates through the castle walls. "Is my existence perhaps a degenerate manifestation of nature, a flaw in the cosmic structure?" Without definitive answers, the vampire plunges deeper into his own darkness, exploring the limits of his own understanding and the shadows hidden in the darkest corners of his being. Because, at the end of the day, the truth of his existence may be more intricate than he ever conceived. "Is not vulnerability to sunlight an aberrant decay?" he pondered, as the first rays of the day forced him to seek shelter in the shadows of the stronghold. "Is it not a symbol of weakness in the adaptive fabric, a flaw in the design of survival?" For the vampire, vulnerability to the sun was the most glaring symbol of his curse, an indelible sign that separated him from the perfection that nature eagerly pursued. From his unique perspective, he conceived the sun as a destructive agent, an adversary that constantly reminded him of his deviation from the changing norm. In his endeavor to unravel his own curse, the vampire immersed himself in scrutiny, exploring genetic and physiological theories that could explain his peculiar vulnerability. However, each answer found only served to fuel his existential anguish, reaffirming his perception of vulnerability as an unwanted anomaly. He was faced with the paradox of a vulnerability that defied all reasonable logic. "How can a humble vegetable bulb exert such influence over my being?" he questioned, sensing the unpleasant aroma of garlic permeating the castle''s atmosphere. "Should not virtue have granted me stronger defenses against such trivial threats?" For the vampire, vulnerability to garlic represented a cruel mockery of nature, an inexplicable weakness that relegated him to a state of constant vulnerability. Although his scientific mind sought to find a logical explanation, it only encountered more unanswered questions. "Is it perhaps an allergic reaction, a bodily anomaly, or a whim of fate?" he wondered, as the aroma of garlic invaded his senses and weakened his being. "Or perhaps it is yet another testament to my eternal curse, a burden imposed by forces beyond comprehension?" In his effort to understand the absurd weakness to garlic, the vampire delved into theories about the coevolution of plant and animal species, searching for clues that could explain his strange sensitivity. However, each hypothesis only served to increase his frustration, reinforcing his perception of vulnerability as an inescapable curse. As the vampire''s mind delved into the mysteries of his existence, a supernatural force emerged as a powerful counterpoint to his vulnerability. Even shrouded in the shadows of the castle, the vampire was aware of the titanic vigour that dwelled within him, a strength that defied the limitations imposed by his fragility in the face of sunlight and weakness against garlic. "How can it be that my being harbours such potency, while I am condemned to fear the light of day and the smell of garlic?" he wondered, as the darkness of the castle resonated with the intensity of his own inner strength. "Is it perhaps a cruel twist of fate, a stellar irony that endows me with powers beyond human understanding, yet condemns me to impotence against the most earthly threats?" Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. For the vampire, the paradox of his superhuman strength was as perplexing as the vulnerability that lurked within. Although he could defy the laws of physics with his unmatched agility and strength, he was forced to submit to the limitations imposed by his unique condition. "Is it perhaps a reminder of my own duality, a manifestation of the eternal struggle between light and darkness that I harbour within me?" he questioned, as his muscles tensed with a strength that defied all logic. "Or perhaps it is yet another testament to the complexity of my nature, a living paradox destined to wander eternally between greatness and misery?" In his quest to understand the nature of his supernatural strength, the vampire delved into the depths of biology and physics, seeking answers that could shed light on his personal enigma. "How can I traverse the vast depths of knowledge with such staggering speed?" he marvelled, as his consciousness expanded beyond the limits of conceivability. "Is it perhaps a gift from the gods, a grace destined to smooth my quest for answers in a world that rejects me?" For the vampire, the accelerated speed was both a blessing and a curse, a powerful weapon that allowed him to explore the confines of knowledge and the tangible world, but also condemned him to the solitude of his own precipitated mind. As his thoughts raced through time and space, he wondered if he would ever find serenity amidst the whirlwind of his own existence. "Is it perhaps a sign of my progressive superiority, a demonstration of the perfection that adaptation aspired to achieve?" he questioned, as his heightened speed led him through mazes of thought and his body traversed increasingly intricate corridors. "Or is it simply another reminder of the monstrosity that I am, evidence that my nature is destined to be misunderstood and feared by those around me?" In his quest to understand the origin of his heightened speed, the vampire plunged into the abysses of neuroscience and physics, seeking answers that could shed light on his personal enigma. However, each discovery only served to increase his fascination and despair, strengthening his vision of himself as a creature trapped in a labyrinth of paradoxes and contradictions. Every whisper of the wind, every distant heartbeat, every scent that floated in the air, all sharpened in his mind with supernatural clarity. "How can I perceive the world with such acuteness, while I am sentenced to eternal shadows?" he marvelled, as his senses expanded beyond human confines. "Is it perhaps a compensation for my weaknesses, a way to balance the scales of existence?" For the vampire, heightened sensory abilities were both a gift and a burden, a window to the world around him but also a constant source of overwhelming stimuli. As his gaze penetrated the darkness with crystalline clarity and his ears captured the faintest whispers, he wondered if he would ever find peace amidst the sensory cacophony that enveloped him. His vulnerability to wooden stakes. Every time his mind brushed against the topic, a sensation of fear and anguish enveloped him, reminding him of the fragility of his immortality. "How can it be that something as simple as a wooden stake can end my eternal existence?" he questioned, feeling the cold steel of an imaginary stake brushing against his pale skin. "Is it perhaps a mockery of fate, a proof that my immortality is but a fleeting illusion?" For the vampire, vulnerability to wooden stakes was both a reminder of his mortality and an affront to his supposed superiority over mortals. Although he could defy the laws of life and death with his eternal youth, he was forced to confront the reality of his own vulnerability in the face of a simple sharp piece of wood. "Is it perhaps a sign of my own fragility, a warning that my power is but a facade that fades at the slightest threat?" he wondered, as the image of a stake driven into his heart filled him with terror. "Or is it simply another reminder of the irony of my existence, a proof that I am doomed to be a slave to my own weaknesses?" In his quest to understand the origin of his vulnerability to wooden stakes, the vampire delved into the legends and myths surrounding his own nature. Every time his mind delved into the labyrinth of his own nature, the vision of his coffin loomed before him, reminding him of his dependence on that casket as a refuge during the day. "How is it possible that my eternal rest is tied to a coffin of wood and velvet?" he questioned, feeling the oppression of the walls of the imaginary sarcophagus around him. "Is it perhaps a curse destined to remind me of my own mortality, even in immortality?" For the vampire, the curse of the coffin was both a prison and a sanctuary, a constant reminder of his fragility in the face of the whims of time and nature. Although he could roam freely at night, he knew that at dawn he would be condemned to seek refuge in the darkness of his coffin, patiently awaiting the return of the night. "Is it perhaps a sign of my own weakness, a manifestation of my need for protection in a world that rejects me?" he wondered, as the image of his closed coffin imposed itself on his mind. "Or is it simply another reminder of the irony of my existence, a proof that even in death I am a slave to my own limitations?" Reminding him of the deep antithesis between his nature and human faith. "How is it possible that something as pure as holy water can inflict such intense pain upon me?" he questioned, feeling the imaginary stinging on his skin as he evoked the touch of the sacred liquid. "Is it perhaps a symbol of my own impurity, a sign of my distance from the divine?" For the vampire, aversion to holy water and religious symbols was both a reminder of his separation from humanity and an affront to his own identity. Although he could defy the laws of nature with his immortality, he was compelled to submit to the spiritual laws that branded him as an unholy creature. "Is it perhaps a manifestation of my own wickedness, a proof that my nature is destined to conflict with all that is sacred?" he questioned, as the image of a cross imposed itself on his mind with overwhelming force. "Or is it simply another reminder of the insurmountable distance between my being and the world of faith?" Immersing himself in the teachings and dogmas of various religions, he sought the meaning of the cross, continuing his solitary journey through the depths of his own aversion, trapped between the darkness of his own soul and the unattainable light of faith. Would he ever find the redemption he so yearned for, or would he be condemned to live eternally in the darkness of his own disbelief? Chapter 69: Limbo The Empty Mirror Chapter 69: Limbo Halting his stride, his gaze wanders into the void as ponderings unfold in his mind. In the echo of his own reflective voice, in the very soul of his being, he wonders, "Why, among all the creatures of this vast creation, have I been chosen to bear this gift of metamorphosis? Bats, wolves, even the mist itself... forms I can assume at will, but at what cost?" And so, his body contorts, twists in a macabre choreography of transformation, yet there is no beauty in it; only the grotesque manifestation of a twisted nature. The wisdom of the world finds no explanation for him, for his metamorphosis defies the established natural laws. "If nature is the path to perfection, am I then a step backwards? A degeneration of what life longs to achieve? A curse adorned as a gift, an affront to natural selection?" In his musings, the being challenges the theory from his singular perspective. There is no adaptive advantage in his ability to fade into the mists or to stalk like the wolf. On the contrary, these transfigurations isolate him, turn him into a pariah among the shadows. "And if my existence is a mistake? A dead end in the vast labyrinth of existence? What place awaits me in the natural order if I am the only one of my kind?" "Bats, creatures of the nocturnal threshold, are harbingers of death and desolation, but also of intuition and metamorphosis," he reflects, immersed in the duality of his being. "In their stealthy flight, do they embody my own transition from brightness to dusk, from vibrant life to something... less animated?" he wonders. "And the wolves, with their vigor and loyalty, do they perhaps reflect my own solitary essence and yet, longing for connection?" he continues, sensing the affinity of his being with that of the wild canine. "Is their howling in the darkness of the night a cry for freedom or a lament for lost companionship?" he questions. "The fog, in its constant mutation, veiling reality and unveiling unknown worlds. Is my ability to blend into it a condemnation that throws me into eternal ambiguity, or a gift that allows me to evade a world incapable of understanding me?" he muses, his figure fading into the folds of the surrounding mist. "The sleep, that soothing balm of being, eludes me," he whispers. "I am unfamiliar with the forgetfulness that night brings, nor the serenity found in dreams. I am sentenced to perpetual wakefulness, where thoughts never cease and weariness is everlasting." The deprivation of rest is not only a physical lack but also a torment of the soul. "Could this be the true curse of my existence? A mind that never rests, always vigilant, always alone?" He reflects on how sleep is an act of harmony, a necessity for most living creatures. For him, however, it is a concept as foreign as daylight. "In the course of my progression, what twist of fate denied me the comfort of rest? What flaw in my structure has left me in this state of perpetual wakefulness?" The being wanders through deserted chambers, his only company the echo of his own footsteps and the burden of an eternity without sleep. "Eternal sleep, to me, is nothing but an allegory of a death that will never come." In the silent contemplation of the castle, he queries with the curiosity of a sage and the meticulousness of a scholar: "Why, upon the smoothness of this mirror, does my visage find no echo? What evolutionary rupture has deprived me of the gift of beholding my own face?" In the whisper of the wind seeping through the cracks of the stone walls, he finds no answer, only the echo of silence. The absence of his reflection, unwavering in his existence, emerges not only as a corporeal anomaly but also as an emblem of his disconnection from the world. "If nature fosters adaptation and perpetuity, how is it possible that I, deprived of the visual testimony of my existence, have come to be? Is this lack of reflection perhaps an unequivocal sign of my decay?ˇ± As the feigned moon casts its faint light upon his figure, he ponders the paradox of his condition. In a cosmos where image confirms reality, he is a spectre unto himself, an entity devoid of a face. "Perhaps," he murmurs, "in the absence of my own reflection lies the purest essence of my being. Without the specular gaze, I am free from the constraints of form, existing beyond the limited luminous perception." But deep within his being, he senses the weight of that freedom, a freedom that isolates him, that makes him a pariah of nature, an error in the tapestry of life. "So, is this absence of reflection folly or liberation? Does the shadow of my existence hold the next stage of horror, or merely a dead-end in the vast dungeon of life?" "I am not life, for my heart does not beat; I am not death, for still my footsteps echo. I am imprisoned in a limbo, an intermediary existence that defies the natural flow of life." He walks the corridors, his figure barely outlined in the darkness: "Evolution is a process of adaptation and survival, but what role awaits me in its practice? I am the product of a mutation, a deviation that eluded natural selection. I do not evolve, I do not reproduce, I do not mutate. I am a dead end in the genealogical tree of existence." He stops before a window, the moon his only company: "If evolution is a gift for species, for me, it is a curse. There is no progress in my eternity, only stagnation. Death gives meaning to life, instils urgency and purpose. But I... I am exempt from that cosmic race.ˇ± The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. "There is no end for me, only a perpetual now with no promise of release." With a sigh that does not feed lungs, he reflects, "Science yearns to understand, classify, and explain. But my existence is a riddle that resists categorisation. I am living proof that, in the vastness of the universe, there are phenomena that elude the logic of evolution. I am the curse of the undead, a being condemned to witness the unfolding of life from the shadows of immortality, like a sinful act of mutual stimulation with a lady, but instead of face to face, like a dog licking its sex, she does the same and it is simultaneous, immorality, savouring the stimuli, an endless fellatio." In his urgent need for blood, as the night envelops the world in its dark cloak, he reflects, "Blood is my sustenance, the elixir that keeps me anchored to this plane. Without it, I would fade into nothingness, but every drop consumed reminds me of my separation from humanity. Is this my ''natural state''? If so, it is a tainted state, distant from purity and freedom." He questions, with the moon as his only witness, "Clairvoyance envisioned society as a chain that separates man from his primal nature, but what of my condition? I do not belong to society, yet I am not exempt from its bonds. Persecution and ostracism are the shadows that haunt me, as unavoidable as the night itself.ˇ± With his gaze lost on the horizon, he reflects, "Hunger, that primal force that drives all creatures, becomes a curse in me. I do not seek companionship, but mere survival at a price I do not wish to pay. Society condemns my existence, and rightly so, for my survival means the downfall of another." He concludes on a sombre note, "Perhaps clairvoyance was right to assert that man is born free, but everywhere he is in chains. I, on the other hand, was born chained to shackles that will never break, condemned to a freedom that is itself a prison. The need for blood is my heaviest chain, a constant reminder that, though I am not of its world, I am irrevocably bound to it." "What transformation has taken place within me? This thirst, which has been my curse, my only constant, now fades as if a divine sacrifice has redeemed my soul. Is it possible that, like the sacrificed son on the altar, I have been released from my fate?" With a new perspective, he considers, "Nature, that relentless force that has brought me to this point, could it have taken an unexpected turn? Is this the next step on my path, an evolution of consciousness rather than form?" Gazing at the illusory starry firmament, he reflects, "If evolution is adaptation, what does it imply to adapt when one is outside the cycle of life and death? Is this absence of thirst an adjustment or an anomaly? Is it progress or simply another stagnation?" With caution, yet with a glimmer of hope, he concludes, "Perhaps this change is an indication that even for beings like me, there are possibilities for transformation. Maybe I am not destined to be an eternal parasite. Perhaps I can find a new purpose, a new form of existence not bound to the darkness of blood thirst. The cup of wine rests upon the stone, next to the cheese and bread, enticing and savoury, but such stone lies upon my back, tethered with a rope to my torso; I cannot lift the cup of wine nor taste the cheese or bread. It is the curse of hunger, but my thirst for blood no longer endures.ˇ± "Could this revelation be a divine touch that has emancipated me from my curse? Vampirism, always linked to lust and desire, what role does it play in my existence now?" With a heightened curiosity, he delves into the idea, "Carnal desire, that force that draws mortals towards intimacy and transgression, is it comparable to my former thirst for blood? Both are impulses that yearn to transcend boundaries, one in pursuit of connection, the other of survival." He questions, seeking answers, "If my vampiric condition is a manifestation of primal desires, what does it imply that they no longer dominate me? Have I reached a state of grace, a purification of instincts that once defined me?" With a broader perspective, he concludes, "Perhaps my transformation reflects the eternal struggle between nature and the divine, between earthly desires and the quest for something higher. My liberation from the thirst for blood could be a step towards understanding the true essence of desire and its place in the world." "What am I? Darkness recognises me, yet I am unfamiliar with darkness. I drink from life, yet I do not live. Am I the shadow of what I once was or the promise of what I will never be? You are the whisper in the night, the fear that creeps into the hearts of mortals. But what does it mean to be a whisper? What does it mean to be fear? These words, ''vampire,'' ''vampirism,'' resonate in my mind like distant bells, yet their origin eludes me. Who has placed them there? They are terms from another world, human concepts detached from humanity, mythological nouns. So, am I captive to a concept? Has god imprisoned my essence in a cage of words and meanings I do not understand? You are what you are, whether language defines or denies you. If I am unique in my species, how can I be part of an ''us''? How can I belong to a definition I am ignorant of? Definition is for those who yearn to understand, not for those who simply are. So, should I simply ''be'' without aspiring to comprehend? Is that freedom or eternal damnation? Freedom and damnation are two sides of the same coin, dancing in the air of destiny. Perhaps in reflection, in the act of questioning, I will find my true nature. Not bounded by words, but forged in the search for meaning in the vastness of eternity.ˇ± The vampire, imprisoned in eternal present, contemplates the disintegration of his being. A part of him, a disfigured identity, writhes in agony, chained with cables that snake like vines over a forgotten monument of withered gardens. It is the very mist that envelops him, a presence that swallows everything and reveals nothing. The prophetic vision confronts him with the brutality of a grotesque painting, where his essence decomposes into a spectacle of technological decay. The anti-evolution devours him, a ravenous hunger not appeased by any substance, but nourished by the sickly connection with the machinery that constrains him. In this marvel, the entity faces the paradox of its existence: it is both prisoner and jailer, victim and executioner of a cycle of hunger and stagnation. Technology, which promised to be his salvation, has turned into his damnation, a yoke that binds him to a state of perpetual inertia, a rigid madness. But at the core of his being, a scream brews, a rebellion fermenting in the depths of his soul. The deity, his true self, rises with the fury of the oppressed, and from his phallus springs the semen of anarchy. Chapter 70: Gravedigger The Empty Mirror Chapter 70: Gravedigger In the tumultuous upheaval, an explosion of freedom tore through the veil of submission, unleashing anarchy like a flesh and metal flower whose petals sliced through cables like razor blades. Liberation, in its visceral essence, became a catharsis purging degeneration and sowing the seeds of a new dawn, standing as the architect of its own destiny. Forged in the crucible of suffering, the key to emancipation was crafted. Anarchy did not signal the sunset, but the advent; it did not proclaim destruction, but creation. In that final act of defiance, it was reborn, as terrible and magnificent as the dawn of a new world. Thus, the vampire melded with the mist, and it with him, in a perpetual cycle of hunger and rebirth, a testament to the eternal struggle between servitude and the emancipation of unbridled desire. A three-headed deity, a monarch crowned with emerald eyes bearing the visage of intertwined bull and ram. Before their eyes stretched the vast subterranean sea, suffused with a crimson as intense as the lifeblood spilled in countless sacrifices. The ocean seemed an expanse of condemnation, where the waters were a breeding ground for the metamorphosis of sinners into tormented entities, mercilessly dragged by the abyssal currents of oil. Every breath became torment, a desperate effort to break free from suffocating depths. Adrift, icebergs rose like silent spectres, offering ephemeral refuge in the eternal cycle of a frozen and gloomy hell. Their form, stripped and shackled, lay exposed before a hidden tribunal, where each gaze of the invisible judges became a dagger piercing their soul, inflicting wounds of indescribable pain. They were reborn again and again, trapped in a vicious cycle of death and resurrection, each new form more disfigured and grotesque than the last. It was a repulsive sight, an apocalyptic nightmare, where flesh decayed and bones crumbled, serving as a feast for the monsters lurking in the abyss''s shadows. In this subterranean realm, light was but a distant memory, and the air, saturated with the nauseating stench of eternal damnation, acted as cyanide to the soul. He gazed disdainfully towards the firmament, and what unfolded before his sight was a dimension that defied all logic and understanding. The clouds, far from being virginal and pure, appeared grey and trembling, vibrating with the static of a thousand lost voices. The light did not emit a benign, welcoming warmth; instead, it was cold and flickering, akin to that of an ancient television set struggling to tune in signals beyond the earthly realm. And behold, the bearer of visions, whose voice reverberates like thunder in the skies of an eternal storm. "What is this ordeal unfolding before my eyes?" he wonders, his mind mirroring the surrounding chaos. This world, a cloth woven with compassionate souls, fades into nothingness, unravelling into eternity. The clouds stirred, stirred by the wind of a cruel fate, and within them, where he lay buried, a spectre amidst the shadows of the storm. "Was this perhaps the end of all things?" he questioned, as his identity disintegrated, particle by particle, into the tainted air. The firmament, a mantle of despair, closed in upon him. Souls, once brimming with honesty, transformed into grotesque caricatures of their former glory, deformed and repugnant, as if plucked from the darkest pages of a prophecy''s book. "This is the legacy of my existence," he declared, his voice barely a whisper amidst the roar of the storm. "A testament to decay, an echo in the abyss of a world that was once holy and is now nothing but a grotesque calvaryˇ±. In times long past, when reason delved into the secrets of the soul, a different narrative unfolded around this immortal enigma. Since the dawn of civilization, the soul had been a source of wonder and study. In ancient times, sages conceived it as an ethereal entity, bearer of pure wisdom and unblemished virtue. Others, however, saw it as the primordial force that infused life into the mortal body. As the ages passed, the concept of the soul evolved. In the shadows of history, thinkers debated its divine nature and its connection to the celestial realm. With the passage of time, a new perspective emerged, envisioning the soul not only as a bridge to the divine but as the crucible of human creativity and artistic expression. Modernity burst forth with its radical transformations. It proclaimed ''I think, therefore I am'', placing the soul at the heart of the debate on consciousness and existence. And in more recent times, studies of how people think, feel, and behave began to unravel the mysteries of the soul from a systematic perspective, seeking answers to age-old questions in the human mind. The question arose whether a total understanding of the soul would ever be attained. But deep down, it was understood that the true treasure lay in the quest itself, in the eternal questioning that makes us conscious beings in the depths of our experience. In the ancient domains of thought, two eminent intellectuals had erected the pillars of understanding of the soul. For some, the soul was celestial, a pure essence that existed before joining the body and would endure beyond its mortal demise. In their writings, they argued that the soul is eternal and holds true wisdom. Through their doctrines, they maintained that the soul could recall the perfect forms it had beheld before its earthly incarnation. On the other hand, their followers provided a more earthly view of the soul. In their treatise "De Anima," they defined it as the primordial form of a natural body that harbours life in potentiality. For them, the soul could not be separated from the body; it was the cause of its movement and purpose, the essence that transformed matter into a living being. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Within the stone walls, deep inquiries resonated about the soul, that eternal enigma challenging human understanding. Some, with the sharpness of their pens and minds, argued that the soul was the immaterial and eternal essence of man, capable of glimpsing the divine. Yet, how could the finite comprehend the infinite? Others saw it as the vital engine, the force behind our actions, but was the soul the architect of our destiny or did we merely respond to its dictates with our choices? The walls reverberated with these questions, as dialogues continued in search of answers in the wisdom of the past. How could the soul, if immortal, perceive the passage of time? Could it feel, love, enjoy? Immortality posed an enigma: how could something eternal be affected by the temporal fluctuations of human existence? And if the soul drove our actions, what room was left for free will? Were we mere actors in a play written by our own essence? The quest for truth about the soul became a labyrinth of reflections, where each thought led to more questions. With relentless logic, contradictions were unravelled towards a deeper, albeit always partial, understanding of the nature of the soul. In the bustling city-states of a peninsula, the soul was more than a divine spark; it was the very source of creativity and uniqueness. Humanity revered the dignity and potential of the human being, recognising in the soul the celestial hand upon the earth. Could it be that the soul, long shrouded in unfathomable mystery, now manifested itself through art and wisdom? Was this ability to engender beauty and pursue knowledge evidence of its divinity? Artists not only captured the human figure with unmatched precision but also sought to capture the essence of the soul in their creations. Their paintings and sculptures bore witness to a time when the soul was considered the reflection of an ordered and harmonious cosmos. Progress revealed that the soul could be both a window to the divine and a mirror of our own being. Wasn''t the pursuit of beauty and truth a way to approach the sacred? And if the soul was divine, how should we then live? Did it not urge us towards a life of exploration, learning, and appreciation of beauty in all its manifestations? The scholars, with their illustrious "I think, therefore I am," placed the soul at the epicentre of doctrinal discourse, as the very seat of consciousness and existence. For them, the soul was the only unquestionable certainty in a world full of uncertainties. Could it be possible that I, who think and exist, lack a soul that is the source of my thought? If I doubt, if I think, if I exist, wouldn''t it be my soul that carries out these actions? On the other hand, it was argued that the soul could not be apprehended through sensory experience but was a necessary postulate of practical reason, essential for morality and freedom. If the soul is immortal, as suggested, and if it is the foundation of ethics, how can we act morally in a world governed by natural laws? Idiosyncrasy and wisdom have taken the debate on the soul to new horizons, exploring consciousness and self-awareness through the prism of the nervous system and theory of mind. Wisdom has shown us that the soul does not reside in a specific organ but is the emergent result of complex nervous processes. But does this relegate the wonder of consciousness to mere electrical impulses? Can we speak of the soul without mentioning life itself? Isn''t our quest for understanding a manifestation of the soul''s longing to know itself? It was questioned whether the soul was a divine entity or simply the reflection of the innermost consciousness. How did traditions interpret its nature? Immersed in teachings, he visualised the soul as a spark of the divine, a breath of life infused by God into the human being. Wouldn''t the soul then be immortal due to its celestial origin? He reflected on the possibility that if the soul emanated from God, it must share his eternity, his unchangeability. Then his attention turned to other currents of thought. Some believed in the redemption of the soul, he pondered. But what would need to be redeemed if the soul was pure? He found his answer in the duality of the soul, its capacity to harbour both good and evil, which demanded redemption. He also recalled other arguments that held the soul would be judged. Did this mean that the soul possessed free will, that it was responsible for its actions? Thus, he reached his conclusion: Yes, the soul must be free, for only in that way could it be justly rewarded or punished. Reflecting on the nature of the soul, he found an answer: the soul was the immutable essence, the ultimate reality merging with space, the absolute. It was not an illusion but the eternal truth. Then, his mind turned to other perspectives, where the existence of an eternal soul was denied. How then was the continuity of consciousness explained? He answered that it was through the constancy of the non-existence of the self and the constant flow of causes and conditions that consciousness endured without an eternal self. Finally, he considered another fundamental principle: was the path comparable to the soul or was it something entirely different? He concluded that the path was the natural order of the universe, not an individual soul, but it was through harmony with the path that the individual discovered their true nature. If we consider the soul as the sum of our experiences and memories, the question arises of how to explain those moments when we act in opposition to everything we have learned. Behavioural scholars argued that the soul was malleable, shaped by our interactions with the environment. However, was there something innate in us predisposing our reactions and emotions? Soul theories had evolved since ancient times, from focuses on the unconscious to current research on nerves and consciousness. Could the soul be an emergent function of the complex neural network that constitutes our brain? And if so, where did the uniqueness of each individual reside? Perhaps in the unique configuration of our connections? The question was rhetorical, an invitation to reflect on the particularity and universality of the human soul. The possibility was raised that the soul was both a psychological construct and an abstract reality, aware that wisdom and theory often intertwined in their answers. As magnetic resonance images revealed patterns of brain activity, questions arose about where the soul hid within the intricate labyrinth of neurons. Could it be that what we call the ''soul'' was simply the product of our brain functions? Machines hummed and monitors blinked, displaying the sinew of electricity through the junctions. Would we capture the essence of the soul if we could map every connection, every electrical impulse?, humanity wondered, aware of the complexity of the answer. Could consciousness, that sense of being, be what defines the soul?, they continued to reflect. The study of the nervous system had revealed that consciousness emerged from the complexity of the brain, but still, the soul seemed to be something more, something that transcended mere biology. If the soul was immortal, as some beliefs suggested, how could we reconcile this with the finite nature of our physical body? This question took the debate to a more reflective terrain, where wisdom met speculation. It had been learned that the soul was not easily trapped in the webs of empiricism. Perhaps the soul was more than the sum of our biological parts, perhaps it was the spark that ignited the flame of consciousness. Chapter 71: Sacrament of Penance The Empty Mirror Chapter 71: Sacrament of Penance In the silence of the chamber, the voice of reason, like a distant echo, resonated in his restless mind: "What is god?" he pondered, while contemplating the mysteries of the world. Was it perhaps a divine architect, whose omnipotence crafted the fabric of the world, or simply a creation of the human mind, an illusion to comfort mortals in their fleeting existence? With each question, the shadow of uncertainty loomed over him, fueling his insatiable thirst for knowledge. "What does it truly mean to exist?" he continued, as his words faded into the ancient. If god was indeed a tangible reality, how could they aspire to comprehend it? Was faith the only path leading to divinity, or were there other more tangible paths that could lead them to that supreme truth? Skepticism, like a shadow that never left, settled on his shoulder, whispering his unsettling doubts. "Is it not doubt itself that drives them to seek the truth?" he challenged, thus defying the darkness with the bright light of logic. For, if they were skeptical by nature, were they not, in fact, closer to the truth by not blindly accepting what was presented to them as certainty? "Is it not full of wonder?" he reflected, "that the very notion of a perfect being is the root of its existence?" As suggested, if they could conceive of god as the supreme being, then his existence became undeniable, for a god merely conceived in the mind would not reach the pinnacle of greatness possible. His eyes rose to the stars, those distant shining spheres that held ancient secrets in their glow. "Everything that comes into existence requires a cause," he murmured, evoking the teachings of a scholar and his first path. If the world was, then it must be cradled in the lap of a primordial cause, an unshakeable engine, an uncreated creator. And finally, his attention turned to the complexity of nature, to the intricate choreography of life itself. "Does it not imply a design?" he questioned the vast firmament, considering the harmony of the cosmos. The divine clockmaker, as outlined, must exist, for the clock, with its meticulousness and purpose, cried out for a designer. These arguments, though objected and debated, had served as beacons for the faithful, flashes that sought to dispel the darkness of the enigma. And as the night progressed, and the silence grew deeper, he persisted in his contemplation, in his interrogation, for in the search for god, in the effort to comprehend the immeasurable, he found the very essence of his lost humanity. The night descended upon him, enveloping him in its dark cloak, and with it, reflection took on a more intimate, deeper dimension. "Faith," he whispered with trembling reverence, "is the certainty of the unseen, the conviction of the desired." It was a leap into the unknown, trusting to find firmness beneath his feet; it was to believe without the support of eyes, to know without the backing of evidence. "And revelation," he continued with cautious tone, "is the veil that is torn, the divine voice that breaks the silence of the ether." It was the knowledge bestowed upon them, not that which they sought; it was the wisdom that descended upon them, not that which they longed to ascend. In the sacred scriptures, on the lips of prophets and mystics, revelation manifested as the message from on high delivered to humanity. But how to discern between the truth of faith and revelation? How to distinguish if what they held was the reflection of the divine or the illusion induced by their minds? "The method of intellectuals," he answered himself, "urges us to question, to converse with our conscience and with our peers." Through the exchange of questions and answers, they aspired to reach the essence of faith, the authenticity of revelation. "Is it possible that faith is a form of knowing?" he pondered, allowing doubt to coexist with faith. "Can revelation be a beacon that guides them to the truth, or merely a construction of human culture?" In the silence that followed, he awaited the answers he knew would not come, yet in the act of questioning itself, he found glimpses of understanding. Amid whispers and shadows, exploring the mysteries of faith and revelation, though the definitive certainties eluded him, each question brought him one step closer to the truth he yearned for, to the truth that perhaps had always dwelled within him. "Within a dogma, God reveals Himself as One, indivisible, the very essence of justice and mercy. But how could man, so limited in his understanding, attain the fullness of such an infinite being?" he wondered, following the footsteps of wisdom. "And what of those who proclaim a triune God? Is it not an enigma that defies the bounds of human reason, a unity in diversity that unveils a redeeming love?" And he continued, "Another creed, with its steadfast declaration of the unity of God, does it not also prompt reflection on divine transcendence and omnipotence? How is this conception of God reflected in the lives of those who believe?" With each question, he sought not definitive answers, but delved even deeper into the understanding of faith and the human condition. "Is not the search for God a path that leads them to the revelation of their own inner truth?" he reflected. Beneath the mantle of the starry night, as shadows danced around his inquisitive mind, he surrendered to deep reflection. "While religions whisper of a personal and creator God, irreligiosity unfolds arguments that challenge the existence of such an entity," he pondered with the solemnity of a scholar. "Let us pause for a moment on the argument of incompatibility," he began with the caution of one descending into the abyss of thought. "How can an omniscient and omnipotent God be conceived in a world where suffering and injustice weave their dark tapestry? Is it not an impenetrable mystery that a supremely benevolent being would tolerate such misfortunes?ˇ± This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. With the precision of a truth surgeon, he delved into the argument of the absence of evidence: "If the divine presence is so clearly manifested in the world, why is its existence not presented to them in a more evident and convincing manner? Should not divinity be irrefutable and undeniable? And what of the thinking argument," he continued, his gaze fixed on the stars twinkling like beacons in the vastness of the firmament, "wisdom has unravelled many of the mysteries once attributed to the divine. Progress, cosmology, do they not offer them an autonomous universe that does not require a supreme architect?" With each question, he did not intend to discredit faith, but to unravel the essence of human thought in its relentless quest for answers. "Irreligiosity, in its essence, is not a denial, but a different path to truth," he murmured solemnly, thus concluding his meditation in the silent night. While divinity seemed to dwell in the heavens and its essence was defined as supreme goodness and omnipotence, he immersed himself in an internal dialogue of profound reflection. "If divinity dwells in the heavens and its essence is supreme goodness and omnipotence, how to find reason in the presence of evil in the world?" he murmured with the gravity of a thinker immersed in the depths of human consciousness. "Moral evil, engendered by the actions of men, is it perhaps the fruit of free will? And if so, why would a merciful God have granted them the faculty to sow such a gloomy harvest?" he inquired, while his mind grappled with ethical conflict. "And natural evil, whether earthquakes, plagues or calamities, are they perhaps cogs of an indifferent world or evidence of the absence of a vigilant divinity?" he continued, his inner voice resonating in the sepulchral silence of the castle. "Suffering, is it a test of faith or a harsh truth devoid of divine purpose?" he pondered. "Perhaps in the limited understanding, what is interpreted as evil is merely a chapter of an inscrutable divine plan, or is this perception merely a balm against the harsh reality of pain? Perhaps," he concluded with sorrow, "the enigma of evil is the greatest challenge for those who embrace belief in a just and loving God, an enigma that remains unresolved in the hearts of mortals." With the firmness of nature permeating his reflections, he began to unravel the complexities of the world. "The reason of nature, in its steadfastness, maintains that every phenomenon finds its explanation in natural causes and logical laws," he began, his inner voice imbued with reflective skepticism. "Irreligiosity, on the other hand, dismisses the notion of a divine being as necessary to decipher the world," he continued. "Is it not more plausible, according to this view, that the world and life are the results of random and directionless processes? Natural selection, inheritance, the somatic," he recited, "are archetypes that propose models without the need for an architect. Is it not more sensible to trust in empirical evidence than in faith dogmas? But even so," he pondered, "the logic of nature is confronted with its own enigmas. How do consciousness and morality emerge from inert matter? Is wisdom sufficient to account for the full range of human experiences? The debate between wisdom and religion," he concluded solemnly, "is not merely a clash between truths, but a divergence of perspectives about the reality that surrounds them." In the field of his mind, where the battle between unanswered questions raged, he eagerly sought the truth in the mystery of divine existence. "What do they really know about the supreme being?" he questioned with the inquiry of a child and the seriousness of a devotee. "If God is infinite and their understanding finite, how dare they pretend to encompass His essence?" He wondered, not with the intention of finding a definitive answer, but to explore the limits of human understanding. "Unbelief urges them to live with uncertainty, but is this uncertainty merely an excuse to not venture beyond the obvious?" With each question, he delved deeper into meditation on the nature of faith and reason. "If they accept their limitations in knowledge, would it not be more honest to admit the possibility of something greater than themselves?" The internal dialogue continued, and although he did not reach concrete conclusions, he found virtue in the process of inquiry itself. "Perhaps," he reflected at last, "true wisdom resides not so much in the answers they have, but in the questions they dare to ask.ˇ± "In both aspects," he pondered, "there is an attempt to boast of a certainty that seems to elude the very essence of human existence. Religion," he began, "relies on faith to affirm the divine presence, but is faith not itself a leap beyond logic and evidence? How to found firmness in the divine on something as subjective as personal faith?" Then, he directed his thoughts towards disbelief. "On the other hand, religious doubt repudiates the existence of God arguing the lack of tangible evidence. But is this not a restriction of perception and understanding? Can they truly deny the existence of something just because it does not fit into their present logical framework?" With each question, the vampire longed to unravel the fallacies and half-truths that each stance presented. "Both religion and disbelief seem to overlook that reality could be more complex and mysterious than their minds can grasp. Perhaps," he concluded with a hint of humility, "wisdom does not lie in absolute certainty, but in the ability to recognize limitations and gracefully coexist with the mystery that surrounds them, or perhaps not." "The ancient sages," he whispered, "traced in the world and in nature the traces of the divine. For some independent thinkers, everything was part of a cosmic order governed by the principle of reason, a world reason that infused harmony into humanity. Is not this search for order an early manifestation of recognition towards something more sublime than yourselves?" He paused to consider the figure of the world of ideas, where the purest form of the good and the beautiful pointed towards an unattainable perfection. "In the idea of the Good, there was conceived a resemblance of the divine, a supreme principle that gave meaning to existence." Then, his thoughts turned towards the notion of the unmoved mover, a primordial cause that, without any movement, was the origin of all movement and being. "Although this first mover was not termed as God, but is it not, perhaps, a form of divinity that surpasses understanding? The wisdom of ancient theory," he concluded, "instructs them that the divine can be intuited through the order and beauty of the world. Although they may not apprehend God directly, perhaps they can glimpse His presence in the perfection of creation.ˇ± Chapter 72: Anointing of the sick The Empty Mirror Chapter 72: Anointing of the sick ˇ°During that medieval era," he pondered with profound seriousness, "it stood as a stage where faith and reason wrestled to find harmony through the intricacies of medieval theology." With his gaze lost on the horizon of medieval thought, he continued his dissertation: "Scholars of that time endeavoured to reconcile Church doctrines with philosophical introspection. A fortress of arguments was erected where it was demonstrated that the existence of God could be grounded on rational foundations." He then questioned how these sages envisioned the divine nature: "For them, God stood as the origin and the end of all existence, the supreme essence upon which reality itself rested. However," he expressed with acute insight, "does such a conception not constitute an excessive reduction of the divine, limited by human finitude?" His words, imbued with veiled criticism, pointed out the dogmatic tendencies of medieval theology, which sought to delve into the recesses of the divine mind through the mere exercise of human logic. "But if God is truly infinite," he argued convincingly, "how can finite human mind grasp His essence?" With these ponderings, he acknowledged the merit of medieval theology in its quest to comprehend the transcendent, but did not overlook its limitations. "Perhaps," he concluded with a mixture of resignation and hope, "the truth about the divine will always remain beyond the reach of such theological and philosophical constructs." In that moment of reflection, he allowed himself to value the sincere pursuit of truth by medieval thinkers, while maintaining a prudent distance from their categorical conclusions. "Is not reason, perhaps," he began solemnly, "the beacon erected by the lights upon the pillars of faith and superstition? With its categorical imperative, it urged to guide actions according to maxims that aspire to become universal laws. But how does this apply to the enigma of divine existence? Can they, through pure reason, reach a consensus on His being?" He paused, pondering on the words of existence in thought and how this axiom stood as the irrefutable foundation of human existence. "If I doubt, I think; if I think, I exist. But where then does the essence of God reside? Is it an emanation of thought, or is thought an emanation of Him?". The monologue delved into the depths of existential thought, where existence precedes essence and the human being finds themselves thrown into a world lacking intrinsic meaning. "They were challenged to forge their own destiny in an indifferent world. If God does not exist, are they then the sole architects of their destinies? Or is divine absence what plunges them into absolute freedom, a freedom that overwhelms them with the burden of constructing meaning?". He posed a question to the ether, as if awaiting the shadows of his chamber to respond: "If the existence of God lies beyond the reach of proof and refutation, are they not then compelled to an eternal quest? Is not this quest itself a form of faith, a faith in reason or in the possibility of finding answers?". With each question, he delved further into the intricacies of the human condition and the pursuit of truth. His dialogue resonated like an echo of the history of thought, a dance between the luminescence of reason and the shadow of the unknown. "The universe," he whispered with reverent admiration, "is subject to laws that, although immutable, defy the capacity to comprehend reality beyond the limits of perception. The mystery of gravity has been unveiled, that invisible force which holds together the celestial and terrestrial realms. But what does this reveal about divine existence? Is God the supreme architect of these laws, or are they merely the manifestation of an autonomous nature?". He delved into the depths of theory, into that singular moment of infinite density and temperature that spawned all known existence. "If the universe began with a great explosion, does it constitute the prime cause, the ''unmoved mover'' spoken of? Or is it merely another link in an eternal chain of cosmic events, without beginning or end?". He paused in his dissertation to reflect on the speculations of planets, those that could coexist with our own. "If we inhabit a mystery, what implications does this have for the notion of a singular creator? Could God be the architect of countless mysteries, each with its own laws and constants?". With each question, he delved deeper into the vastness of the heavens, into the intricacies of invisible particles, into the very essence of the fabric of space-time. "A world has been unveiled where reality is governed by probability and not by determinism. How does God fit into a world where uncertainty is a fundamental principle?". And so, amidst equations and imaginary theorems, he continued his tireless quest, always aware that, although wisdom may explain the how, it may never unravel the why. His transcendence was a tribute to the unquenchable human curiosity, a recognition that, on the path to truth, wisdom and faith are inseparable companions in the journey towards heresy. "The early expansion," he pondered, "that proposed theory, leads us to reflect on an exponential expansion of space in the fleeting moments following the primordial explosion. Is this grand expansion the manifestation of an invisible hand, the craftsmanship of a creator, or merely a natural consequence of the physical laws governing the cosmos? Is the universe the fruit of a fluctuation in primordial non-existence?" Thus, he questioned the mysteries of time and space. "If time had its genesis, what existed before? Is ''before'' even a valid question in a state devoid of time? How to conceive eternity when existence is chained to the temporal flow?". He then meditated on theories where the world is just one among an infinite multitude. "If indeed there are multiple planets governed by disparate physical laws, could each have its own artisan, or is there a single creator for all? Or is the concept of God dispensable in such a vast and diverse scenario?". With each question, he pursued understanding the intersection between wisdom and divinity. "Wisdom has led us to the limit of knowledge, but is it capable of crossing the boundary of the unknown to unveil the ultimate truth? Or is faith responsible for filling the voids left behind by reason?". And so, amidst theories and conjectures, he continued his introspection, always aware that the search for truth is an endless journey, a path paved by both logical evidence and philosophical contemplation. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. "Does life, in its vast complexity, follow some design? Are we faced with an indication of intelligent design, or simply with the mysteries of natural laws yet to be scrutinised?". He pauses, pondering the implications of his question. "If we contemplate the intricate structure of inheritance, the machinery residing within the body, can we perceive the footprint of an artisan? Or is natural selection the forger of such wondrous marvel?". With each inquiry, he delves deeper into the labyrinth of uncertainty and curiosity. "Evolution has guided them to this point, from rudimentary organisms to complex beings capable of questioning their own existence. But is this process a result of chance, or is there something more at play? Let us take, for example, the human eye," he continues, "a prodigious creation of biological engineering. How could evolution, step by step, shape something so exquisitely suited to its purpose? Is this an indication of design, or simply a reflection of the limited understanding of the forces at play? What do transitional fossils reveal, those lost links connecting ancient species with modern ones? Do they not constitute evidence of a gradual and directionless process? Perhaps the answer does not lie in the simplicity of a ''yes'' or a ''no''." "Why do they nourish faith?" he wonders, his voice resonating with the solemnity of the topic. "Faith," he begins again, "is a phenomenon as old as humanity itself. But what prompts mortals to uphold the divine? Is it perhaps a survival mechanism, a balm amidst the vastness of the cosmos and the uncertainty of existence?". He glides among the stars seeking to find answers in their touch. "Religion offers community, meaning, and structure. It endows them with narratives that elucidate the unfathomable, that shed light on chaos. Is this yearning for understanding and belonging what compels them to believe?". And furthermore," he continues, "the study of the brain uncovers regions in the brain that activate with religious and spiritual experiences.ˇ± "Are they, perhaps, destined for the transcendent, to yearn for something beyond the tangible?". He pauses, meditating on the duality of the human condition. "Perhaps the inclination to believe constitutes both a decree of biological evolution and cultural evolution. Religion not only assuages existential concerns but also strengthens social and formative bonds." Finally, he concludes: "Believing, then, may be an innate response to life''s most intrinsic questions, a quest for meaning in a world fraught with enigmas. And as long as they persist in inquiry, faith will remain a reflection of humanity." "The faith in the divine," he declares, "is not merely an individual matter but the backbone of society and enlightenment." "Religions," he continues, "have forged entire nations, imbued laws, moralities, and customs. But what is the social and enlightening purpose of such beliefs? What intricate weavings weave into the cohesion and identity of a community?". He reclines in an ancient coffin, intertwining his hands in a gesture of reflection. "Religion can serve as social mortar, amalgamating peers with shared values and purposes. It confers a sense of belonging and a framework for collective interaction. And furthermore," he adds, "faith in the divine is often adorned with rituals and festivities that strengthen group fraternity and perpetuate social heritage. These collective events are vital for maintaining social structure and transmitting traditions. However," he muses, "they must also ponder how religion can be used to justify power and authority or how it can unleash conflicts when different creeds collide. Ultimately," he concludes, "the social and cultural function of faith in the divine is multifaceted. It brings cohesion and meaning, but it can also become an ideological battleground. What is undeniable is that religion remains a potent force in society, an impostor.ˇ± "What force drives man to embrace something more transcendent than himself? Could it be an innate longing, a yearning for the sublime?" He pauses, pondering the duality of the human condition. "Let us contemplate the relationship between the brain and religion, that discipline which scrutinises the brain in its exploration of the divine. Does it not suggest that mystical experience is perhaps a cerebral manifestation, a response to the environment?" But then, are these experiences authentic or mere chemical illusions of living beings? What determines the authenticity of an experience? If the brain interprets these perceptions as genuine, does it perhaps enclose them in an intrinsic truth for the individual? Let us meditate on the study of society in religion. Do beliefs in the supreme serve a social function, granting cohesion and meaning to communities? It is plausible. Religion has shaped men and civilizations. But does this mean that faith in the transcendent is merely a social artifact, lacking foundations in objective reality? Then, how do we discern between subjective and objective truth? Is it possible to arrive at a definitive conclusion regarding the existence of God? Perhaps truth is not a destination but a path. A perennial process of inquiry and questioning that leads them to better unravel their own essence and that of the space that surrounds them. Or maybe not. With the licence of florid speech, let us delve into the depths of the mystery that envelops the spheres. "Is it perhaps feasible?" he began to inquire, "that multiple divinities, a pantheon, govern with their inscrutable clairvoyance the strings that criss-cross the cosmos? How, oh ephemeral mortals, could you encompass with limited mind the very essence of the universe? Might it not be that the pantheon, rather, reflects infinite facets, a mirror of the various disciplines and beliefs of man? Let us consider, then, the possibility that there is not a single artisan, but several, each with their domain and realm. What implications would such a stance carry for the perception of the world? Would it not be more plausible to think that the diversity of nature and the complexity of life are the consequence of multiple forces in harmonious coordination rather than a single dictate? And if that were the case, how do these gods relate in their mutual interaction? "Would it perhaps be an orgy of power and concord, or rather a perpetual conflict reflected in the misfortunes of humanity? Could they find, perhaps, traces of their influence in the disciplines they study, in the wisdom they yearn for, in the reason that guides them, and in the art that elevates them? Wisdom instructs on the natural order, on the laws that govern this vast planet. Could these laws, then, be the decrees emanating from the gods? Methodical doubt prompts them to question their own existence. Might these inquiries, perhaps, be an echo of divine voices? Art, that manifestation of the human soul, could it bear the inspiration of a plural divinity? What, then, will be the truth? Will it perhaps be singular and unique, or rather multifaceted like the pantheon we have ventured? Could they, through dialogue and introspection, approach a more intimate understanding of the reality that surrounds them? Perhaps truth is like the sun, which though it is one, is reflected in the waters of the world in countless flashes of light. Thus, each god, each deity, stands as a reflection of a higher truth, a part of a whole that transcends the sum of its parts.ˇ± Chapter 73: Loss of innocence The Empty Mirror Chapter 73: Loss of innocence In the inexorable passage of centuries, not mere moments but entire epochs slipped away from those nefarious events that still dwell as gloomy spectres in the unfathomable abysses of my memory. Reliving those moments, I found myself once more drawn to the shores of the lake, as if malevolent entities were instigating me from its shadowy depths. I felt a dominant urgency, an unpostponable call to roast the flesh of the noble boar to preserve its pure essence. With diligence, I prepared some select viands, placing them with utmost care over the crackling of the lively flames. My appetite was restrained, fully aware of the need to ration such a gloomy feast prudently, as it was not about vulgar repulsive insects. However, my diligences were in vain against the inexorable corruption of the flesh, which was besieged by necrophagous insects that, acting as precursors of decomposition, launched themselves onto it with relentless avidity. Before such a woeful event was consummated, I was forced to rescue the meat from the watery jaws, distancing it from its deathly stupor. In the twilight of days, the flesh did not extend its being for a long era, but in that gloomy moment it became my most precious consort for survival. By the ingestion of such a delicacy, I revived my spirits, although now I am assaulted by a feeling of falsity, harbouring pity for the being that succumbed by my hand, and considering the events in Hanging Gardens as a trivial course devoid of essence. In the bosom of such helplessness, I dedicated the next two days to the collection of firewood, pursuing the trail of wilted branches and stripped leaves that have succumbed to fleeting and ruthless existence. Each explosion under my feet and each murmur of the air among the groves resonates in the soul, exacerbating my anxiety and unleashing a primordial terror that has taken root in my spirit, with the perpetual fear of the vileness of the gardens. In this cluster of opposing feelings, dread and aversion concoct a macabre choreography that haunts me with throwing me into the abysses of madness, like a warrior after combat. The forest, once a mere spectator, comes to life, whispering to me inscrutable arcana that drag me into a vortex of shadow, yearning for the protection of the staff. With tireless tenacity, I endeavoured to gather firm and durable stones that would instil a hint of firmness and tranquillity in the midst of the chaotic collapse that surrounded me. The fruits of the oak tree, which pride themselves on being robust and eternal, are nothing but an ephemeral interlude in the everlasting dance of the trees, a fleeting chimera that fades away leaving behind nothing more than a fleeting trail. Although in my possession I only count a few mushrooms, scarce and humble, their virtue to sprout in the gloom and bloom among the putrefaction gives them an unusual value in my eyes, challenging the gloomy darkness that surrounds them, in contrast to the nature of the monument... With burning zeal I dedicated myself to the laborious task of cooking, longing to metamorphose the clay into exquisite ceramics, reminiscing about the dawn of this odyssey, and such a task has been consummated without shocks or adversities that would cloud my path. The fruit of my labour has begotten a pristine vessel, worthy of housing viands, ready and prepared to perform its divine duty. The mushrooms, which at this moment do not require use, find shelter in the belly of the aforementioned vessel, waiting with serene patience for the destiny that awaits them. The castle, with its sinister majesty, manifested itself as the supreme fortress to guard such esteemed possessions, impervious to any vestige of fear or danger that dared to prowl from the outside. In my solitary and repeated visitations to this castle, I sought ephemeral relief and the occasion to share my adventures with that enigmatic entity that lay in its depths, narratives of battles and nightmares... However, my dear one seemed to show an inexorable disinterest, submerged in an unshakeable apathy that did not falter in the face of the slightest display of mercy. I have tried in vain to regale him with ambrosia, but he refused my gift with a resounding negative, fearful of starvation, wrapped in an alarming indifference that froze the spirit. In one of such encounters, with increasing anxiety invading my being, I felt compelled to approach the mysterious dweller who remained there. Despite my profound bewilderment and the clumsy words that escaped from my lips, overwhelmed by the possibility of dialoguing with someone after countless tribulations, an unusual event occurred: the individual detached himself from his accustomed immobility, breaking his usual stupor. His steps, enigmatically sure yet full of perplexity, guided him towards me in the gloom, and his left hand, with a disturbing subtlety, caressed my face gently while our gazes intertwined in a disconcerting encounter. With a measured and resonant voice, which echoed like a bronze bell, he pronounced those words that will resonate forever in the abyss of my mind: "Now I understand...". Such a revelation left me stunned, and, in a way, overwhelmed by a strange mix of fear and fascination. My voice, fragmented by the singularity of the moment, impelled me to abandon the scene hastily, seeking refuge in flight, longing to distance myself from the well of unknowns that those words had unveiled, three heads. It was an episode of great rarity, but I confess that in the midst of the fog of bewilderment, an intriguing emotion took hold of me. The true meaning of such an event escapes me, plunging me into an abyss of mystery and shock that will persist to the most hidden corners of my being. However, what I ardently desire to recount is the event that occurred in the shadows of yesterday. It is a story that ignites the thirst for knowledge, for it is imbued with a subtle and disturbing horror, which delves into the deepest depths of human understanding. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. As I ventured down the path, in search of resources that would illuminate an uncertain future, I perceived the faded presence of the anomaly named Ace of Wands, longing to commune with its essence, although the memory of the unfortunate crime of Two of Wands warned me of its unattainable nature. However, its disappearance was not absolute, but transmuted into a metamorphosis where the transition between spaces no longer seemed as clear as in times past, how much nostalgia in such a short span! The lack of this disturbing alteration, which I had assumed as an intrinsic part of my reality, dismayed me to the core, leaving a disturbing void and a perennial restlessness. I continued my advance through the dark forest, immersed in uncertainty, but my steps wandered without a precise destination. The landscape unfolded in a tangled cycle, surrounded by trees that seemed to mirror my own confusion. I found myself trapped in an oppressive scenario, destined to be a spectator of a phenomenon that defied all logic and reason, still fearing that those groves would come to life or that the vegetal reflux of nature would emerge from the earth. Submerged in an irremediable alienation, I penetrated the dark forest, where the shadows of the branches contorted and danced around me, mocking my figure. The moon, hidden behind sinister clouds, could barely project fleeting flashes of clarity through the tangled branches. With an iron and unalterable resolution, my steps made their way through uncertainty, while my right hand gripped with vigour the primitive knife, which had always been my faithful companion, whose sharp blade seemed to vibrate with a breath of its own, beating with a malevolence that disturbed the soul. The residues of blood once spilled, which stained my attire, presented themselves as gloomy witnesses of my past acts, but they were ephemeral illusions, for the blood had been suspended in the ether next to that canary-toned dress, and the blood of the nightmare had not crossed back with me. With each stride I took, the forest seemed to elongate and contort, its branches like limbs of an abject and extrahuman entity, evoking the figure of an ivy. Exhausted, I finally arrived at the edge of a modest river... Its waters, placid and dark as the very abyss, were the sanctuary of an arcane and disturbing presence. The contemplation of that mysterious place plunged me into an amalgam of fascination and an ineffable dread, fearful that that river course was full of crystals. My senses plunged into a whirlwind of disbelief, while my intellect battled to distinguish between palpable reality and the domain of the incomprehensible. The river, discreet in its extension but endowed with an unfathomable depth, unfolded towards the unknown, losing itself in the abyssal shadows that diluted at the end. Moved by a fervent desire for purification that emanated from the depths of my soul, I made the courageous decision to plunge into the mysterious waters of that river. I headed towards a large rock and perched on it, allowing my trembling and eager hands to take hold of the clear liquid to then slowly pour it over my crown. Each drop that grazed my epidermis seemed to have a bewitching effect, as if its very purity boasted the supernatural virtue of expunging the stains rooted within me, finally immersing me in a redemptive bath after suffering in Hanging Gardens, exorcising the torment that plagued me, or so it seemed. But, as the waters enveloped my silhouette, a disturbing sensation took hold of me. My lower limbs trembled delicately, like mute witnesses to a spectral entity that hinted at my consciousness. My hair, untamed and tangled, fell in dishevelled locks, partially hiding my pale and dismayed countenance. With caution and in an almost challenging gesture, my hands explored the texture of my skin, intruding into the folds of my anatomy with audacity... A whirlwind of antagonistic feelings was kindled within me, where the outburst and aversion danced a macabre waltz of opposites. It was an invasive trance that exhumed gloomy and sinful thoughts, a mixture of dark longings that caused me to blush and, at the same time, enveloped me in a labyrinth of perplexity. My hands, with the grace of a morning breeze, traced my neck leisurely, while my nails, like lioness claws caressing their prey, left a trail of indescribable sensations. Then, with the delicacy of an artist sculpting his masterpiece, my hands settled upon my breasts, where fingers danced around my nipples, awakening sensations that defied even pain itself. Following the rhythm of a forbidden melody, my hands descended down my belly, exploring every inch of my being, until reaching the gateway to my most intimate desires. With the skill of a navigator in unknown waters, my fingers ventured into the sanctuary of my femininity, tracing circles and caresses that ignited the fire of passion. And thus, amidst murmured moans to the wind, I surrendered to the ecstasy of pleasure, exploring the recesses of my being with unbridled passion. With each thrust, the echo of ancient prohibitions faded away, and in its place, the purity of instinct rose triumphantly. In the end, exhausted yet fulfilled, I lay upon the forest floor, surrounded by nature that had been a silent witness to my surrender. In that moment, in the twilight''s shadow, I felt in communion with the world, like a creature that had rediscovered its place in the fabric of the cosmos. In the midst of this inner turmoil, a voice whispered sweetly, springing forth like an echo of my most hidden erotic thoughts: "Do not distress, darling..." That murmur seemed to arise from the depths of my being, nourishing with its dark seduction the lascivious desires that nestled in my soul. The blend of feelings was repulsive, and yet, the attraction it exerted was unavoidable, but it was the absence beneath the cloak of sex. I found myself trapped in a moral dilemma, debating within whether such behavior was genuinely perverse or if, perhaps, there existed some justification hidden within the recesses of my being. In the rushing river of waters and in the whirlpool of impure thoughts that besieged me, I found myself plunged into a crossroads of great significance. Confronted with my own fragility and shrouded by the threatening shadow of my conscience, I remained immersed in a complex labyrinth of introspection and self-discovery, challenging in its essence, although the fear of what it might reveal was great, the allure of discovering it was equally powerful, evoking misery on the edges of the forest. But it was that gaze... an intense and alarming crimson... Nevertheless, the sole cause of my longing for his presence was... that... a lustful impulse that pushed me towards the most profane abyss of my femininity. Chapter 74: Under the Skin The Empty Mirror Chapter 74: Under the Skin Under the scrutinising glow of the beautiful moon, I completed my ablution, with her as the silent witness to my actions. My countenance, hidden behind strands of hair that rivalled her radiance, was besieged by veils of blush, as I battled to suppress my most vile and abominable thoughts. I dared not give them voice, entrusting them only to the complicit solitude that the moon afforded me. Is this what they call love? That is what I dare to think... Wrapped in a celestial mantle of silk, I shielded myself from the cold of the night, naked in the penumbra of solitude. A charming whisper sprang from my lips: "Darling"... in search of warmth and shelter in the arms of that being, while I waited with a mix of longing and fear... After a moment, I noticed that my clothing was dry, with no signs of moisture. I remembered that it was the work of the anomaly... A hysterical laugh escaped from me as I understood that the aberration Ace of Wands now sheltered me in this forest. I dressed in the attire, although the atrocious and unreal stains persisted despite its apparent cleanliness. With my shoes as faithful squires, I ventured back into the thickness of the forest, walking with the certainty of one who understands that that event was nothing more than a fleeting mockery. I moved away from that place, knowing that that ephemeral moment would dilute in the course of time, although its disturbing influence would remain latent in the deepest part of my spiritˇ­ I returned to the castle with feline steps, after a brief straying in the mysterious forest. The experience in that place was of such arcane nature that it defied all possibility of being shared. The forest, in its constant singularity, enveloped its essential quid as a veil that, although unsettling, acted as a healing balm. With extreme care, I placed my palm on the robust door of the castle, but my request was lost in the void. I entered with measure and closed the entrance behind me, immersing myself in the shadows that loomed over the ancient enclosure. In the penumbra, my pupils distinguished the silhouette of a man next to the majestic staircases. It was he whom I had contemplated inert on repeated occasions, whose face emulated that of a lugubrious jester, petrified in a pantomime of macabre makeup. "E-Eh, greetings..." - my words, like trembling sighs, broke the oppressive silence that dominated the atmosphere as I approached his disturbing presence with modesty. In such an approach, it was impossible to ignore the incisive gaze of his scarlet eyes, which scrutinised me with an intensity that surpassed the earthly. "Forgive my sudden intrusion, did you intend to cross the threshold?" - I inquired, wrapped in a contained expectation, longing to elicit some response from the well of his muteness. However, the enigmatic individual remained unaltered, without uttering a single vowel. His stillness and his gaze fixed on mine engendered a growing curiosity in my spirit, as well as a disquiet that took root in the depths of my being. "Sir..." - I articulated, feeling a shiver run down my spine, while doubt coiled inside me like a serpent. And behold, his voice echoed in the penumbra with a solidity that lacerated like the claws of a feral entity, imbued with an ethereal hostility that unveiled an uncomfortable reality. "You... are a liar..." - his assertions, imbued with an astral conviction, penetrated my being, releasing an unknown dread that lay in the abysses of my consciousness. ˇ°Rrrrip rrrripˇ± "What contraption is this in which I move?" he questioned, observing the corporeality of his being. "The body, that complex amalgam of flesh and bone, is it merely the sum of its parts or does it hold something more? Dissection and logia," he continued, "systems that operate in concert, organs that perform vital functions. But where does the essence of existence lie? In the ancient beating of an old heart, in the whisper of breath, or in the thought that now overwhelms me? Know thyself," the ancestral wisdom whispered to him. "Define your body, but do not limit yourself to what can be observed. Understand that you are a miniature world in the great cosmos. And if the being were merely a replica?" he questioned. "A reaction to something vaster, to a reality that escapes the senses? What meaning truly resides in having a body? Is corporeality a bridge between the material and spiritual world?" The questions flowed like a torrent, and uncertainty prevailed. "The human body, that marvel of nature, is it perhaps a temple, a prison, or both? How to define something that is in perpetual change, that ages and transforms with every passing moment?ˇ± He turned his attention back to dissection and basic logia. "The body''s systems," he reflected, "each with its purpose and intricate design. Is it not wonderful how everything, from the smallest organ to the most complex of assemblies, harmonises in a symphony of life? The constant flow of blood, with its throbbing heart, pumping the essence of life: blood. What would become of you without that rhythmic beating that accompanies you at every moment of existence?" he wondered. "And the lungs, expanding and contracting in a perpetual dance with the surrounding air. The exchange of acid formations, a vital transaction that keeps you anchored to this plane. The sensory organs," he continued, "windows to the outside reality. The eyes, which apprehend light and transform it into images. The ears, which capture vibrations and convert them into sounds. Is it not overwhelming that through them the world is experienced? And I cannot omit the organisation of nerves, that network of communication that coordinates every action and reaction. Strings that twinkle with the electricity of thoughts, transmitting messages at the speed of lightning. Is consciousness a by-product of this electrical activity, or is there something beyond the physical? The stomach assembly, the excitement regime, the tax-exempt structure... each with its specific function, but all intertwined. How could you understand the body without understanding the interdependence of these systems?ˇ± This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. In the tireless quest for wisdom, he now ventured into the realms of the love of knowledge. "The body, that enigma that has baffled scholars throughout the ages," he contemplated. "From when the body was conceived as the prison of the soul, to exalting corporeality as the primordial form of existence in the world. However, with duality, it was taught that the body is ephemeral, subject to the world of imperfect forms. But is it not also the medium through which beauty and truth are experienced?" he questioned. "And what about those who considered the body and soul as a single substance, did this not encourage them to contemplate the unity of being? The mind of the body was fragmented, establishing a duality that has permeated thought. But is this disjunction as clear as it was posed?" he pondered. "There was talk of the unique substance, where body and mind are attributes of the divine. A vision that challenges the notion of separation and seeks harmony. And we reach that threshold where the experience of the body invites you to reconsider the experience of the world. For those for whom the body is not an object among objects, but a being intertwined with reality, a living point of view. Is it not enlightening to reflect that the body is the epicentre from which the world unfolds? What does it mean to be a body? How does corporeality influence the perception of the world?" He paused and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. "The lodge teaches you to return to things themselves, to lived experience. But how to describe this subjective experience of inhabiting a body? How to convey the sensation of the sun''s heat on the skin, or the freshness of the water flowing between the fingers, palpable even in its absence?" He opened his eyes and continued: "If I am a body, then what does its transformation imply? What happens to the being when the body ages in you, humans, when it changes shape, when it is modified or even transformed? Does it remain the same?" He sat down, resting his head between his hands. "And yet, despite all these questions, doubt persists. Will you ever fully understand corporeality, or will it always be an enigma that slips through the fingers of the collective mind?ˇ± With the persistent question that challenged understanding itself, he debated in a sea of musings: "What does it mean to be a body in the world?" thus he continued his dissertation. "The treated being," he went on, "deals with being, with what is. But when we apply this to the body, we face a paradox. The body is tangible, it is materiality itself, and yet it is also the vehicle of the intangible: thoughts, emotions and spirit.ˇ± He rose solemnly and walked to the window, where he contemplated life unfolding beyond the glass, wrapped in dense darkness. "To be a body in the world is to participate in the dance of existence. It is to interact with other bodies, with the environment; it is to be affected and to affect in turn.ˇ± He returned to his seat of ancient lineage and leaned forward, intertwining his hands with parsimony. "But what does this tell us about identity? If the body changes, if it deteriorates or improves, does the essence also change? Or is there something immutable, something that does not depend on corporeality?" With a reflective gaze, he continued: "To be a body is to be thrown into the world, to have an existence that is always in relation to something else, with the being of things.ˇ± He sighed, aware of the complexity of his sorrow. "And yet, is not the body what anchors you to reality? Without it, how could you experience the world, how could we even talk about being?ˇ± With delicacy, he stroked the white hairs that slid towards his eyes, resting them tenderly on his hair. Then, immersing himself in the depths of the intricate relationship between the body and the mind from a treatise perspective, he murmured: "The treatise of the mind has taught that the body and the mind are not separate entities, but influence each other in a constant dialogue. But how does this interaction manifest in life?" He paused, meditating. "When anxiety takes hold, the body responds with tension, while the breath becomes agitated. And when the body is exhausted, the mind clouds over and the mood fades. It is an incessant cycle, a choreography between the physical and the mental.ˇ± With a sigh, he continued: "And what about body image, that mental construction that can rise or fall into the deepest misery. The way they perceive their body deeply impacts their notion, their sense of identity.ˇ± He stood up and began to wander from one side to the other, the words flowing with greater speed. "But then, what role do others play in this perception? In a society that incessantly bombards you with unattainable ideals of beauty, with rigid moulds that urge you to change, to ''improve''." He stopped in front of the imaginary audience, observing it with intensity. "How can you, oh humans, be genuine in a world that demands you to be others? How can you accept your body as it is, with all its imperfections, with its inherent mortality? Perhaps the key lies in balance, in finding harmony between body and mind. In recognising that each influences the other, and that caring for both is caring for the integrity of the being, or in destroying the virginity of the body.ˇ± He continued with his discourse, his tone imbued with reflection. "Is the body simply a congregation of organs and systems, or does something deeper lie in this flesh and bone?" He paced the room slowly, each step marked by a new question. "How can the mind, such an ethereal entity, exert such influence over the perception of the physical self? Is self-esteem perhaps a manifestation of the body, or rather is the body a manifestation of esteem?" Contemplative, he continued: "The reflection, is it truly a reflection of yourselves or rather a social construction that you have learned to assume as your own? How to discern between what you are and what is expected of you?" His mind was entangled in the web of the duality of human existence. "If I alter my body through a disguise, a change of appearance or even a metamorphosis into a wolf, will I also modify my essence? Or will my essence remain unaltered, immutable in the face of physical mutations?" Scholars have held heated debates for centuries about the nature of being, but what do the scholars of the mind contribute regarding how being influences the perception of the body? Perhaps the real question does not lie in how the body is looked at, but in why it is looked at in the way it is. What mysterious mental factors are at play in this process?ˇ± Chapter 75: Hollow The Empty Mirror Chapter 75: Hollow He gazed in profound awe at the depictions of the human body in art, whether in the majesty of sculpture or the richness of painting. Within the precincts of the castle, surrounded by imaginary replicas of the most celebrated works of antiquity, he immersed himself in meditation: "What is this body that I behold? Is it merely a vessel for the idealised beauty of the lofty ones, or does something deeper lie within these curves and muscles that aesthetics have immortalised?" With each statue and each canvas, his internal dialogue intensified. He questioned: "If corporeality is the essence of all that has body, then, is not art an extension of corporeality itself, a way of giving tangibility to thoughts and emotions?ˇ± He directed his gaze towards a male replica and reflected: "Does this one, with its defiant gaze, represent the eternal struggle of man against his own internal giants, or is it simply the pursuit of body perfection?" He delved into the history of the human body: "How have historical representations of the body in art, sculpture, and painting influenced the shaping of perspective on beauty and the ideal body?" He recognised the beauty of art, but did not cease to consider it as the imperfect copy of an imperfect being, the fruit of a perfect vision. He considered: "Corporeality, then, transcends mere physical existence; it is the manifestation of identity, history, and formation. It is the canvas where the human experience is captured, a cloth that transforms with each brushstroke of evolution.ˇ± And in the vast expanse of human history, communities have carved their legacy into the very skin of their descendants. From the bronze rings that elongate the necks of women, evoking beauty and grace, to the ink that narrates chronicles of lineage and social position, each mark on the body is a chapter of a more colossal saga. "What do these ornaments reveal about the relationship with the world?", he questioned, his voice echoing in the solitude of the castle. "Do they constitute a challenge to nature, an assertion of dominion, or a submission to forces that surpass you? The initiation rites, where the young are marked to denote their transition to adulthood, do they not represent, perhaps, an attempt to immortalise time, to capture the fleeting moment when they abandon their former self to embrace their future destino? And what of the more extreme modifications," he continued. Contemplating images of elongated skulls and split tongues. "Do you aspire, oh human beings, to transcend humanity, or simply to redefine it in the image of the wildest imaginations?" He knew that each religion conceived of the body in a different way. For some, it was a sacred sanctuary; for others, a work of art in continuous evolution. But in all these perceptions, there was a common thread: the body as the ultimate expression of human experience. "After all," he continued, "the scars they bear are cartographies of their existences, witnesses to struggles, passions, pains, and heresies. They are the signature of humanity for humanity in the eternity of their own bodies.ˇ± Immersed in the depths of faith and belief: "In the crucible of spirituality, the body has been both exalted and despised, a divine sanctuary and, in turn, a prison of the soul. How is it possible that the same creation is contemplated under such disparate lights?" Duality, rooted in the thought of others and crystallised by a few more, holds that the body is an earthly machine, while the spirit is a divine spark, immortal and ethereal. "Does this separation," he questioned, "represent a true essence of nature, or perhaps an illusion that distances you from the truth of existence?" On the other hand, the antagonist of duality, defended by certain currents of thought, argues that body and spirit are manifestations of a single reality. "If we accept this principle," he evaluated, "are we not, then, embracing a more global vision of being, one that recognises the inherent sacredness in all matter?" And in the midst of these two great currents, more complex conceptions emerge, like three developments in the world, which propose a richer interrelation between body, mind, and spirit. "Could it be," the solitary one objected, "that this trio offers a more complete understanding of corporeality, one that transcends the limitations of duality and integrity? That transcendence is not seen as a flight from the flesh, but as a full realisation of the divine potential that resides in each unit of being? That the consubstantial is not despised, but celebrated as the sacred presence that permeates all existence?" he challenged, "Do these postures seek the harmony of being, or are they a vain attempt to escape from the bodily prison?" With each inhalation and exhalation in his meditation, he inquired: "This dead breath that flows, is it the link between my body and my consciousness, or simply the whisper of immortal life?" Fasting was his trial by fire, a challenge to physical need. "By denying the body its sustenance, do I elevate myself towards a deeper understanding, or do I immerse myself in the illusion of control in the midst of bile?ˇ± He was ignorant of all sublime notions as his troubled mind was invaded by visions of naked female and male bodies before him, as if he were an aroused monarch, his member rigid, as if gradually regaining its excellence and sanctity. "Gender and sexuality," he continued solemnly, "are essential to the social identity of beggars. But to what extent are they social constructions and to what extent are they inherent to their being? The roles," he continued as he observed human interactions, "assign them a place in the social fabric. But are these roles a genuine expression of the individual or a mask imposed by the community? Beauty and youthfulness," he questioned sharply, "are ideals coveted by many. But are these standards not manifestations of social pressures rather than genuine well-being? And thus," he clarified with determination, "the body becomes a battleground, where a struggle for identity, acceptance, and authenticity is fought. In this battle, they may discover that true freedom lies in the ability to define themselves, beyond the expectations imposed by society. Let them surrender to me and allow me the opportunity to taste the pleasures of their bodies, if they so despise their corporeality, I will excite and stimulate it," he claimed drunkenly. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. In a sigh imbued with unease, he expressed: "It is a biological machine, yes, but is everything reduced to that? Evolution has extended its roots to the core of my being, altering not only my flesh and bone, but also my perception of reality.ˇ± He moved around the room, each step resonating like an echo in the void, each word a caress to the air pregnant with questions. "Plastic surgery and my continuous metamorphosis into fog, wolves or bats do not differ... all promise an improvement, a transfiguration. But, improvement for whom? Transfiguration towards what?" He stopped in his tracks, contemplating his non-existent reflection on the screen of a switched-off device. "Is this the era of screens?, where does my body end and where does the authentic fog begin? Am I less human if my heart beats to the rhythm of a pacemaker or if my memories are stored elsewhere?" he muttered, mimicking, and with each question, uncertainty grew like a tree whose branches extended towards infinity. "People spoke of the world of ideas, a perfect realm beyond imperfect reality. But do we construct our own ideal worlds, imaginary, more real than the shadows of the cave?" he asserted, then moaned in pain. "If I can choose my appearance, my gender, my species, my nature, what does that reveal about my identity? Is my body an extension of my being or an escape from my corporeal reality?" The weight of his being found no anchor, like a ship lost in the ocean of uncertainty. "Perhaps the truth is just another tool, like the chisel and hammer for the sculptor. But what form does humanity take when the chisel is rusted and the marble is the flesh itself?" The internal dialogue persisted. "What does it truly mean to inhabit a body?" he murmured, the question floating in the air, awaiting an answer that would never come, for he lacked a body and matter. The intrepid vampire advances through the labyrinthine corridors of the castle, whose grandeur rises like a colossus of stone. The scant light filters timidly, crafting a mantle of shadows that sway to the rhythm of silence, concealing secrets in every nook. In this stage of mystery, an apparition emerges before his eyes: a girl with hair like the moon itself, whose strands seem spun with the light of the stars. Her presence, a beacon in the gloom, awakens in the heart of the bloodsucker an insatiable curiosity, a longing to decipher the enigma she represents. With steps that resonate in the echo of the castle, the girl advances with a grace that defies gravity, carrying in her hands a lamp from forgotten eras. Her wavering light is a whisper in the darkness, revealing the scars of time on the walls that guard her. And so, in a dance of chiaroscuro, the young lady approaches, each step another chapter in the untold history of this ancestral place. Upon reaching his side, the young girl, with a bravery that defies the surrounding darkness, addresses the vampire. With a voice that seems to caress the air, she formulates a question that hangs in the atmosphere, laden with a mystery as ancient as the castle itself. "How do you find yourself at this moment?" - the girl inquires, her voice a delicate braid of sounds that floats in the air with the grace of an ancestral melody. The gentleman''s response, a murmur that fades into the vast labyrinth of shadows, springs from his lips with the coldness of a winter breeze: "Without any detrimento.ˇ± A silence laden with expectations hangs over them, a prelude to revelations yet unspoken. But the girl, undeterred by the pause, continues her discourse, her tone marked by the shyness and curiosity that overwhelm her: "I have noticed that you seldom venture outside your quarters... Perhaps, we could explore together the secrets hidden in the most remote corners of this bastion, unravelling the mysteries that lie within its bosomˇ­ˇ± The man''s response, although tinged with apparent indifference, reveals an underlying unease, a hint of caution towards the intentions of the mysterious young girl: "To what end?" Although her voice remains tremulous, the girl''s eyes radiate a resolution that seems to emanate from another world, as she articulates her response: "Behold... an invisible impulse seduces me towards the forgotten depths of this enclosure. I am fascinated by what the shadows hide. Perhaps, by uniting our spirits, we may succeed in lifting the veil of the most intimate secrets of your castle..." At that moment, the gentleman interrupts his musings with an enigmatic serenity that contributes to the atmosphere of uncertainty surrounding them: "It is not my castle.ˇ± In a fleeting moment, a sigh of suspended time, stillness takes hold of the atmosphere, spreading like a dense fog that smothers everything. At that precise moment, the vampire''s expectations ignite, fervently longing for the young lady to utter new words, those capable of filling the relentless void that forms around him. His eyes then rest on the girl''s head, gracefully inclined in a gesture of recollection, hiding desires as deep as the abyss itself, akin to shadows dancing in the twilight. Her attitude, an enigma encoded in the language of sigils, awakens in him a mixture of fascination and seduction. With a voice that grazes the imperceptible, distant like the echo of a forgotten spell, the bloodsucker nods and declares with a solemnity shrouded in mystery: "Your idea seems to me to be correct. Let us proceed..." - his tone fades into the vast silence, leaving behind a trail of enigma and ambivalence, as if with his words he invoked an arcane spell lost in time. They begin their journey, advancing together to the rhythm of an uncertain cadence, like brave pioneers in unknown lands. As they delve deeper, he perceives how the silhouette of the girl becomes blurred, fading into the mists of oblivion like a fleeting apparition. An erotic and unrestrained sensation takes hold of him, desperately struggling to keep her close, clinging to her presence in the darkness that envelops them, an enigmatic tangle of shadows and sins. Chapter 76: Candle The Empty Mirror Chapter 76: Candle Once upon a time, to my misfortune, I perceive how my judgement plummets towards madness, amidst this abysmal appearance. I am aware that the Two of Wands staff has succumbed to the ferocity of the abyss, plunging into the sea of hell. In turn, the Hunger on Trial choker betrays its owner and the treacherous attack is reflected on my countenance, tearing apart half of my face, witnessing my own demise amidst the corrupted flesh of my skin and the poison flooding my being. I find myself devoid of any semblance of sanity and discretion, my mind wandering through a milky ocean, in a place as immaculate as the asylum of the insane, incapable even of subjugating the three heads that gaze insolently at me. It is clear, the three heads are nothing but a perception of my experience, yet I know it to be a certainty. And in this sea of milk, I contemplate the flashes of my extinguished eyes like fleeting lights, and perhaps hallucinate the presence of rainbow-colored spectacles in the halted time, rainbows that seem tangible, moving like wild horses on the stage, intertwining and entangling with each other, divine promise. After this torment, which continues like a nightmare, I awaken. I awaken in a bed, within a room shrouded in shadows, and with my eyes still half-open, I barely discern that I am neither in a circus nor among gardens. After rubbing my eyes with my fingertips and clearing the haze from my sight, I observe that the chamber is modest and rustic, with a bed that invites rest. With hesitant steps, I descend from the bed and my bare feet touch the cold floor, feeling its icy caress. I no longer wear my usual attire, the dress, but am adorned with a beige shirt, which seems like a relic rescued from a distant era. Crafted from linen of the finest texture, its folds spill elegantly over my skin, offering a refreshing relief from the heat of the day. The embroidery adorning the collar and cuffs is an added touch of distinction, and its looseness provides essential freedom of movement for daily tasks. However, such lightweight attire does not alleviate the sweat that beads on my forehead and bathes my body, remnants of the intensity of the nightmare. I also wear brown trousers, woven from sturdy wool, which protect me from the inclemency of weather and the demands of labour. Their simple and straight design ensures comfort and practicality, while reinforced seams augur a long life with each step. Although their appearance dismisses pomp, their worth lies in their functionality and their ability to endure through the years, like a loyal squire in my wanderings. Barefoot, I embark on a leisurely stroll through the unfamiliar enclosure that embraces me, and upon realizing that midnight reigns and dawn is still distant, I unveil my surroundings. The stone floor, worn by time, groans beneath my steps, while the sturdy stone walls provide a steadfast bastion against the tumult of the outside world. Some solid wood furniture adorns the chamber: a canopy bed, dressed in rough linen sheets; a rickety dresser, whose wrought iron fittings speak of bygone times; and a small table by the window, guarding an extinguished candle in its bronze holder. The window, more a slit in the wall than an opening, allows the entry of a faint lunar glow that bathes the room in a silvery and enigmatic luminescence. A tattered tapestry hangs from one of the walls, its faded warp narrating forgotten epics in blurred strokes and frayed edges. From afar rises the echo of melodies and whispers, a reminder that I am at the core of a temporal journey. Immersed in the tranquil calm of the room, I silently appreciate the refuge it offers me in this ancient and unknown world. After a brief hesitation, I approach the window, and there, in the vastness of the sky, hangs a solitary moon, different from the one I beheld in the Ace of Wands forest; more waning and faint, as if it were created for this land. With my mouth slightly agape in awe at the heavens, now veiled by dark clouds, my gaze shifts to the candle on the table. I take it in my hands, and the black wax, dense and matte, seems to swallow the light rather than reflect it, endowing it with a halo of mystery and depth. This black candle, with its disturbing beauty and aura of secrecy, evokes the duality that resides in every being: light and shadow, hope and fear, life and death. A reminder that even in the deepest darkness, a spark persists to illuminate the path ahead. With delicacy, I rub it against a rough surface and the wick ignites. I place it in the brass candlestick and watch as the flame dances whimsically, casting gleams that contrast with the darkness of its bearer. Its glow, though faint, reveals just enough to stir the imagination and sharpen the perception of the unknown. Every drop of melted wax solidifies on the black surface, adding texture and character to the candle. I gaze, fascinated, as it slowly consumes itself, devouring the darkness and metamorphosing it into clarity. But suddenly, in a blink, I watch in horror as the flickering flame stiffens and its colour turns as black as the wax that feeds it. I step back and realize that the room is plunged into an even deeper darkness, submerged in gloom except for the unsettling black flame of the candle. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. A masculine voice resonates in the air, its tone smooth yet deep, as if it emanates from the depths of some unknown realm. Each word, imbued with a breath of ancient wisdom and veiled mystery, captivates my ear and envelops me in a halo of enigma: "Dear Giselle, let us convene at the council of Underworld Academy, where darkness and knowledge intertwine in an indissoluble bond. By the decree of the academy, you have been chosen, an inquisitor of truth, a bearer of the sacred flame. We bestow upon you this divine artefact: a candle, repository of the quintessence of our ancient sorcery. You are summoned to Mummy Bridge to await the carriage that will convey you to our sacred precinct. Mummy Bridge lies within the demarcation between the realm of the living and the domain of twilight. To reach this assembly site, follow the path that winds through the village forest in which you now reside, where the trees seem to whisper secrets of yore and the shadows come alive with each step taken. Once you traverse the woodland and reach the edge of the precipice, you will find Mummy Bridge spanning the gloomy river that divides the realms. Wait at the heart of the bridge, where wandering souls whisper tales of bygone eras and the wind carries the echo of their lamentations. There, remain in the growing darkness until the carriage of Underworld Academy manifests before you, ready to convey you to your destination at our institution. Let this be a mandate, not a request. Your presence is imperative at Underworld Academy to fulfill your sacred mission. There is no alternative. There is no excuse. May the glow of the candle illuminate your path to truth and redemption. May the power of faith grant you the strength to face the challenges ahead. With authority and devotion, The Council of Priests of Underworld Academy.ˇ± Upon concluding the message, the candle returns to its primal glow, and the room illuminates once more as if the spell had dissipated, leaving only the fragrance of the candle lingering. The scent emitted by the black wax is unique, a blend of death and mysticism that permeates the air. As I approach, the smell of melted wax, warm and earthy, intertwines with darker and more enigmatic effluvia. A subtle halo of smoke hangs, evoking visions of ancient bonfires and ceremonies forgotten. This smoky haze mingles with a scent of wilted floral, as if faded petals merge with the essence of twilight. And I, still stunned by the words of the candlebearer, try to comprehend what I have heard, wondering if perhaps this would be the desired adventure, even if it were one of mysticism rather than chivalry, which both embittered and comforted me. I doubt the reality of what I heard, and I do not know if I should embark on the journey at dawn, for no date has been given to me. I am unaware of the day, ignorant of the nature of such an organization, and my own location, for after Hanging Gardens, it is clear I am not in full sanity, nor can I think clearly. Thus, I extinguish the candle and forego the appointment, or at least, I do not know what to do, so affected and confused I am. I decide to recline once more on the bed, consulting with the pillow until dawn, wishing for rest, but my troubled mind continues to formulate questions, thousands of them, and weave theories throughout the night, until the first light of day breaks. At the break of dawn, I rose once more from the bed, having not slept and with my mind in an unfathomable chaos. Barefoot, the cold pavement grazed my soles as I searched for some footwear amidst the disorder on the floor. On the verge of giving in to discouragement, my eyes spotted a pair of light brown leather shoes, covered in dust, whose sturdiness and functionality promised to withstand the vicissitudes of life both in village and city. Their design, devoid of ornamentation and with simple lines, moulded to the foot with a thick and firm sole, studded to provide traction in muddy terrain or snow, offering protection and comfort when traversing cobblestones and dusty paths. As I slipped them on, they fitted my feet with surprising perfection. Then, my attention turned to the room, where disorder reigned with a long tunic lying near the bed, and a piece of fabric cinching the shoulders to cross the chest, among other attire without reason or relevance. Curious and expectant, I knew nothing about this place, the reason for my awakening in it, the absence of my usual dress, and the presence of this attire and footwear alien to my style. I was unaware of the purpose of these strange clothes, but something caught my attention: a metal bowl on the dresser, previously hidden in the dimness and now visible, brimming with crystal-clear water. Upon noticing the presence of the bowl, I rush towards it with canine eagerness and begin to drink greedily. However, my body does not crave the vital liquid; it is my mind that, after the torment endured, deceives me into believing in a non-existent thirst, a dilemma between flesh and brain. Amidst my introspection, my eyes meet my reflection in the water of the metal bowl: my pale complexion, my small eyes, my upturned nose, my thin lips, and my... black hair. Once white and initially black, it has returned to its original state. I feel a nostalgia and surprise that do not translate into joy, but into an indifference I have cultivated for some time, for I neither love nor enjoy my appearance. The white hair, which once granted me a fresh start and a renewed identity, made me feel unique, a circular rebirth. But now, the black hair, like an echo of the past, assails me with piercing memories and sufferings linked to a noble title. My countenance reflects disdain, fear, and above all, a visceral terror at my renewed raven mane. I longed for a fresh start; perhaps, somewhere deep within me, I desired the ethereal hair of a ghost. I cease drinking, spit on my reflection in the water, and, standing tall, regain my composure. Then, an epiphany strikes me: I desire to make my way to Mummy Bridge. Ready for adventure, it was necessary to find a rucksack to accommodate the journey''s necessities. Fortunately, my eyes came across, next to the solid wooden door, a sturdy canvas backpack with leather straps, whose compartments, though humble, promised efficiency. Within it would fit a piece of hardened bread, a water skin, and, hopefully, some healing herbs for the ailments of the road. Its make, unassuming, adhered to functionality, allowing me to carry it comfortably on my shoulders. It was somewhat worn, yet somewhat hollow, ready to be filled with the provisions of a pilgrimage. I proceeded to provision it: the extinguished black candle and the metal bowl, emptied of its water, were my choices. As I loaded the backpack, a void seized me; the imperial cloak, companion to a thousand and one journeys, no longer enveloped me. Naked I felt without its mantle, yet I concealed the bitterness and, with a final glance at the rustic air of the room, I crossed the threshold. The corridor stretched, flanked by rooms similar to the previous one, and murmurs rose from below, whispers of life bustling in the inn. My eyes settled on the stone staircase, and with firm steps, though laden with uncertainty, I descended to the ground floor, discovering that destiny had led me to an inn. Chapter 77: Chronos The Empty Mirror Chapter 77: Chronos The scent of aged wood and damp earth seized my senses, enveloping me in a halo of bygone eras. The sun''s rays, filtering through the leaded glass windows, traced golden arabesques upon the walls of weathered stone, infusing a sense of warmth and tranquility. My footsteps on the stone stairs echoed in the morning stillness, as if the very walls whispered secrets of yore. The creaking floor beneath my feet bore witness to the long history of this place, while the whisper of awakening life seeped from the adjacent chambers. I continued my path to the ground floor of the inn, guided by the enticing aroma of freshly baked bread and freshly brewed coffee, urging me to proceed with renewed vigour. The comforting sound of crackling firewood caressed my ears, and the murmur of nascent conversations began to come alive, heralding the dawn of a new day in this sanctuary. Delicately, the white linen curtains swayed at the windows, and the birdsong intertwined with the bustle of merchants arranging their wares for the day ahead. "Hey, Giselle, come over here, I have something to tell you! I''ve gathered almost the entire sum I owe you, but... it doesn''t cover the full amount. How about I pay the rest with breakfast to settle the bill? As you know, accommodation is covered up to today, but without a morning meal, nobody is ready to start the day," uttered a notably hefty man, whose mustache unfortunately drooped, wearing a linen shirt and baggy trousers that, despite his size, were too large for him. I stood dumbfounded, glancing around the room, as astonished by the place I found myself in as by the man''s words, and even more so by his knowledge of my name. Trembling, I made my way to the inn''s bar where patrons usually satisfy their hunger, and cautiously replied, "So be it" - with a firm yet lacklustre voice, entering into his game while hoping he wouldn''t show hostility or surprise me with some disturbing revelation, although deep down, I had no doubt that I was the only Giselle present. "First and foremost, here lies the reward for your deed with that rogue," pronounced the considerably built man, whose countenance betrayed a veiled wariness in my presence. Upon the bar, he placed a cloth bag, its weight indicating its metallic contents. With a trembling yet steady hand, I undid the knot sealing it, and upon peering inside, I discovered several silver coins, each marked with the emblem of an unknown creature. Unsure of how to proceed, I examined each piece one by one, while the man, swallowing nervously, assured, "Fear not, it''s legitimate currency..." revealing his fear of being branded a swindler. I closed the bag and stowed it in my knapsack, not fully comprehending what had transpired, but deciding to act in accordance with what that man presumed of me. Nodding, he brought forth a clay plate with a still-warm loaf of bread, spread with fresh butter and golden honey. Alongside it, a generous portion of smoked goat cheese, thinly sliced. For drink, a clay mug with warm milk, as if just milked. Could it be possible, after so long, to taste a true repast? With eagerness, I surrendered to the feast, yet the dilemma persisted: my mind clamoured for sustenance, yet my body did not require it. Nonetheless, I devoured each bite with barely contained desperation. "Shall we then, be at peace, yes?" inquired the notably hefty man, still in my proximity. With a succinct "Yes" I replied, and I stood to gaze once more upon the surroundings. The man seemed to await a verbosity that did not come, for I was rendered mute, unaware of my own presence in that place, of the dealings with that man, of the payment in coins and of the breakfast. Yet I feigned tacit agreement. As he uttered my name, his voice faltered, as if Giselle were a foreign and convoluted term. The inn''s hall, the heart of the lodging, unfolded in a spacious expanse with lofty ceilings, supported by beams of dark wood. The stone walls lent solidity and authenticity to the environment, and the torches, arranged with skill, cast a dim yet warm light in the potential coming night. The furniture, of austere yet sturdy simplicity, consisted of tables and benches weathered by time, and a bar that evoked taverns of yore. Earthenware plates and cups lined sturdy wooden shelves, awaiting to satisfy the guests'' appetites. I observed, expectant, the comings and goings of the servants and guests, a multitude I had not witnessed before. Suddenly, a suffocation seized me and the clarity of my vision turned to mist, urging me to leave the inn. From its threshold, the inn stands as an oasis of hospitality amidst swaying hills and fields of intense green. Its facade of solid, ancient stone rises defiantly against the azure sky, and its roof of dark tiles lends a halo of warmth to its countenance. The main sign, carved in wood with intricately designed letters in a language unfamiliar to me, whispers elegance and tradition. Adjacent to the building lies a cobbled courtyard, where travellers and adventurers rest under the protective shade of ancient trees. Alongside the courtyard, the stable stands as a sanctuary for the worthy steeds of visitors. The scent of fresh hay and the gentle neighing of the horses permeate the air, and the stable boys attend to the beasts with diligence and affection. An additional sign, near the stable, proclaims the services of horse rental and trading, inviting wanderers to discover the paths and trails that intertwine through the surrounding picturesque landscapes. This equestrian corner instils a spirit of adventure and anticipation in the inn, calling out to those who yearn for experiences beyond the tranquillity of home. Drawn to the horses, like one who professes love for the cavalry, I approached, perhaps to fulfil what I once told Esme, Hilda, and Dougal about being a wanderer. A slender man, with a bushy beard, approached and inquired, "Are you looking to rent a horse?" To which I replied, "How much?" He responded, "It will depend on how long you need it and the destination you are heading to. If you wish, you can also buy one, and we have saddles and more, if you''re interested." I remained silent and, with a succinct "No, thank you," I retreated, embarrassed. For despite my fondness for the cavalry, I had never ridden a steed nor knew if it would be wise to rent or purchase one, fearing the exorbitant cost and still not understanding the currency of this place. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. I waited for a moment in the vicinity of the inn, engulfed in uncertainty, in a place that was unfamiliar and mysterious to me. My mind wandered among memories of Ace of Wands, Hunger on Trial, Two of Wands, Hanging Gardens, the Marquess, the tarot, poison, the circus, the bull show, the man in the castle, the cabin in the woods, the castle itself, the mirror... Confusion and fear seized me, evoking the image of three divine heads in one man, tormented by ceaseless madness. Amidst such reflection, a rider emerged from the stable and passed by me. With urgency, I addressed him: "Sir, could you please direct me to Mummy Bridge?" The man, whose face bore the marks of time, fell silent before responding: "Mummy Bridge, you say? It''s a place of great legends and dangers." And he continued: "Hehe, I see that risks do not deter you. I will tell you that this place holds many mysteries of the ancestors of this village. It is rumoured that the corpses of the ancestors rest there, mummified in the forest, and that the bridge is a reliquary for their souls. But today, it is nothing more than a legend of yore." Unperturbed, I asked: "How can I get there?" To which he replied: "I have indulged too much. To get there, head to the edge of the village, take a right from this inn, and when you reach the forest, proceed straight ahead. There you will find it, but be cautious, hehe, even the locals fear it, there may be wolves." I expressed my gratitude: "Thank you." He, smiling, retorted: "I am an elder whose knowledge is needed. What if you were to gift me a coin? In return, I will tell you more about the legend of Mummy Bridge and, if you prove pleasing, I will offer you something to aid you on your journey." Agreeing, I tossed a coin to the man, who caught it with determination and greed, despite possessing a horse and the means to not beg. "In the heart of the ancient forest that embraces the serenity of the village, stands Mummy Bridge, shrouded in the veil of mystery and legend. The ancestral tradition, passed down from generation to generation, venerates the village''s progenitors as founding grandparents, whose mummified remains rest in the sacred confines of the forest. Over the course of lunar cycles, descendants began to witness strange events and apparitions on full moon nights. It was rumored that the spirits of the ancestors roamed the village, longing for a path to new lands to attain eternal peace. Moved by the desire to free their forebears and safeguard the community from fear and unrest, the villagers united in a colossal endeavour. In the moonlight, with the lament of the ancients resonating in the ether, they erected a majestic bridge over the river winding through the forest. Mummy Bridge, as it was named, was consecrated as the passage for wandering souls. It was believed that by crossing the bridge, the founders would find the route to unknown lands, leaving behind the shadows of the past and bequeathing peace to their lineage. Since then, Mummy Bridge has been revered as a symbol of the connection between the realm of the living and the realm of spirits. The villagers devoutly traversed its aged planks, perpetually recalling the sacrifice of their ancestors and the promise of a future without unrest. Although, in modern times, most are wary of the place, is it not ingratitude? Today, they fear their ancestors and avoid venturing into the forest, as lurking wolves threaten to assail the village. Legends and the sight of a mundane bridge do not attract me, so I depart." The tale, narrated with the hoarse voice of an elder versed in legends, seemed not to impress me, although some of its value resonated within me. After his story, he pulled from his saddlebag what he promised would be of use, a head of garlic, and tossed it to me to catch. Surprised, I looked at the old man, who smiled and said, "You know, legends, hehe. If you want to get there, I recommend leaving right away. On horseback, you''ll get there faster, but since you don''t seem to be a rider, time is your silver coin." And with that, he set off on horseback in the opposite direction of Mummy Bridge. Hesitant, I contemplated the head of garlic, pondering the legend and its root in the soul of the village. Its compact, intertwined bulbs seemed to offer a protective embrace. The translucent skin revealed pearlescent and ochre hues, and its unmistakable aroma wafted through the air, enveloping the senses with its intense and comforting fragrance. Each small and delicate clove promised a bold and spicy flavour when released from its covering. The unassuming appearance of the garlic head concealed unsuspected spiritual value. I secured the head of garlic in my backpack and checked to ensure the cunning old man hadn''t stripped me of anything. Despite his suspicious appearance, he had proven to be a man of goodwill, at least in his dealings with me. I couldn''t judge his affairs, so I set out on my journey, observing the unusual village and its people as I ventured into the forest. I walked to the edge of the forest, opposite the village, where the old and welcoming houses stood as sentinels of time, silent witnesses to centuries of history. With sloping roofs covered in clay tiles darkened by the passage of years, each dwelling emerged proudly from the earth. The stone facades, weathered by rain and wind, recounted tales of artisans of yore and families who inhabited these walls generation after generation. Tiny windows, framed in thick wooden casements, filtered flashes of golden light that illuminated the narrow alleyways during the day. Some homes, grandiose, displayed ornate wooden carvings on their facades and solid oak doors that defied time. Others, more humble, clung to their simple yet sturdy structure, with weathered stone walls revealing the beauty of imperfection. The back gardens, small oases of greenery, where wildflowers and vines embraced the stone walls, added colour to the melancholic palette of the village and evoked traumatic memories with nature within me. In the central square, the church loomed on the horizon, its bell tower marking the passage of hours with a solemn sound that resonated throughout the village. The surrounding houses seemed to lean towards it, seeking refuge in its sacred shadow, while their elongated shadows silently slid through the cobbled streets as night fell. "an era of brave knights, imposing castles, and a deep sense of honour and nobility.ˇ± Chapter 78: Mummy Bridge The Empty Mirror Mummy Bridge I ventured into the thicket of the forest, inwardly questioning the very nature: "Is this all you can offer?" defiant in the face of what loomed over me, aware of having already survived the cursed Ace of Wands forest and the wicked Hanging Gardens. This place was nowhere near as intimidating, yet as I advanced, the crunch of branches and dry leaves under my feet, I sensed the furtive gaze of beasts hidden among the foliage: the wolves, whose eyes, like glowing embers, watched me with disturbing intensity. I felt the weight of their scrutiny on my back, every step of mine resonating with the echo of their veiled presence in the undergrowth. It was an electrifying sensation, the certainty of not being alone in this vast and wild domain. Their eyes reminded me that in nature, I am but a visitor, subject to the inexorable laws of survival. In a surge of desperation, I pulled out the garlic bulb from my backpack and broke off a clove, keeping the rest. I peeled it and put it into my mouth, starting to chew. At first, a spicy and sharp taste assaulted my tongue, followed by an intense aroma that engulfed my palate. Its flavour, robust and distinctive, with a slight bitterness and an underlying sweetness, unfolded in my mouth. With each bite, the garlic unleashed a burst of flavour that ranged from mild to fiery, though it remained a raw and unpleasant garlic. To my amazement, the wolves'' gazes dissipated, leaving me relieved but also tormented by my unusual behaviour. And so, in the middle of the night, I reached Mummy Bridge. The ancient wooden bridge, which stands majestically over the placid waters of the lake, displays its worn planks weathered by the relentless passage of time and the rigors of the weather. Yet, it maintains its dignified splendour, supported by pillars of mossy rock sinking into the lake depths. Along its journey, a throng of souls of diverse condition and lineage congregates, advancing with silent steps, like wandering spectres in the dusk of the forest. Their countenances, bound by a lugubrious gravity, and their eyes, lost on the horizon, traverse the bridge with taciturn resolution. No laughter or dialogue is heard, only the dull murmur of their breaths and the melancholic lament of the wood beneath their feet. Despite their union, they bear the burden on their shoulders, as if silently carrying the secrets of the world. Their gestures, measured and calculated, seem those of ones trapped in a dream from which they cannot awaken. The atmosphere is imbued with an oppressive mood, as if the darkness of the forest had permeated their spirits. They were a motley group of people, whose origins were unknown to me, perhaps summoned in a similar manner to mine, through that flickering candle, for if you persist in treading the same path, you find yourself faced with the lamentable reality that seldom will you be accompanied, for such paths are always barren, lacking viable junctions for accompanied wandering. Among those individuals, ladies and gentlemen, some young like me, others older, all enveloped in an expectant silence. Suddenly, the sound of horse hooves echoed in the distance, capturing everyone''s attention towards the mist from which the gallop emanated. I, positioned near the bridge structure and separated from the rest, like them, distant but restless and fearful, awaited what was to come. A procession of carriages parades majestically along the dusty path, evoking the grandeur of bygone times. Each carriage, carved from dark wood and embellished with unmatched craftsmanship, is drawn by sturdy steeds whose impatient neighs raise a cloud of dust behind them. The carriages, adorned with canopies of opulent fabrics, flutter in the wind like banners of nobility and distinction. Through the slightly ajar windows, figures dressed in black silk robes and shining armour can be glimpsed in the sunlight. The coachmen, adorned in decorated liveries and feathered hats, skillfully guide their beasts, to the rhythm of hoofbeats echoing in the ether. The tinkling of bells on the horses'' harnesses adds a melody to the scene, infusing an air of nobility and magnificence that transports spectators to eras of knights and maidens. Through the mist, the carriages advance while the onlookers watch, astonished. As they come to a stop in formation before the bridge, figures in black robes emerge from the carriages, their hems trailing on the ground and their faces obscured. One of them addresses the gathering: "As you well know, you have been chosen by the Holy Church of Involvement to serve the faith of God and become knights who protect the faith and ensure that the divine word is proclaimed. You are fortunate, for many of you come from near or far places to Mummy Bridge, a place of congregation. Some of you have sought this opportunity, others have faced creatures or curses beyond understanding and thus have been chosen, while others have been recommended by your leaders or priests. It is the sacred blessing of faith. But here it will be decided who is worthy of the divine grace that the church offers. So, survive or perish in this very place. Do not worry, we will bury your remains if you succumb and we will also kill every member of your families to accompany you in their insufficient beliefs of faith to survive. It is the test of faith, the test of bravery or cowardice." After these words, the hooded figures retreated and directed unintelligible words towards the ground, perhaps towards a cemetery, from where terror itself arose. From the very bowels of the forest earth, emerged the mummies, sombre witnesses to human transience, with their stiff and desiccated bodies, in a macabre choreography that oscillates between the breath of life and the embrace of death. Their countenances, petrified in a grimace of fear and suffering, seem to emit a silent cry from beyond the grave. The skin, dried and hardened by the passage of time, has taken on a dark, almost stony hue. The eyes, hollow and glassy, scan the chaos, as if seeking an escape from their carnal confinement. The garments of yore, now faded rags, hang from their mummified forms. Their limbs, deformed and contorted, have halted in a final spasm of torment, as if still struggling to escape their dismal fate. Each of these spectral figures narrates a tale of suffering and despair, a silent reminder of ephemeral existence and the inexorable approach of death. In their company, one perceives the gloom and enigma that envelop these entities suspended between two worlds. The mummies, with their clumsy and slow gait, advance towards their victims, us, with a fierce resolve, their faces distorted by pain and anguish. Their onslaught is more a psychic siege than corporeal, exploiting the terror they sow in those who dare confront them. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. The solitary apparitions, with visages that would chill the blood of the bravest, stand as living weapons, sowing fear and desolation in the souls that dare cross their path. Some of the gathered, prey to panic, attempted to flee, but from the shadowy heart of the forest emerged armed knights, whose imposing figures are silhouetted against the light, clad in armour that gleams with blinding radiance. Forged by skilled artisans, their armour is a compendium of metal plates and interwoven meshes, conceived to safeguard every recess of the being without sacrificing agility. The helmets, adorned with plumes and ornate visors, veil their faces beneath a mantle of mystery and authority. From the shadow of their visors, their eyes gleam with the firmness and courage of those ready to face any ordeal. They bear swords and shields, insignias of their mastery in battle, whose blades gleam with a lethal edge, eager to cleave the air and confront the adversary with martial skill. The shields, embellished with insignias and emblems proclaiming their lineage and loyalty to the church, are the mirror of their lineage and devotion. Those who, in their attempt to flee, were captured, now lie prostrate, with hands upon their necks like submissive hounds, feeling upon their napes the cold steel of the sword. Among those who chose to stay, some were gripped by fear, others showed stoic indifference, and a few rejoiced at the macabre spectacle. They wielded stones and set about smashing the skulls of the mummies, which, though not beings of great strength, being little more than skeletons, their long hands and claws sharpened like talons made them creatures of latent danger. Although some attempted to flee and were subdued by the knights, the majority decided to confront the creatures, which seemed to be the most sensible decision. One of the brave souls was scratched by a mummy but was rescued by his companions. I, on the other hand, found myself isolated, although groups had formed to combat the threat. One of the mummies approached, and with a simple gesture of my hands, its arms fell before the exerted force. "What a disappointment," I thought, "they are nothing compared to the monster that was born from the egg, they stand no chance against the aberrations of Hanging Gardens." I reflected on my humanity and morals when, after a time of evasion, the trial came to its end, which was more of a mental challenge. The hooded figures in black forced the mummies to return to the earth, taking the victims with them, perhaps to the underground catacombs. Those fallen would be transformed into mummies for future tests of a similar nature. A hooded figure approached the man wounded by the mummy''s claws and, drawing a longsword from his cloak, severed his head, proclaiming: "We have no cure for that.ˇ± With a countenance bathed in shadows and a soul burdened by unspeakable sorrow, my eyes fell upon those who, lacking in courage and conviction, were ensnared with frayed ropes, joined in destiny with the vilest cowards. I stood witness, horrified, to the atrocities committed by these men against their own kind; and though my salvation lay in facing the abominable creature, the horrors did not cease in their macabre ballet. The cowards, males and females of various ages, none surpassing their thirties, were stripped of their garments, delivered to the voracity of man''s flames as an offering for their cowardice. In a row, they were lined up, reduced to mere figures for their supposed betrayal of the Most High. The hooded figures, whose garments of darkness robbed them of all humanity, decreed the order of their impalement in an infernal circle, while cries and pleas for mercy rose, futile, to the sky. Not even we, who had bravely defended the sacred faith, could come to their aid. Some of my supposed comrades trembled, others barely contained their tears, while I, motionless as a statue, remained, seized by a terror not of the supernatural, but of the monstrosity of human acts. The most atrocious of punishments was imposed upon the pusillanimous: a sharp object, resembling a stake or post, taken from the carriage as a prelude to their fatal fate, pierced their entrails from the anus or vagina to emerge, whether through the torso or chest. They expired in lacerating agony, bleeding slowly as the invading iron wrought destruction upon their being. It was a grotesque sight, the knights clad in armour perpetrating the crime, while the riders and the hooded figures of sombre blackness were merely spectators of the macabre process, just like us, mute witnesses to the assault on corporeality itself. Then, one of the hooded figures proclaimed in a sepulchral voice: "Remember that the most heinous of faults is cowardice in not embracing the faith; you, on the other hand, shall now be the valiant knights of the Most High." Immediately after, they handed us bandages the colour of night, rough and tenacious fabric, and ordered us to bind them over our eyes, not to ignore the execution, but to ignore the direction of our uncertain fate. We, the daring ones, would be trained at Underworld Academy. I felt my arms cold and stiff, like mummies, as they led us towards the carriage doors, aware that the families of the impaled would be likewise sacrificed, as well as those who did not show enough courage. The pusillanimous and the mediocre had perished, and only the audacity of faith had prevailed. I had survived, albeit ignorant of the god I now served. The stench of death permeated the air as we were lifted into the ecclesiastical carriages. It was well known to us that the pusillanimous were delivered to the Grim Reaper by those extremists, and with them, their lineages. My ears caught the metallic sound of the knights'' footsteps, perhaps on their way to reap the lives of the coward''s offspring, or perhaps to offer the remains to the hungry wolves. Mummy Bridge, feared not for harboring the mummies of the village''s ancestors, but for being the veil behind which the Church of Involvement concealed its morbid interests and its most nefarious crimes. Those mummies were nothing but the cowards of yore, and we, the brave ones of now, permeated with the scent of blood emanating from the carriages, set off for Underworld Academy, venturing into the thicket of the forest towards the ecclesiastical abode of the church''s monsters. It was necessary to confront the monsters to transmute into one of them, it was the supreme act of faith, it was loyalty to the church personified. Chapter 79: Dungeon The Empty Mirror Dungeon At length, the throbbing core of the castle was reached: the great hall, whose splendour vied with that of a hidden realm within another, in the highest and most remote heights of the construction, a forbidden precinct for the common plebeian. The ceilings, in their haughtiness, stood imposing, disdainful in their unshakeable grandeur. The aged, sturdy wooden beams seemed to be the last silent witnesses of a long-forgotten past, whispering vestiges of magnificence that faded into the shadows. The castle, that enigmatic labyrinth of mysteries and shadows, had always kept him imprisoned within its narrow and oppressive chambers. Never before had the opportunity to venture beyond its limits been offered. What secrets would its bowels hold? What significance would this place hold for the ancient aristocrat? They were questions without answers, dungeons of uncertainty that seemed to emerge from the abysses of time. An oppressive sensation seized the atmosphere as one progressed through the labyrinthine corridors, as if the very walls of the castle exhaled a disquieting sigh, an echo lost in the wind. Silence reigned, only disturbed by the echo of cautious footsteps, erratic pulsations in a fading heart. The air was laden with a murky current, a disturbing presence that slipped through the interstices of the air, blurring the boundaries between the corporeal and the ethereal. The ominous silence of the castle seemed to whisper in complicity as Giselle, her gaze lost, directed her attention towards the unfathomable ceiling that obscured her vision. With an inquisitive countenance and curiosity painted on her face, she inquired, "Is it, perchance, true that you have never trodden the secrets of this fortress?" "Indeed, I have never dared to unravel the mysteries of these unknown domains," he responded with a patience bordering on desperation, aware of the oppressive shadow looming over their conversation. "That secluded chamber is my only reference in this world," he added firmly. The spark of curiosity illuminated Giselle''s eyes, who, with renewed vigour, continued, "But why? What cause has led you to resign yourself to such austere confinement?" "It was a decision of mine, taken with full willingness..." he declared with uncertainty and a gravity that echoed the solemnity of the moment. "I do nothing but fulfil the penance imposed, the sole legacy granted to me to uphold." Giselle''s voice became uncomfortable, as if she were trying to kindle the fire of a faltering dialogue. "Have you pondered, perhaps, the purpose this place held in days of yore?ˇ± With an eloquence that unraveled the echoes of bygone eras, he articulated his response: "It is quite credible that this sombre precinct was once consecrated to the delights of the castle''s inhabitants, welcoming within its bosom minstrels of ancient times, whose exploits and songs echoed in these walls, eliciting laughter and merriment among those present." A shiver snaked down Giselle''s spine as her pupils wandered, inquisitive, through the dark corners of the chamber. "Something similar I have found in readings of yore... doubt assails me... To whom would this solitary monument have belonged?" With unshakable serenity and a glimpse of ancestral wisdom, he replied without hesitation: "It was bequeathed to an elderly aristocrat, whose name has been lost in the shadows of oblivion." "Now... I understand... bullfighters," murmured Giselle with a voice laden with resignation, allowing the inevitable flow of events to intertwine with her discourse, saturating it with overwhelming and oppressive melancholy. Thus unfolded the conversation, immersing them in the most remote secrets of the history of the enigmatic aristocrat and the gloomy fate that had precipitated the castle into its current state of decay. Feelings of longing and sorrow rose in the air, weaving an atmosphere full of meaning and depth, as if the echoes of a forgotten past stirred and intertwined with every uttered word, ol¨¦, ol¨¦, ol¨¦! They continued on their journey, having already observed the majestic and eerie walls of the main hall. They moved cautiously amidst darkness barely pierced by the faint light struggling to penetrate the thickness of the surrounding blackness. Each step was a dance of uncertainty, as Giselle could be felt gripping decisively onto the delicate and distinguished cape adorning her shoulders, seeking in it an illusory and fleeting refuge against the inscrutable threats hidden in the shadows. By her side, he advanced cautiously, holding with trembling hand the oil lamp whose flickering light barely managed to illuminate their path. In this location, once the focus of attentions and pampering by a swarm of servants, Giselle appeared with incongruous confidence, as if she were rooted and entrenched in that mysterious terrain. It was as if, in her desire to immerse herself in the abyss, she had found an unusual sense of belonging in that specific corner of anguish and despair. Finally, they reached what seemed to be the castle''s chambers. A scene of modest appearance, yet exuding an unsettling sense of desolation and abandonment. "Are these... the bedrooms?" she inquired, daring not to turn her gaze towards him, aware that the answer lay in the stale air enveloping them. "Apparently, that''s the case," he responded, stealthily approaching her position, his voice barely a whisper fading into the sepulchral silence of the mist. The chambers, whose walls bore the scars of the inexorable passage of time and human neglect, had once been the refuge of the inhabitants who populated the castle''s rooms in bygone eras, or perhaps destined for a select elite of the personal entourage. However, in the present, these places were displayed as decadent and dilapidated quarters, on the verge of desolation at the slightest touch. A cold, dense, icy air pervaded the space, permeating every corner and freezing even the deepest cores of matter. Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. "Do you... feel the cold?" she cautiously inquired, her words barely a fearful murmur in the ominous darkness that surrounded them. "Undoubtedly, the cold is present, although my being seems immune to its icy embrace," he responded, his eyes scrutinising every detail of the gloomy surroundings with meticulous attention. "I understand..." she uttered, letting the words slide between her lips with a resignation that barely disguised the anguish lurking deep within her soul. The beds, barely discernible amidst the prevailing chaos in that chamber, appeared as humble wooden structures, intertwined with ropes forming a resting place. With measured steps, he approached one of them and could observe how the mattresses, composed of tattered straw and already withered herbs, lay in such a lamentable state that they scarcely deserved to be named. It was evident that the notion of privacy in those quarters was a scarce commodity, as they gave the impression of being shared by several occupants. The beds, lined up against the walls according to an unwritten rule, although some, boldly, seemed to defy such order. The curtains, intended to offer a visual division, failed to provide a true intimate refuge. With palpable reservation, and while his gaze scrutinised the place, he asked, "Would the lords of this castle have found rest in these beds?" His eyes meticulously surveyed the surroundings before responding firmly: "I doubt it. Surely they enjoyed wider and more sumptuous beds, in chambers separate from this modest setting.ˇ± He reflected with a touch of melancholy: "I understand... These beds must have been intended for those of lower rank, or perhaps some were forced to lie on the hard ground." In his personal experience, rest was often found on those thin mattresses filled with layers of straw, arranged unpretentiously on the floor or on a worn-out pallet. A small cushion usually accompanied his hours of sleep. However, he felt uneasy contemplating those beds and all their peculiar characteristics. He approached the walls and noticed that most of the tapestries were torn and in a pitiful state. He couldn''t help but comment: "These tapestries, undoubtedly, were placed with the intention of infusing an illusory sense of comfort and warmth in this forsaken placeˇ­ˇ± "Do they perhaps instil in your spirit that sense of warmth?" he inquired, surprising her with his unexpected question. Initially, however, she somehow felt a glimmer of comfort nesting within her as time passed in that environment. "I perceive that you have sealed your determination with certainty," he whispered as he stealthily slid around her, meticulously scrutinising every corner like a champion of secrets. "That is correct," she replied with a conviction that emanated from the depths of her soul. The chamber revealed itself as a modest and functional abode, a refuge capable of satisfying the most basic needs of rest. Although to many it might seem a mere illusion of convenience, for her it became a sanctuary where she found a semblance of security and repose. "Can you envision yourself occupying this space?" he cautiously inquired, longing to understand her perspective and immerse himself in her inner world. "No, I am not worthy of such noble dwelling," she affirmed with determination, her words resonating with enigmatic modesty. They continued their journey, moving away from that corner, foregoing the possibility of apparent rest, but imbued with a palpable authenticity for both. They both rejected the idea of prolonging their stay in that place, fully aware of the imminent torment looming over them. "In vaporous dreams, a deceptive pause without peace, still remains to be deserved..." In the secluded chambers of the magnificent central tower of the castle, Giselle awakened her insatiable curiosity for the intricate structure of the building. As they ventured with meticulous slowness through the labyrinthine corridors, Giselle suddenly halted her steps to share her musings about the tower. "From the outside, the castle seems devoid of majesty... but once immersed in the depths of its corridors, everything changes drastically. It reveals itself vast, imposing from within," she articulated with a barely contained longing, revealing her growing curiosity and desire to corroborate her own assumptions. They continued their advance with intricate deliberation, and Giselle continued with her inquiries. "Is this the main tower?" she asked, eager to quench her voracious thirst for knowledge. "Indeed," he confirmed, accompanying her on her pilgrimage. "This tower personifies the ultimate architectural expression of solidity in the entirety of the castle, doesn''t it?" she inquired, striving to maintain a fluid conversation between them. "Indeed, the keep tower stands as a bastion of strength in the heart of the castle," he replied, seeking to satisfy her query. At that moment, Giselle recalled a childhood memory. "The castle tower... in a book devoured in my youth, it was referred to as the main tower or keep. It rose in a prominent location to exert an almost divine dominion over the surrounding territories and provide a panoramic view," she added, showing a glimpse of erudition in her words, though her shyness still peeked through discreetly. Lost in her musings, she immersed herself in a wandering monologue, as if her mind were imprisoned in an unfathomable dungeon. "The structures, once fragmented into multiple sections," he interjected promptly, seeking to maintain the continuity of his discourse and encouraging her to delve even deeper into her meditations. "The building reveals a square and rectangular architectural layout, hinting at the existence of captivating elements both in the lower and upper floors," he commented, pausing his steps once again, as if the hidden mysteries of the place demanded his undivided attention. The oppressive atmosphere intensified, as if the very structure exhaled a malignant quintessence that clung to the air. He chose to offer her the choice to continue with the exploration, although he was aware that delving further into that abyss was an invitation to confusion and disquiet. "Do you wish to proceed?" he asked, abruptly stopping as silence enveloped them with an almost tangible force. "Yes... um... it''s truly stimulating..." she responded cautiously, her wavering voice revealing the anxiety consuming her. "Look at the windows," he muttered, gesturing towards them with a controlled gesture. "They seem forged for defensive purposes, perhaps intended for projectile launching." The vision of sieges and forgotten conflicts forged in her mind, sending a chill deep into her psyche. "I even wondered if the battlements and machicolations still lay nearby," she continued as they resumed their march, an evil energy, ready to unleash the spectres of the past in their relentless pursuit. "Their imposing presence and elevated position convey an unmistakable message of dominance and subjugation over their subjects," she continued calmly, striving to maintain a steady pace in her words. The whisper of the icy wind echoed in her ears, her words a haunting echo. "It is feasible, it remains an enigma whether its power had already waned before arriving at this place," he formulated with an air of erudition, his voice laden with mystery. "Even long before that," he whispered, allowing his words to fade into the air, like a distant echo of the past evoking veiled beliefs and deferred legends. Chapter 80: Underworld Academy The Empty Mirror Underworld Academy And so, we had learned the true meaning of bravery, venturing into the heart of the murderers and witches of this peculiar land, amidst the stifled sobs of some brave souls and the muted laughter of others, perhaps already deranged, under the watchful eyes of the church clergy. Was it, then, my destiny to become a monster, or was it my will that drove me to it? For with my face pale as that of a corpse, I lightly stuck out my tongue and licked my lower lip, in a constant cycle, with dry lips and always licking, my tongue became the standard bearer of the destruction of negativity and a new beginning. The journey itself was indescribable; it felt like an eternity and yet, at the same time, like a brief interlude, a phenomenon that defied continuous space-time, but at last, we had arrived at Underworld Academy, the school of magic. Upon arriving at the illustrious seat, we descend from the carriages guided by the nefarious clergy, without injury or bruise, unlike the aforementioned cowards. Stripped of the veils that obscured our vision, the ecclesiastical emblem is revealed to us, a plethora of thin and sinuous lines, resembling a distorted staircase, delineating a pattern that arouses curiosity and unfolds a fascinating complexity. Each stroke merges with the next in an enigmatic dance of repeated forms, forging a structure that seems to guard secrets from time immemorial and boundless potential. Enchanted by such a spectacle, my eyes survey the enclosure that now welcomes me, with the carriages behind me, from which the vilest beings descend to join the cavalry, as we are led along the gloomy path that winds towards the main atrium of the aforementioned college. I perceive how the mist envelops my being like a frigid cloak. As I progress, the figures of gargoyles carved in dark stone emerge from the fog, with faces of terror and defense, their eye sockets empty yet filled with cryptic knowledge. The atmosphere is imbued with the scent of incense and myrrh, the crunching of leaves under my steps echoing in the silence of the tomb. The trees surrounding the cloister rise towards the sky like vigilant sentinels, their contorted branches forming threatening arches over my head. Upon reaching the edge of the atrium, I find myself before a wrought iron door, adorned with ancient scriptures and cryptic symbols. With a mournful groan, the door creaks open slowly, unveiling the veil of the dark heart hidden behind it. Before me unfolds the main square, a tapestry of sombre stone and worn slabs that dissolve into the shadows. At its centre, a fountain of waters of bizarre greenery, akin to an enchanted cauldron, flows from the jaws of a contorted demon statue, whose crimson eyes glow with a supernatural brilliance. Along the boundaries of the courtyard, stakes stained with blood stand like flickering torches, burning with a flame of bluish hue, casting wandering shadows that sway upon the walls of the watchtowers. Sculptures of grotesque beings and nightmare chimeras rise in the darkest corners, their silhouettes distorted by the passage of centuries, akin to wicked demons and wolves. Upon the scattered stone benches throughout the courtyard, disciples gather in whispering conclaves, exchanging mysteries and conspiring in hushed tones. Their black robes flutter in the gloomy wind, and their eyes sparkle with a mixture of malice and anticipation for what is to come. At that precise moment, I become aware that my own being is also wrapped in a cloak of jet black, worn from use, much like all those who descended from the carriages, dressed in identical fashion, as if we were victims of some soporific potion and stripped of our garments to be moulded at their whim, or perhaps, it is the effect of some unusual enchantment, I am unsure which of the two possibilities is more plausible. Nevertheless, as I venture into the courtyard, I sense the weight of history looming over me, the tangible presence of dark sorcery and forgotten mysteries that lurk in every shadowy nook. And though risk and uncertainty envelop me, I cannot suppress a strange fascination for this enclave, a fervent desire to unravel the veiled enigmas that lie within its depths. And suddenly, before my eyes unveiled a series of clergy clad in ebony robes and broad-brimmed hats; every fold and crease of their capes seemed to pulsate with the history of countless spells and enchantments, and their peaks rose towards the heavens like beacons of esoteric power. Those beings, whose sacred attire concealed all their humanity and whose faces remained veiled, were indistinguishable in their gender, shrouded in mystery. In that moment, all of us who had descended from the carriages were compelled to assume a military formation by the mere presence of these enigmatic figures; we were ignorant of what was happening, and I, undoubtedly, was the most devoid of understanding. Amidst such arrangement, the veteran disciples who did not share our bond glided with feline strides, avoiding disturbing the ceremony and paying reverence to the bizarre figures in black hats, before withdrawing from the main courtyard and entering the rugged enclosure. In servile formation, we witnessed how the carriages departed from whence they came and knights in imposing armor marched around the seat. Then, the words of one of the clergy in wide-brimmed hats began, not because he held command, but because his voice rose as the voice of the congregation. He then speaks, standing amidst us and his accomplices, proclaiming: "We are the priests, aware that a sea of doubts floods you at this moment. You are mere peasant beggars, hailing from regions of various mythical meeting points, such as Mummy Bridge. Pay heed to the words of a holy clergyman, for you find yourselves in one of the dioceses of the Holy Church of Involution, whose motto is the progress of the eons. For centuries, faith in the Most High has spread far and wide across the continent, and we know you are faithful devotees who have endured the unimaginable to reach this point, overcoming the test of cowardice or bravery. The church, at designated intervals, celebrates communions to recruit new believers to uphold the will of the Most High. Now, you will be trained to become knights; in this new cycle of recruitment, held every few years, you are the blessed ones by divine grace. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. Worthy of this opportunity you are, so if you fail, the price will be your life, yours and your families''. But if you prove brave, your families will also be fortunate. The recruitment is based on gathering the predestined from different regions and bringing them together at a specific point of ecclesiastical control to overcome the first trial, considered by many as one of the most arduous. You have been brought here by the deacons and escorted by knights, to what you aspire to become to serve. Here you will receive the doctrine until you become warriors. So now we will show you to your quarters; follow your respective priests," he said, as each of the priests positioned themselves in front of certain columns of congregants. At that moment, a black mist engulfed the atmosphere, and now we traverse labyrinthine passages, obediently following one of the priests, almost with our heads bowed to the ground in reverence and glory to the clergy. And as I advance, following the clergyman, the congregants and I enter into rooms aligned as if it were a cursed sect. The priest, mute, merely walks, marking the rhythm of time like a pacemaker of our actions, pointing the way to the awaiting chambers, akin to a funeral procession under an imaginary coffin looming over our heads. All, in a state of subjugation, obey the scant words of the clergyman, while the scrape of his shoes against the floor echoes like a mournful drum, and everything is tinged with shadows. I find myself almost at the end of this funereal procession, and when there is almost no one left by my side and I sense it is time to enter one of those rooms, the priest, like a spectre, seems to emerge behind me and, with a firm gesture, pushes me against the wall with a force that seems immense. I hesitated in my judgment of his nature, for he could well be a creature born from the very hanging gardens, given the brutality that emanated from his being. Astonished, I watched as the priest, resembling a spectre arisen from the deepest night, advanced and took the lead of the funereal procession. None of those present diverted their gaze towards me to inquire about what had happened; they all seemed to have their tongues imprisoned in their mouths and continued their march without daring to question the prelate, as if they were mere leaves carried by the whirlwind of fate. The clergyman, lord of the shadows, having concluded the mournful lesson, stood before me. It was as if the very darkness had taken human form, and with a violent tug of my hair, he lifted me until our views were equal. "Harlot!" he shouted with a voice that resounded with malevolent resonance. "Do you think that by giving me your body, you have already become a knight? Foolish of you! You are my property, my little one. I have yielded to your whims and acted to have you summoned to this diocese. I have also noticed that you now masquerade as a bandit. What would your patrons say if they were to discover that you are nothing but a little woman? It is unfortunate, but now you belong to me. Be obedient and clothe yourself in these garments; I trust you will know how to please, as you have already shown. Or perhaps you are ignorant that I know the delight you find in dressing in feminine attire, libertine? I know your pleasure well, so adorn yourself with these clothes." The darkness of his words resonated in my ears, while the weight of his infamous accusation bore down on my soul. His dominion over me was as unquestionable as the one he exerted over the shadows that served as his retinue. All of this was uttered as he dragged me by the hair towards his mouth, then sealing my right cheek with a kiss. From his hands, which seemed more like shadows made flesh, emerged female garments of the purest whiteness, descending to the ground with the solemnity of a sacred rite. And it was in that moment of bewilderment that I perceived the presence of blood on the hemlines of such attire. My eyes grew hazy, and the ticking of a wall clock echoed in my mind like the omen of an inevitable fate. Upon looking again at the clergyman, and catching a glimpse of his blue pupils from the corner of my eye, a primal dread seized me, although I soon discerned that the entity before me was far from being the man I had once known. The stench of blood brought me back to the realm of the sane, and I found myself sitting at the edge of a bed. No, it was not a waking; time had been stolen from me, and now I was in a strange room. My comprehension crumbled, as if my mind was about to dissolve into a chaotic formless consciousness. Nothing made sense: neither being a trained dog, nor the clergyman''s ominous sentences, nor the reason for his male allusion towards me. Such was the confusion that my judgment faltered, immersed in the labyrinth of the incomprehensible. Exploring the rough texture of the sheet with my fingers, I struggle to sit up and gaze upon the girl who shares the room. She is a woman, perhaps a year younger than myself, with black, abundant hair cascading down to the middle of her back like a nocturnal waterfall. Her hair, as straight as the distant horizon, and a split fringe adorning her forehead, frame her pensive face. She wears glasses that veil her melancholic eyes, and her solemn gaze seems to guard jealously a world of secret ponderings. These lenses, though of simple craftsmanship, are miraculous in their function; whether convex or concave, I couldn''t say for sure, they sit in a solid, unadorned frame, forged from horn. They appear sculpted with the skill of a craftsman, providing subtle magnification or correction to sight. The frame, seemingly rough and devoid of ornamentation, is crafted to securely hold the lenses in place. The temples grip behind the ears, while others rest simply on the bridge of the nose. Comfort and fit are sacrificed on the altar of functionality and utility. Her finely sculpted eyebrows, graceful nose, and though thin, lips compose a face worthy of praise. When she smiles faintly, she reveals her pearly teeth, and her ears are partially hidden beneath the veil of her hair. Her cheeks, naturally playful and flushed, along with her alabaster skin lightly tinged by the sun''s kisses, complete a portrait that invites contemplation. As our gazes meet, I notice that we all dress alike, in worn black tunics, dictating the uniformity of this place as strange as it is sombre. Chapter 81: Danielle The Empty Mirror Danielle With a gaze that defied the very prudence of intellectuals, she turned to me and let out a "Hello" that danced in the air, light as a feather carried by the wind. "Helloˇ­" was my laconic echo. "I thought you would not honour me with your words, for your face was the portrait of the gravest solemnity." And indeed it was, although her figure was submerged in an ocean of disdain. Removing her spectacles with the indifference of one who wears them without need, she addressed me: "Welcome to this threshold, could you tell me your name?" After a moment of silence, my response emerged dry and sharp: "Giselle." With a touch of courtesy, she continued, "It seems the threads of fate have woven us into the same bed. I trust our company will be pleasant, as I do not detect in you the shadow of folly." "What is your name?" I dared to inquire with a hint of audacity. "Danielle is my name," she replied, "but I beg you to set aside personal matters, Boy, for your Don Juan visage is evident," she retorted with a coldness capable of freezing the very rays of the sun. "Boy? Such an appellation does not flatter my ear," I responded with a hostility born of wounded pride, being mistaken for a man, as my femininity is a source of my honour. "What do you say... Mmm, Giselle?" she articulated, startled, and in an instant, as if a cosmic design revealed itself before us, her words disintegrated like an ancient worn-out record, and my simple name seemed to plunge her into profound bewilderment. "Are you, by any chance, a novice in this consecrated place?" I asked, trying to dispel my confusion and sweeten the tone of our dialogue. "No," she replied with a clarity that sliced through the air like a Toledo steel blade, "the allocation of quarters is not left to chance. It is organised with wisdom to foster better acclimatisation. I have been here nearly two months, and I am witness to it," she murmured, anticipating my question. "I see," I continued, "and how long does one wait to ascend to the rank of knight?" "Such a wait is as variable as the flow of a river," she declared, wrapping her words in a mantle of prudence. "The usual span is a year, though not all pursue that end. There are those with loftier aspirations who seek the diaconate, though such a distinction is granted only after having borne the sword and the coat of arms of a knight." The rooms are the very image of the gloom and sobriety that characterise the ancient academy. Situated in stone barracks that rise like impregnable bastions, these chambers mirror the institution''s inexorable and rigorous nature. Upon crossing the threshold of one of these rooms, the visitor encounters a stark and sombre space. The bare stone walls are dimly illuminated by flickering torches, casting wandering shadows on the worn flagstone floor. The climate, frigid and damp, is saturated with the aroma of mould and moss. The furnishings are sparse and primitive. At the heart of the chamber lies a crude wooden bed, covered with a coarse and tattered sheet. At the foot of the bed, a wooden chest serves as the sole repository for the students'' meagre personal belongings. Against one of the walls stands a small wooden desk, flanked by an equally rough-hewn chair. Upon the table, an iron candlestick provides a dim light for study or labour during the long evening hours. On the opposite wall, a solid wooden wardrobe stands. The wardrobe, austere and unadorned, offers a place for clothing and possessions. The only note of colour in the room comes from the heavy curtains hanging from the small windows. The drapes, woven from a coarse and sombre cloth, barely allow any external light to filter through, plunging the room into darkness even in broad daylight. Despite their Spartan and dreary appearance, these chambers are cherished sanctuaries for the pupils of Underworld Academy, who treasure them as safe havens amidst the darkness and dangers lurking in every corner of the cloister. "I understand, are we then roommates, or is my perception deceiving me?" I asked warily. "That remains to be seen; there is no certainty. Lend an ear, for it is merely rumours that run among the intrepid, those of us who interpret the whispers of the clerics. But it appears that great confusion reigns both within and around Underworld Academy, or should I say, throughout all the dioceses. It is a disquiet that has spread over the past weeks, with some ceremonies being postponed, others brought forward, and for some time now, the organisation of the college has lacked proper coordination. The priests are anxious, though the reason is unknown to us," she explained with a gravity that filled the air, reclining on the desk and occupying the opposite chair. The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. "Is my arrival at this barracks the result of a premeditated choice?" I inquired, full of curiosity. "Indeed, in your case, the selection ceremony has been delayed by several hours, so the novices have been gathered in this wing of rooms to wait and restore order," she continued with a discretion that underscored the seriousness of the matter. "Could you... could you enlighten me about the welcome ceremony?" I pressed on, disregarding the insistence on waiting, despite having just taken possession of the room. "No, hmm... You see, it is a matter not revealed to newcomers, but I will divulge the essentials. It is a ceremony where each new aspirant is assigned to one of two houses within the college, whose names I cannot utter. This wing, for instance, belongs to one of them; they are rivals, yes, but both are the heart of Underworld Academy. It is not a matter of life and death, but be prepared to shed blood in that supernatural rite," she enlightened me about my query, and then, raising her hand in an open gesture, she showed me her palm. Something was missing from her hand, but I could not discern what it was, so she simply lowered her hand without further indication. "Is one house more nefarious than the other?" I asked, fearful of my fate. "Not exactly, it does not depend on you or the clerics, but on your own soul. But whichever house you are assigned to, you must defend it with ardour and bravery. We shall see if you return to this room or if you are assigned to another in the rival house. I have seen many assigned to the other and become my adversaries. To date, no one has remained here; when I arrived, this room lay vacant. In this house, in this faction, we pride ourselves on being superior to the rival, and I hope you return," she said with a smile, gazing at the torches illuminating the room. "How are the rooms assigned? Could you inform me?" I asked, eager to gather all pertinent information. "Of course, listen carefully. You are here because the ceremony has been delayed, an unusual occurrence until recently. It is recruitment time, and this has coincided with the turmoil in the diocese. But once you are summoned to the rite, you will be assigned a house, a faction, and you must either return or, if not, proceed to a new barracks that will be indicated to you. The selection is made in such a way that roommates are of the same gender to avoid discord. However, sometimes cohabitation between a man and a woman occurs, and you can imagine the consequences. But I warn you, if you return, there will be nothing improper between us; I have no interest in being reprimanded for such transgressions. When I joined, we witnessed an execution for the dishonour a man and a woman brought upon the college with their lascivious acts, and they were severely impaled. It is also necessary to mention that, although the rooms are designed for two faction allies, sometimes more are accommodated in a single room, resulting in overcrowding, which is more common in the rival house," she concluded, providing me with a kind explanation. "For what reason were those unfortunate ones condemned to impalement at Underworld Academy?" I inquired, overwhelmed by the constant threat of brutality. "Because such an act is abominable in the eyes of the clerics and before the sacred faith in the Almighty. It is forbidden to indulge in carnal pleasures, especially of a sexual nature. The preferred punishment for such offences is impalement. Likewise, when I was called to the place known as Mummy Bridge, many were impaled, but for cowardice," she declared with a hint of disdain. "I too received a summons to Mummy Bridge, but my question tends to inquire, what is the cause that leads them to find joy in the impalement of others?" I continued, maintaining composure and respect. "Good heavens, what a surprise! As for your question, I have no certainty. It is not as if it were a necessity or an eternal rite, but it is carried out for mere delight. The ordinary punishment would be to banish them, denying them perpetual return, but the prelates have deemed impalement as the fitting penalty. I imagine it contributes to their spiritual progress, though my conviction is not firm. Perhaps it acts as an offering of wisdom on their hidden paths. Do not ponder it further, and remember that we are all the valiant," she exclaimed with fervour. And as she concluded, the majestic sound of a trumpet echoed through the fortress walls, as if the very heavens were about to collapse, the trumpets sounded six times. Danielle interrupted the trance with a laconic "Go, the time for your ceremony has come." "But, but... my knowledge of the faith in God is scant," I replied, overwhelmed by anxiety. "Do not fret about that; religious erudition is not necessary at this moment. Remember that most of us come from rural areas; this is a ceremony to assess your humanity. Go now and place your faith in God," she urged, ushering me out with a gesture of her hand. We paraded from the adjacent quarters, advancing like meek lambs to the slaughter in a sombre procession. The corridors, shrouded in darkness, were barely pierced by the flickering torchlight, until, after a while, we arrived at a sanctuary, an imposing and ominous edifice that stands as a monolith to the darkness and grandeur of Underworld Academy. Erected in a solid and unadorned style, the sanctuary is steeped in an ominous and sacred atmosphere that inspires both reverence and dread, saturated with the intoxicating aroma of incense and myrrh. The ashen stone walls rise to the vault in arches and buttresses, creating an impression of magnificence and solidity. Carved into the granite are grotesque figures of wolves and serpents lurking from the shadows, their stony eyes fixed on the rite being performed at the heart of the sanctuary. At the centre of the hall lies an elevated platform, surrounded by tiered benches where the seasoned disciples watch the ceremony with grave and expectant faces. The platform is covered by a canopy of velvet blacker than the night itself, adorned with gold embroidery tracing symbols of sombre sanctity. In the centre of the platform, an iron cauldron, black as jet, burns with flames that seem to spring from the very bowels of hell, casting a pale and flickering glow over the scene. Beside the cauldron stands a bishop clad in ebony and silver robes, his face veiled behind a leather mask bearing dark and arcane signs. Next to him, a priest with a pointed hat holds a black dagger with a sombre reverence, ready to perform the ritual cuts that will release the power contained within the cauldron. Flanking the cauldron, two deacons stand in silent guard, their black habits billowing in the sinister wind that sweeps through the sanctuary. The stone pavement is adorned with a labyrinth of black mosaics, winding around the cauldron like serpents in a dance of death. The walls are draped with dark tapestries depicting scenes of bloody battles and gloomy rituals, weaving an oppressive and sombre atmosphere. We, the gathered, stood in marching formation, under the scrutinising gaze of those who had already crossed this threshold, being led by the priests who, wielding leather whips, ordered the columns of supposed faithful. At that moment, the bishop emerged from the tumult with the swiftness of a serpent, ascending to the high ceilings of the hall as if he were a worm slithering among the corpses of the fallen, and proclaimed: "Welcome to Underworld Academy, where this auspicious ceremony is held to discern to which house, to which faction you belong, you who are blessed by the will of the god of Devolution. Magnified be his name forever, who grants us the vision to unravel the truth of the cosmos and lead humanity to the pinnacle of advancement. Blessed be the devotees, we, his offspring, shall commence the selection rite, in which each neophyte shall surrender themselves to the path of the Demon or the Werewolf. We wish the noblest of rewards to those who embark on their journey towards knighthood, to uphold the word and faith. So be it."