Reproduction Frenzy

You asked everyone: Doll, Erica, Sylvia, Czort, Hannah...

They all pointed you in the same direction: cross the campus courtyard, push open the ornate iron gate at the end of the stone path.

As you enter the Keygrave, the storm clouds that have been brooding overhead finally unleash their first roar. A harsh, icy flash of lightning streaks down from the sky, leaping into the distant horizon.

She's always been clever, "be prepared" might as well be her middle name. Paying respects to her predecessors just as a downpour starts? That's just not like her.

You weave through the various key-shaped tombstones and finally spot that familiar figure in the distance.

She stands at the center of the key-shaped tombstones cluster erected in the year A.F. 315, bowing her head before one of them. She seems immersed in an unfamiliar emotion, unaware of your arrival.

The cold, damp wind before the rain sweeps away all sounds of life; the Keygrave is a vast, silent tomb. And Ramona stands there, her black cloak whipped tight around her body by the gale, like a solitary, mournful gravekeeper.

Ramona takes a subtle half-step back, her expression suddenly distant and guarded.

You take two firm steps forward, stand before her, then take her hand.

An irresistible force pulls you towards Ramona. She catches you as you stumble forward, her arms wrapping around your back, her chin resting lightly on your left shoulder.

Your hands instinctively wrap around her waist. The world falls silent around you; all you can hear is each other's breathing, as you draw intimate warmth from the embrace.

Ramona is the first to withdraw from this sheltering embrace. She holds your shoulder, wanting to say something but hesitating.

She pats your shoulder and gestures toward the path out.

She needs more time and space for now, and you completely understand.

Ramona lets out a heavy sigh as she watches her partner's figure disappear among the stone monuments.

Her throat burns like fire; every breath akin to a patient's painful gasp, but in front of her partner, she has strained every nerve to hide her distress.

Slowly, she sinks down before a key-shaped grave. As if guided by fate, she presses her ten fingers gently against the engraved name.

She tilts her head, her lips slowly approaching the cold surface of the stone tablet, feeling the chill of fate with her own warmth.

This is the name she would never forget. Ever.

Even though it's just another ordinary night on the field, you always feel uneasy sleeping when you're away from school.

The sounds of the world become especially striking in the darkness, particularly those youthful yet heavy breaths...

Ogier holds his weapon, leaning against the corridor, standing guard outside your door like a knight sculpture.

You do not know how long he has been standing foolishly in the hallway. When you open the door, he reflexively tries to salute you but staggers weakly.

You steady the boy who almost tripped, but it only makes Ogier more flustered.

His face flushes, and he fumbles around, seemingly trying to contain some invisible overflow while also wanting to flee from your side.

Ogier strains to lift the uncontrollable Formless Spawns around him. What had once hovered around him like his power now becomes unusually active...

Slurp.

Active enough that, when you get close to take a look, they "lick" your face like a cat's tongue.

You push away the Formless Spawn that nuzzles up to you like a cat, your fingers sink into Ogier's soft golden hair and gently stroke it.

You pull Ogier into the room, forcefully push him onto the bed, and then drag a chair over to sit by the bedside.

You wrap Ogier in a blanket, and he wriggles like a caterpillar until you place your hand on his forehead.

You haven't heard many lullabies, and the tune you unconsciously hum now is just one of Londinium's many eerie nursery rhymes.

But Ogier's bright eyes gradually dim, like the evening star sinking into the mist before dawn.

You stand by his bedside for a long time, watching him until his breathing grows steady and the stars outside dim. Only then do you gently touch the stray hairs on his forehead and tiptoe out of the room.

Sleep well, good child.

The attacks rain down like a torrent, mercilessly shattering the tiles of the training ground.

Dust flies into your eyes, causing an involuntary reaction that makes you close them.

The warrior forcefully pulls open your eyelids; the fabric of her gloves rubs against your sensitive, fragile skin, making you blink frequently.

Lotan simply sets down her weapon, fixing your head with one hand, preventing your body from instinctively retreating or escaping.

Woosh...

She brushes aside the wisps of hair on your forehead, and presses a condescending kiss on your temple.

Lotan pats your face, then takes your hand and pulls you up from the cold, hard ground.

Though feeling uneasy, you follow the instruction and hug Doll's petite body. Her soft, curled hair brushes against your nose, causing a slight, persistent itch.

Doll pulls your hand directly to her waist.

Her eyes are fixed intently on you, making you feel like a helpless rabbit cornered by a leopard.

Convincing yourself, you press your lips to her head. The icy touch of the cranial containment unit makes your breath catch.

Flames flicker in Doll's pupils, and you can feel her body trembling with excitation.

The fierce wind and heavy rain outside does not wake you from your tranquil dream; in the darkness, only your peaceful breathing echoes.

A flash of pale lightning pierces the night the second before thunder explodes, illuminating the shadow by the window.

It appears abruptly, moving slowly through the bedroom, utilizing the darkness. The moment it approaches your bedside, bringing a cold, fishy odor that turns your pillow damp and chilling...

Bang!

You grab the desk lamp and smash it hard onto the intruder's head.

Leigh's praise is getting so dramatic, she almost sounds like an opera singer. She doesn't even notice a trail of blood sliding down her hairline.

Although she has received her beloved blood, Leigh, confined to the sickbed by the IV needle and blood bag, still looks languid, like a wilting dahlia.

Unable to bear her eyes filled with sorrow, you finally ask.

Leigh suddenly leaps up, the needle rips out, splashing her own blood and the blood from the bag all over her.

She buries her head in your neck, her icy breath making you shiver uncontrollably.

You slam a bloodstained sack harshly in front of Uvhash.

Uvhash presents a shiny jawbone to you like a treasure. Under the moonlight, the gaps between its teeth glow with an eerie green light.

You slap away Uvhash's hand. The jawbone falls to the ground and instantly shatters into two pieces.

You pick up the fragments from the ground and gently place them in Uvhash's hand.

Uvhash lowers his head, his towering figure blocking the moonlight behind him, resembling a docile lion.

Uvhash frowns uneasily. This is not a familiar conversational atmosphere for him.

Uvhash angrily walks to the window, then he seems to suddenly remember something. He turns around with an awkward, embarassed expression.

After saying that, he leaps, and his slim figure vanishes in the moonlight.

Clang.

Standing up pulls at the chains; the sound of metal clashing echoes relentlessly through the darkness.

Helot drops to one knee before you, using the slime in her hand to corrode the chains binding your legs.

She seizes your throat with one hand while the slime around her morphs into sharp blades, slicing through your uniform collar. The cold edge presses against your neck, making every breath a gamble.

A finger presses against your lips. At her signal, you look toward the pustules pulsing behind her...

The pustules are unnaturally active. They huddle at your feet, making strange, squelching noises as they bump into one another.

Helot forcefully grabs your hand, pressing it against her bare thigh. A cold, sticky sensation slides silently beneath your torn collar.

They glide moistly over every inch of skin like water tracing a riverbed, following the contours of your muscles downward.

Their master tightens her grip on your hand. Her crimson eyes burn with an intensity so fierce they seem on the verge of total burnout.

Thais rises from you with lingering reluctance, a tenuous, shimmering thread still tethering you together, serving as a delicate echo of what just happened.

Her gaze, hazy and tumultuous, drifts over you like a slow, liquid flame, tracing every strand of your hair, your every curve, down to the very tips of your toes.

Her fingers, intertwined with yours, tighten possessively, as if fearing you might slip away. She pulls you deeper into that fevered, passionate realm where desire pools like warm honey.

Before you, the vast expanse of white dunes meets a velvet black sky ablaze with stars. You find yourself lost in this vast, radiant, dizzying splendor.

Nothing. Your memories lie shattered like glass, scattered, fragmented; only the shimmering starlight reflected in Thais' pupils remains, vivid and undimmed.

She lifts her arm, and the immense river of stars parts around her smooth, glistening limb, yet it flows on, unhindered, ceaseless.

A meteor streaks across the sky, its long tail fading into the darkness.

Her heat, her burning desire consumes you, not in flames, but in the ceaseless gnawing of swarming termites, devouring your reason grain by grain.

Thais chuckles. Her soft sound is laced with a tantalizing charm, a knowing grace that carries just enough mischief to pierce the hull of your unspoken thoughts, sinking the little vessel of your hesitation before it ever reaches shore.

The river water seeps through the breach in the hull, spilling over the gunwales of your will, slowly submerging your toes, your knees, your chest, your neck, your mouth and nose...

The question hung in the air, and before you could respond, her warm lips and tongue seal yours, silencing any words.

The confessional is dim and cramped. You sit stiffly on the oak seat, but your curiosity about why you are summoned here far outweighs any discomfort.

Usually, Salvador is the one in the confessional. But the moment you arrived at the Church, he ushered you into this booth. There must be a special reason.

His voice drifts like an echo from distant mountains, sinking slowly, seeping into the ancient wooden walls of the confessional. That deep, resonant timbre seems to restrain some nameless beast within, lest it trespass upon invisible, forbidden thresholds.

Salvador opens the small window of the confessional. He places both gloved hands on the sill, palms facing upward toward you.

Even through your gloves, his unnatural warmth seeps through, like the heat of a soul ablaze, scorching your very veins with irresistible intensity.

The Silver Key at your chest grows searing hot; it strips away every polite veil until only the bare, trembling core of each of you remains.

A flash of insight fuses fragments in your mind into revelation. An instinct compels you to speak first before Salvador continues:

...Merciful Father, please grant him light to walk by. Please forgive his sins.

Before you react, Sorel brings a glass of wine to your lips.

As she leans in, a heady aroma of wine wafts from the tips of her hair and the hem of her gown. Intoxicating spirits mingled with blossoms and fruits, carried on her warm breath.

Seeing that you refused to take a single sip, Sorel shakes her head in feigned annoyance, pulling the goblet back and taking a few delicate sips herself.

Sorel tugs your arm, and you both tumble onto the plush chaise. Even while disheveled, the goblet in her hand remains perfectly steady.

The manor is shrouded in darkness; only the golden liquor in her glass refracts the moonlight, casting a hazy, intimate glow between you.

As she speaks, she lifts your chin with a single finger, preventing your gaze from drifting away.

Her words trail off unfinished. Her body goes limp, her entire weight collapsing softly onto yours.

The goblet slips from her fingers and rolls onto the marble floor, liquor soaking instantly into the tile seams. Her wine-scented breath, soft and intoxicating, quietly floods your near-melted mind.

It wasn't the morning sun of Mythag that pulled you from sleep, but a jarring sensation surging through your very blood.

It feels like a thousand needles pricking from within, or the skittering legs of arthropods crawling along the inner walls of your veins. The dense, tingling itch stings your nerves, forcing your body into uncontrollable spasms.

You struggle to open your eyes, and the sight before you makes your breath hitch in your throat...

An endless maze, the lair of the Ashen Mistress. A young woman with double pupils reigns amidst her swarming brood.

You knock on her door, and an immediate crash echoes from within, the sound of something heavy, like stone, toppling and shattering into a thousand pieces.

There is no resistance as you push the door open. You glance back instinctively: the lock has been turned into thin, brittle shale, crumbling to the floor at your touch.

Aigis sits in the center of a room that looks like Roman ruins, her eyes squeezed shut.

A fever. Another case of a mysterious fever among the Awakeners.

The truth hits you: this is the fallout from the Remouahe Incident.

You comfort her as you draw closer, your mind racing through potential solutions...

To allow the Awakeners' unstable emotions to find "release," you must guide Aigis to open her eyes...

The young girl wavers, her eyelids fluttering open just a crack, but in the next second, a thick, sticky, amber-brown syrup begins to ooze from your exposed skin.

Aigis blinks. Feeling a searing heat in her throat, she mumbles something under her breath.

As you turn another corner in the teaching block, the oppressive weight that has haunted you since morning intensifies, crushing the air from your lungs.

You crouch against the wall for support, catching a fleeting glimpse of a familiar shadow darting past.

The white shadow pauses for a moment before stepping out of hiding. The white frame carrying its master drifts slowly toward you.

She reaches toward you as if wanting to crawl out of the "Cradle", but leaving that limiter would only cause her instincts to spiral out of control.

Realizing something is wrong, she hesitates. Pursing her lips, she twists off one of the glowing orbs from the Cradle, the one closest to her body.

You reach out. As you take the orb, your fingertips brush against her soft palm. Faint shivers instantly, curling deeper into the safety of the Cradle.

The orb emits a faint luminescence in your hand, pulsating with a profound, rhythmic life force.

Inside the translucent walls, branches shaped like cicada wings are folded together. They flutter irregularly, as if caught in a long, deep slumber.

Seeing that you haven't rejected her gift, Faint lets out a long sigh of relief, a contented smile spreading across her face.

Faint shakes her head, her youthful-looking face radiant with joy.

A persistent fog shrouds the senses in slumber. The seemingly calm darkness is a facade; in truth, black waves are already surging and crashing against the ramparts of your spirit.

To this day, the influence of the Holy River and the Mother Tree remains coiled around you.

Past memories condense into fragile bubbles within the dream. With every toss and turn, they shatter like reflections in water, vanishing at the slightest touch.

Chaotic darkness drags you toward the deepest recesses of your consciousness. Just before you feel yourself plunging toward total annihilation, a faint breeze drifts into your dream.

The wind seems to possess a color, impossible to ignore, yet never ostentatious. Like a frail guardian, its mere presence serves as proof that you will not lose yourself to the dark.

The moment you open your eyes, you find yourself looking directly into the gaze of the "Dream Keeper."

The silent Awakener offers a slight nod and sits upon the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight.

Celeste sweeps her compass out, pinning you back against the bed.

She points to the full moon hanging high outside the window, then points back at you...

Your breathing gradually syncs with the soft rhythm of her smoothing the covers; every breath feels like a duet with the wind. Your consciousness begins to drift again, sinking into another dream.

Another gentle, tender dream, one that sails toward a tranquil dawn.

The moment you step into the ward, Caecus eagerly rushes towards you.

He seizes your wrist and guides your hand to his trembling ear fins.

The gray-pink ear fins, usually covered in a hydrating mucus, should feel cold and slick to the touch, but your fingertips now sense a searing tide of heat.

Before you can finish talking, Caecus slides his weapon across the doorway, barring the door behind you. His breath, now closer than ever, becomes heavy, saturated with oceanic dampness.

The intruder bursts into the room without warning, slamming into you with a heavy thud.

You stumble back while trying to steady the girl, but gravity wins out; you fall to the floor with her in your arms, the world spinning around you.

Before you can even scramble up, Aurita thrusts her "hands" in front of your face.

Her umbrella-shaped arms are cupped together, cradling a cluster of thumb-sized jellyfish.

She laughs excitedly, shoving the toxic jellyfish into hands all at once.

Still, even if I were, I'd be willing to take a few adrenaline shots to my heart to see Aurita's happy smile.

You spot Faros from a distance; she is far too "brilliant" to miss at night. In the silence of the desert sands, hers is the only light that does not belong to the stars.

With her help, you scale the dune. The desert's night wind, cold and desiccating, strikes you like the scrape of a blade across your face.

As an Awakener of the Aequor Realm, Faros's garments usually carry a trace of moisture. Now, however, even her tentacles seem wilted and listless from the dryness.

The light emanating from Faros flickers several times.

You push aside the sculpting materials piled by the door, squeezing with difficulty into Sanga's studio in the West Wing.

The sculptor sits atop her coral base, her carving knife dancing between her fingers. The sight is nerve-wracking, the blade is sharp enough to sever a finger with the slightest slip.

Awakeners enjoy absolute freedom within the school's regulations, but Sanga is the exception. Due to her past crimes at the poorhouse, she is forbidden from acting alone.

Her reasoning is so grand and poetic that you find it impossible to refuse. You have no choice but to step toward her...

Sanga suddenly seizes your cloak, jerking your face down until it is inches from her own.

She stops twirling the knife and instead presses the tip against your cheek, rubbing it back and forth across your skin.

There is no trace of ferocity or violence in those unfathomable eyes; instead, they are filled with an emotion you find impossible to name.

From the dessert cabinet in the counseling room, you pull out an exquisite gift box.

The gold-foil wrapping is smooth and neat, cinched with an embroidered silver ribbon, proving the chocolate's high value.

The bitter aroma of cocoa spills out eagerly the moment the ribbon is untied.

Murphy picks up a piece of milk chocolate. She is silent, head down. The counseling room falls into a terrifying silence, sending a chill down your spine.

Before you can react, a piece of milk chocolate is shoved into your mouth.

As she pulls away, the cold pads of her fingers brush your tongue. A rich cocoa flavor explodes in your mouth, sliding down your throat.

Murphy says, picking the darkest, most sugar-free chocolate from the box.

Seeing her face contort, you quickly hand her another piece of milk chocolate.

The counseling room is equipped with a full tea set. You brew a pot of light black tea and chat casually.

Only after Murphy finishes the last piece of milk chocolate and licks her fingers with relish do you finally glance at the wall clock.

You take a step forward, and the next moment, you are unexpectedly tripped and fall to the ground.

Murphy hastily helps you up. You look down and see a dark red tentacle tightly gripping your leg.

This is not part of her clothing, but part of her actual "body".

As you speak, you remove your gloves and reach out to feel her forehead. Murphy suddenly steps back, avoiding your hand, yet her tentacles remain tightly wrapped around your leg.

Another tranquil night. You sink deeply into the soft feather pillow, your breathing steady and peaceful.

A heavy blade splits your little bed clean in two. You land hard on your backside, every wisp of drowsiness shattered.

From the darkness comes a ragged, trembling breath. A towering silhouette looms over the splintered headboard.

RRRRIIIPP!

The next second, your pajamas are torn straight down the middle.

Goliath grips your wrist tightly, his flushed face almost pressed against yours.

Scorching breath grazes your ear, tinting your cheeks a rosy hue.

You fall deeper into the dream.

The flood abruptly shattered the beams of the dream, filling the border between dream and reality with screams, which then turn into countless damp, dark stones.

You mutter, longing to wake up. Your water-filled alveoli swell like the abdomen of a terminally ill patient; your body adapts to the forgotten ocean.

But the soundless current pulls your head back for a look.

Music, paintings, stories written in unknown languages, countless bizarre ideas flood into your dreams the moment you look back.

You try to speak, but only meaningless gibberish comes out, though it does carry meaning.

They are indeed meaningful. Long ago, they once were...

The Awakener's presence helps clarify the situation. You eagerly call out his name, but those strange ideas instantly rush through your airways, like a tide.

The next moment, a full, cold tentacle forcefully enters your mouth, pushing aside chaotic memories and driving out those now meaningless sounds.

The real world's monsoon breeze brushes your face, and your body relaxes under unprecedented fatigue, as if about to enter a dreamless deep sleep...

He turns away, a bit embarrassed.

He restrains his tentacles to a corner of the carriage, glancing sideways at the deep, dark night outside the window.

But the frequent glances that fall on the corner of your lips do not seem unintentional.

You look down at your palm. Where you touched Nymphaea's eerie, skeletal frame moments ago, a faint bluish-purple bruise has already begun to bloom.

The tide roars, and a salty sea breeze catches the soft hair at Nymphaea's temples. She reaches up to steady her hat, the black silk flowers swaying with the movement.

You nod.

Then, her icy torso presses against you.

Silence lingers for a long minute until her shallow breath hitches back to a normal rhythm. Only then does she gently let you go.

Nymphaea takes your hand, leading you step by step into the sea's embrace. The water gently lifts her hem, cradling her as if she were a pale purple water lily slowly blooming upon the waves.

Her hand is freezing, yet her gaze is intense enough to leave a burn.

Nautila looks up in confusion, her hands covered in grease, indicating she has perfectly completed a full mechanical inspection of the ward.

Nautila bends over the sleeping student on the sickbed, lost in thought.

{Male=He,Female=She} has distinct black stains at the corners of {Male=his,Female=her} mouth and on {Male=his,Female=her} face. Nautila instantly recognizes them as traces left by her specially formulated machine oil.

You find yourself lying on your all-too-familiar soft bed, the throbbing at the back of your skull equally familiar.

You brace your hands to push yourself up, only to find them sinking into a mass of damp, slippery tissue.

Seeing you awake, the young woman flushes deeply, her voice taking on a delicate, coquettish tone you have never heard from her before.

"Mason" is reclining beside you, her blackened fingertips resting on your chest. Though her hands look frail, they pin you to the bed with impossible strength.

You grip her shoulders and shake her, trying to snap her out of her spiraling self-doubt.

She snaps her head up to look at you, her mouth twisting into a distorted, jagged grin.

A horrific fissure splits her shoulder open, but there is no muscle or bone within. A pale gray mass throbs and swells beneath the skin, like a universe in the throes of birth.

Mucus writhes out of the crack, coiling around your fingers. The wet, slippery sensation instantly drags your mind back to the moment you first woke from your stupor.

Her pupils are dilated and unfocused. She craves you, longs to consume you, to fold you into the end of all things.

You struggle to reach for the Silver Key at your chest, but before your hand can move an inch, that overwhelming force seizes you again.

As her icy lips press against the corner of your mouth, you realize her eyes have been entirely consumed by madness. This is not the Mason you know.

"24" begins to shudder violently, her breath rattling like a broken bellows. She releases her grip on you and begins to claw frantically at her own slender neck.

With a piercing shriek, her limbs contort and fold backward over her shoulders. Finally, her head drops, and a heavy silence falls.

Mason frantically flails her completely dislocated arms; they swing from her shoulders like limp tresses of dough.

You take her hand, her human hand, and carefully guide the displaced joints back into their sockets.

Her voice is barely a whisper, yet beneath the shame, a flicker of genuine joy passes through her tone.

No class in Mythag's curriculum ever taught how to deal with an Awakener who is literally "burning with passion" in this manner.

And she is practically sitting completely on your chest, crushing you with a thigh that feels as slick as wax oil.

You struggle to convey this complex message with your eyes, but clearly, the girl is entirely focused on anything other than improving your survival rate.

The candle in her lower abdomen burns with exceptional vigor, seemingly ready to ignite the fire in her eyes, while her slick leather whip snaps through the air.

The near-frantic struggle gains you a sliver of opportunity. You hastily spit out the gag, subconsciously closing your eyes, preparing to dodge the imagined lash...

But the whip merely stops gently at the tip of your nose.

Pandia's eyes lose focus, scattering with confusion. She scratches her face, irritated and vexed.

The failed kidnapper is mortified and angry. The influence of the Holy River makes her agitatedly thrash the whip around.

Having failed to win the struggle against the ropes, your brain completely shuts down, automatically pouring out numb, defensive jokes.

Before you can swallow your tongue for saying that, Pandia's pupils suddenly dilate.

Her body begins to tremble slightly from extreme excitement.

All light in the room extinguishes, save for the candle still burning fiercely within her.

In the moonlight, Pandia reverses the whip, grips the handle between her teeth, and her voice becomes thick and slurred, like frosting begging to be tasted... or some heavy, damp, chilling darkness.

With a dull thud, the ropes binding your arms fall away.

The voice of this usually resolute and steadfast woman is now low and trembling. Her forehead presses against the back of your head, her hand concealing your vision in total darkness.

After the current training session, Alva uncharacteristically burst into your room, performed a thirty-second challenge of gasping for breath, and then forcefully turned your bewildered gaze away.

You do not know what she is thinking, but reason tells you that, besides a single syllable of confusion, it is best not to make any other sound.

You do so, and Alva responds to your awkward rigidity with a knowing laugh.

The woman's hand grips your arm. Her knuckles are long and strong; even through the fabric, you can sense the thin calluses left by years of handling firearms.

"Look" might be inaccurate; even with your sight obscured, you know these actions are certainly not what the usual Alva would perform.

...But the person in question clearly does not agree.

Alva's delivery is extraordinarily steady, as if she is merely reporting on a training plan.

But her heartbeat betrays its owner; that clamor cannot be easily hidden, unlike the light before your eyes.

This former votary of Justice is clearly engaged in another war against herself.

(Huff... huff...)

Your world is pitch black. Something has been tied over your eyes, blinding you.

You try to lift your hands, but soft cloth strips bind your wrists, restricting you to only the slightest movements.

A sense of foreboding rises within you. Under the influence of the Holy River, the unpredictable whims of this elusive maid are impossible to gauge.

Lily huddles against your chest, just like that morning when you first woke up in Daffodil's little shop.

But unlike that day, her tiny frame is curled tight, and her face is flushed a deep, feverish red.

Lily shakes her head stubbornly. Beside her, several pustules wobble along with her movements, like a cluster of balloons bumping together in a carnival vendor's hand.

You shift to the side, making a small space for her on the bed.

After resting for a while, you notice Lily still stealing cautious glances at your chest, her face full of words she's afraid to say.

For some reason, that shimmering silver key seems to hold a strange, irresistible attraction for the child.

You hesitate for a moment before finally unfastening the Silver Key and tucking it into her tiny, fragile palm.

You gently pat her back, watching as she gradually slips into a peaceful slumber.

Lily lies cradled in your arms, fast asleep with soft, even breaths. You gently pull a thin blanket over her, tucking her in along with her little pustule friends.

But now, protecting her peaceful happiness comes first.

In the deserted theater, Liz shakes her head slightly. You can hear her uneven breathing, see the faint flush rising on her cheeks beneath the dim light.

Her emerald eyes flicker. The black hem of her dress traces a graceful arc before you as she steps nimbly onto the stage.

A slender hand extends from the stage in a graceful invitation.

Before you could finish, her hand seizes yours and pulls you up onto the stage.

The moment your hand settles at her waist, her lithe frame trembles slightly.

The pads of your fingers meet cool, slippery satin. Beneath it, the soft, firm curve of her waist rises and falls gently with every breath.

From the touch of hands to the support of the waist, and through the extension of legs, the dancer leads you...

Kick. Arch. Leap.

Ethereal music echoes in the empty theater, a cool beam of light tracing your silhouettes on stage.

You spin together. Liz's cheeks grow increasingly rosy, her emerald eyes glancing at you with a hint of shyness.

Her emerald eyes gently close. Cool lips press against yours.

Spin. And spin.

White strands of hair flow in the air; viridian flames curl around you both, burning without heat, leaping with the music. Her black-and-green costume traces swan-like arcs through the air.

Dizziness. That's the word you're searching for.

Liz's increasingly heavy breaths brush against your face. Instinctively, you tighten your grip around her waist; the heavy pressure makes her wince slightly. Still, you spin together.

Tonight, beneath the theater's shimmering lights, a pair of dancers lose themselves in an endless pirouette.

A hand, clad in sharp nail guards, moves between your cheek and neck. Its sharp tip finally unfastens the buckle of the school uniform, pressing a fingertip against the exposed collarbone.

Blinded by black silk, your senses are heightened to the extreme by the darkness. The sound of the nail guards sliding against your skin blends with breathing, sending a shiver from deep within your soul.

A light laugh comes from above. Just as you are wondering who the owner of the laugh is, a spine needle wraps around your waist.

It is like a temperamental giant python: when angry, its bone spurs pierce through your body mercilessly; at times, it lazily drapes over your shoulder.

Now, it glides across your body, its tip pressing against your throat, like an animal in gentle courtship, yet also resembling a dangerous dagger.

Wanda roughly tears off your blindfold. She squints, an unusual aura of pressure, distinct from mere brutality, flows from her.

The spine needle grazes your collarbone, rough spikes tearing the skin. Wanda closes her eyes, savoring the scent of fresh blood in the air, her expression one of utter satiety.

The spine needle is raised high, sticky liquid condensing at its tip, hovering close to your exposed wound.

The enchanting atmosphere dissipates; the spine needle retracts like the receding tide, swaying restlessly behind Wanda.

Her undead servants swarm and push you away, while Wanda lets out a pleased snort.

You recognize this place; you were once welcomed into this space by its owner during a past event.

Lying supine on the dark, viscous water, your eyes meet the ash-white sun that hangs overhead like a dead coin. The heads around you bob and chatter, laughing, cursing one another, or mourning alone in whispers.

They come in waves, knocking against your arms, nearly pitching you face-first into the water.

Here is the Sea of Primordial Essence, the Dimensional Witch's lair, Daffodil's most treasured sanctuary.

Why are you here? Is it another invitation from Daffodil? Or could this be just an absurd dream...

Your limbs drift open, letting the Sea push you toward a nonexistent shore. Countless heads jostle in the gray waves; the sound of bones colliding is crisp, hollow, and eerie.

The primal seawater gushes through the corners of your eyes, flooding your entire body. Crushed beneath the pressing multitude of heads, you sink below the surface, and in mere moments, the sky-shrouding throng eclipses all light.

And then, the heads of chaos lean in close. Cold, wet faces graze your cheek, and lips seize yours.

Cold, moist air slips into your mouth. A scent of violet exudes from all your organs, unfurling from your core outward.

You see the primordial essence adhering to an eerie head, piece by piece, layer by layer, twisting and outlining a face you know all too well.

The dimension-crossing witch reveals a cryptic smile. She lifts her head, parting her smoky violet lips away from your air-starved mouth.

You nod and settle back onto the lounge in the rest area, it's only a song, after all.

The unease in the Awakener's eyes vanishes instantly. An unreadable smile spreads across a face so exquisite it seems otherworldly.

The moment the music hits your ears, your consciousness is swept away, drawn deep into a blurring phantasmagoria.

Tinct's voice bypasses the ramparts of reason, slipping through the cracks of the flesh to submerge the soul.

It is no melody known to Kadath. The sound piercing your transverse temporal gyrus is as haunting as the deep cosmos, yet it shimmers with the tenderness of the morning stars.

Your mind becomes a rudderless ship, drifting toward the shores of Desire under the pull of Tinct's song.

A cold, moist sensation presses against your lips, and an nameless dark fire ignites in your throat.

When you open your eyes again, Tinct is looking up at you, her lips appearing particularly lush and damp.

An unbelievable realization sits on the tip of your tongue, but reason is quickly swept away again as the chanting returns to your lips.

The song toys with your deepest, darkest cravings, blurring the boundary between reality and fantasy. You are powerless to resist, and powerless to escape.

A sudden, massive force from behind sends you stumbling; you barely manage to keep your footing.

Her fragmented murmurs hiss past your ear, but you've stopped listening. Your mind is elsewhere, because...

Two sets of footprints extend from the stairs to the room at the end. The smaller set appears to belong to a certain rodent friend.

You tread lightly and breathe softly, following the direction of the footprints until you push open a door deep in the hallway.

Jenkin slammed the closet shut, nearly catching Brown's tail in the chaos. The small room was instantly thrown into disarray.

Jenkin frantically grabs your hand, trying to pull you out of the "Witch's House". But the unusual warmth of her palm immediately makes you sense that something is wrong.

Ignoring Jenkin's nervous expression, you stepped forward and opened the wardrobe. Various fabrics tumbled out, completely burying you underneath.

Jenkin and Brown joined forces to rescue you from beneath your missing cloak, your newly purchased shirt, your carefully stored winter blankets, and other clothes.

Jenkin muttered something under her breath, her body poised to flee at any moment.

You squat down helplessly, taking a "hostage". Brown lets out a strange squawk, his wide eyes looking particularly innocent.

You tugged her hood down, shaking your head with a smile as she exclaimed, "Ow!"

The automaton stands motionless in the corner of the room. She wears her usual smile, but in this heavy silence, that frozen expression feels deeply unsettling.

You wave your hand in front of her face, but her eyes don't track the movement at all.

You mutter to yourself, circling her metallic shell to check for damage.

Crackle.

A faint pop of static catches your attention. You instinctively look toward the source, only to have your hand suddenly seized.

Your voice is jolted back into your throat by a phantom current. The sensation where your hands meet is a shock far beyond anything a human body should endure.

A brief, dazzling surge of electricity awakens every sense in your body. This impossible "Link" sends a pulse through your veins, stirring a strange, indescribable craving in your blood.

Erica blinks and finally withdraws her hand.

Without looking back, she begins walking toward the restricted area, her frame emitting a faint, rhythmic crackle of static as she moves.

...Automatons aren't supposed to be affected by the Holy River anomalies, right?

...Right?

A black cloth is whisked away from your head. You blink and rub your eyes.

Casiah hops toward you, her hands tucked behind her back and her head tilted playfully.

Her mischievous eyes sparkle in front of yours. For a fleeting second, you see this supposedly heartless great magician blush for the very first time.

Before you can react, the black cloth falls over both of you once more, shrouding you in darkness. Under the dim starlight, a warm, soft body leans into your chest.

You try to speak, but something soft and cool presses against your lips, silencing you.

You close your eyes. No stage, no audience. In this pocket of another dimension, there are only the stars, and the two of you.

In your memory, it remains the most successful magic trick Casiah ever performed.

The door opens softly, and the light reflects a familiar silhouette.

The same figure, the same voice, yet devoid of any trace of naivety. What remains is a calmness tempered by countless trials, and a hint of inexplicable, dissonant unease.

Following that voice under the light appears the unforgettable eyepatch.

Beneath her black eyepatch, an unusual blush appears on her previously pale face.

Ramona sits beside you. The blush naturally blends with the light and her fair skin, making your breath catch.

The moment she takes your hand, the space around you begins to shift. Countless images coalesce into a chaotic scene that feels eerily familiar.

A sharp pain pierces your heart like a blade. You extend your arms and pull her into your embrace.

This time, the tranquil young woman who has fought across countless timelines does not evade.

She obediently nestles in your arms, gently rubbing her head against your chest, like a cat that finally returns to its owner after being hurt.

Crystal-clear liquid slips from her eyepatch, flowing through her pale hair and down her flushed cheek.

Her forehead presses against yours, her hair gently rubs your cheek. Your breath stalls as you gaze through the soft eyepatch at her absent, swimming, tear-filled eyes.

Her cool, slightly trembling voice whispers in your ear, warm breath brushing against you, like countless tender, faint murmurs from different times and spaces.

The Mythag student's uniform, damaged by countless battles, slips gently into hands.

Due to recent abnormal Awakener incidents, the school has strengthened monitoring and scheduled regular inspections to prevent accidents.

To handle potential rampages, room checks are rotated among idle Investigators. Today, it's your turn as the dorm supervisor.

After being harassed multiple times, you nervously knock on each door and record each student's normal status.

Finally, you knock on one door, and only silence answers. Your heart sinks, realizing, "It has finally come."

You look at the name "Miryam" on the doorplate, open the door with a serious expression, and cautiously peek inside.

In the dark room, a single flickering candle illuminates a dim corner, casting light on a nun deep in devout prayer.

Her posture is utterly peaceful and serene, suggesting years of intense ascetic practice.

You're thankful you won't have to deal with that woman consumed by madness.

However, your investigator's intuition suddenly registers something unusual. You stop and carefully observe the candlelight.

The shadows flickering on the wall, cast by the flame, are not mere shapes, but writhing, snake-like silhouettes.

Snake-like shadows wriggle around the candlelight, attempting to seize the room's only warmth.

Miryam turns. Her face is flushed with an unusual, hypnotic blush, and her voice is soft and happy, as if she has just attained ultimate grace.

Though her pale, thin limbs are entwined with writhing snake shadows, her hands remain fixed in a praying posture, like a nun bound to an eternal mission.

Your brain screams DANGER, but retreat is too late. The cold, damp snake shadow has already slithered through the darkness, coiling tightly around your legs and climbing up your back.

You have clearly replaced the faint candle, becoming the primary source of heat in this room.

Your frantic explanation is futile. The snake shadow drags you to the prayer table, forcing you to sit beside Miryam in front of the statue with writhing tentacles.

You want to deny the situation, but seeing her blissful expression, you wisely hold your tongue.

She turns her head, her trembling fingers gently caressing your face, cupping your cheeks as if in comfort, as if in invitation.

The icy touch of the serpent's shadow makes you shiver with hypothermia. Your resistance is crushed by the tight coils, forcing your body into a posture of reverence.

And that was how you and the fervent High Priestess began a ritual of prayer... to appease her God.

A wave of unexplained restlessness forces your eyes open.

Under Horla's influence, you finally understand what it feels like to be truly affected by the Holy River.

It's hard to tell if you're asking out of genuine curiosity or simply trying to distract yourself. You look around.

The flowers are more lush, the air more sweltering, and the architecture and music more intoxicatingly beautiful than ever before.

In this world conjured from text, every corner is a metaphor; every shadow is a hidden suggestion.

Her emotions ripple through the air like waves. Your throat tightens instinctively.

You reach out and gently lift the parchment from Horla's head.

She reacts like a startled rabbit. Though most of her form remains invisible, she is clearly restless, and the parts of her face you can see are flushed a deep crimson all the way to her ears.

Invisible words begin to manifest around her, and the garden of the poem begins to dim into twilight.

Horla's gentle voice draws closer and closer. You hear her soft, hurried breaths; you feel the trembling warmth of her skin.

There, in the darkened garden, you learned the secret of a rose.

When Ryker won the pants off the seventeenth student at the gambling table today, someone finally snitched, running crying to the Keeper.

You slam the door open with a BANG, shouting like a righteous police officer.

The large gambling table in the center of the room is crowded with dazed, trembling students. Some even have heartbroken tears streaming down their faces, as if some diabolical paw had snatched away the most important thing in their lives.

The audacious beast pounds the table, sitting smugly amid a mountain of bizarre spoils. Clearly, he shows zero remorse whatsoever.

The normally laid-back wolf's eyes suddenly blaze. The moment he sees you, he leans in close, his furry ears standing straight up with excitement.

Ryker's canine tail wags cheerfully. His wet nose nuzzles against you, sniffing eagerly, like a predator hunting the juiciest bite. He even accidentally grazes your earlobe.

You tense up into an unyielding steel plate, warily eyeing the overly excited beastman.

No one at school has managed to beat Ryker at the gambling table yet; the so-called bet is no different from outright robbery. You begin devising negotiation strategies, preparing to haggle.

This seems to be quite a question. Ryker circles around you, muttering something under his breath, his words barely audible.

Soon, his warm breath lingers at your ear. The greedy beast bares his fangs, his voice thick with desire:

Recently, rumors of supernatural events have spread across campus: music frequently plays spontaneously in the empty music room late at night.

Repeated investigations have failed to find any person, and those who enter the music room to listen to the composition have developed varying degrees of madness.

Seeing that no student or teacher dares to remain in the building at night, you, bearing the last hope, finally arrive at this mysterious music room in the deep night.

Inside the heavy soundproof door, silence reigns, as the night should be, with only your own footsteps quietly echoing.

After a fruitless circle of investigation, you come to the piano in the center of the room and, as if possessed, pick up a few sheets of music resting on the stand.

This appears to be an unfinished musical score, yet the existing melody is already enough to be a historical masterpiece.

Your eyes fix intently on the individual notes. Almost obsessively, you sit down.

The black and white keys of the piano draw you in like a vortex.

You place your hands on the keys, yielding to instinctual desire, and begin to play, relying on your mediocre musical skill.

Starting hesitantly, the melody slowly takes shape. The music, gathering from trickles, merges into a smooth current that flows through the empty music hall.

Something in the air seems to gradually congeal. You maintain your lucidity, continuing to play without expression, your demeanor solemn, like a musical pilgrim.

Finally, a sigh sounds from an unknown place, seemingly from the edge of the sky, yet right beside your ear.

A pair of invisible hands covers yours. It feels like an intimate grasp, yet maintains a barely-touching proximity.

You feel a force gently guiding your fingers, correcting one abrupt wrong note after another.

A dizzying shudder spreads from your eardrums throughout your body. The near-perfect performance immediately reveals the score's complete beauty.

Your breathing instinctively stalls, as if you are drowning in a torrent of music, gradually sinking in waves that are suddenly surging like steel and then soft as cotton.

You stare at the score, the keys in your peripheral vision dancing dazzlingly, your upper body unconsciously leaning forward.

Streaks of blood slowly seep through the score. You feel an innate desire to see the score more clearly, to etch it into your mind.

Your head draws closer to the score, closer and closer.

The sigh appears once more. An irresistible force grips your hands.

A discordant clang crashes onto the keys, and all music ceases abruptly.

Sweat pours off you; you gasp ceaselessly.

At some point, the pair of hands covering yours manifests physically.

They are hands encased in white gloves, long and elegant.

You turn your head and see the owner of those hands behind you, a flash of helplessness crosses Hameln's cold face.

You try to stand, but a wave of dizzying vertigo stops you.

The hands wearing white gloves gently press your shoulder and draw a flute from the air.

The flute's form is vague and difficult to discern, yet it inexplicably makes you feel safe.

Hameln brings the flute to his lips. The ethereal sound encircles your ears, like gently embracing arms.

An irresistible drowsiness sweeps over you. You slump onto the piano, sinking into a deep, sweet sleep.

Hameln's gaze rests on your peaceful, sleeping face. A vague murmur drifts into the quiet night, unheard by anyone.

On your way back from a field mission, you're caught in a torrential downpour, leaving you stranded in the desolate outskirts of the city.

Fortunately, you recall an abandoned factory nearby, just enough shelter for a traveler as unlucky as yourself.

You lean against a corner, listening to the rain hammer rhythmically against the factory's corrugated metal roof.

Just as you close your eyes to drift off, a bone-chilling creak echoes through the space. It's the sound of the rusted factory doors being forced open.

Uncertain of who, or what, has entered, you hold your breath and slowly rise to your feet.

Before you can investigate, a sharp whistle tears through the silence.

You dive to the side just in time. A massive spiked ball crashes into the spot where you stood, gouging a deep crater into the concrete.

Before you can even process the attack, a hand fueled by pure killing intent seizes your throat, pinning you down.

You stare up at a familiar face, struggling to croak out her name through the shock and the lack of air.

The woman's brow twitches, but her crimson eyes show no warmth of reunion, only a cold, bottomless gaze.

Just when you think your life is forfeit, her lips curl into a faint smirk, and the crushing grip on your throat suddenly vanishes.

You collapse to your knees, coughing so violently you nearly heave up a lung. It takes a long minute before you can even roll onto your back.

Now that you can see her clearly, you freeze. Her clothes are plastered to her body, dripping with rain. The scent of blood mingles with the damp air, and her pale face is flushed with a sickly, feverish heat.

Massive shackles are fused directly into her body; her limbs, bound by chains, pulse with an ominous blend of black and red.

You remember your encounter on the snowy mountain and instinctively swallow a lump in your throat.

Seeing the killing intent reignite in her eyes, you move quickly to offer a "friend's" concern.

A strange, complex flicker crosses her face: coldness, annoyance, and a trace of genuine bewilderment.

The moment of vulnerability vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a surge of raw brutality.

Realizing she's feeling the effects of the Holy River, you decide to keep that explanation to yourself and simply nod along.

Your pulse quickens.

She studies you once more, seemingly deciding to grant you a sliver of her trust.

She sits against the wall, taking the very spot you had just vacated.

You shake your head frantically, doing your best to look like the picture of loyalty.

Her eyes slowly drift shut. Her wet body curls up instinctively, like a wounded beast seeking shelter from the night.

Those fierce red eyes snap open, glaring at you with lethal impatience.

You pull off your coat and gently drape it over her shoulders.

She looks down at the garment for a second, but she doesn't cast it aside.

As she falls into a deep, exhausted sleep, the weary Helot clutches the hem of your coat. The deep-seated hatred and bloodlust on her brow finally begin to soften.

Outside, the rain begins to taper off, pattering softly against the roof.

Inside the quiet factory, there is only the sound of your breathing, falling into sync with hers.

Two lonely travelers, resting through the long, rainy night.

Entangled by shapeless nightmares, peculiar emotions seize your consciousness, making the dream inverted and murky.

A cool drop of liquid, like a gentle kiss, falls on your temple, followed by a sky full of silver rain. The fine threads of rain awaken you.

The dormitory night seems draped in a sheer veil; a blurry voice echoes close to your ear.

...

A clean, white gauze obscures her profile. The mist surrounding the Black Pool seems like an extension of her, drawing you into a hallucination-like dream.

Within the myriad dreams, she stands before the Ultimate Gate, asking a soundless question.

She looks back, her gaze calm and indifferent, yet her words are irresistible.

She leans against your chest; you feel your breathing quicken and become shallow.

Tawil takes your hand and lightly touches the surface of the Black Pool. Ripples spread outward in circles.

She looks up at you; obscure thoughts diffuse within her gray-green pupils.

You feel as if it is raining again all around you. Does the Black Pool also receive rain?

Fine threads of silver rain tightly encompass the two of you. This is a time and space belonging only to you and her.

The sudden Silver communication flickers and fades, revealing a crisis that makes your hair stand on end.

You recall those eyes filled with madness staring at you. Driven by intuition, you immediately prepare to push the door open and quickly regroup with the other Awakeners.

The moment your hand grips the doorknob, every hair on your body prickles and stands up in instinctive warning, and your heart pounds as you abruptly crouch down.

At that same moment, a sharp gust of wind sweeps over your head, slicing through a few strands of your hair, and the dormitory door crashes down with a delayed, booming sound.

You look up, and those eyes overlap between memory and reality, gazing down at you with the same joyful smile as always.

You slowly stand up and back away, struggling to ask a question.

"Doll" watches you, following your steps, closing the distance as if you are engaged in some silent, intimate dance.

You cooperatively inquire about her unfinished statement as you step back, until you bump into the wall behind.

The moment she finishes speaking, you roll to the side without hesitation, arms shielding your head, and lunge toward the window on the wall.

The glass shatters with a crash, countless glimmering fragments reflecting your and "Doll's" faces. You fall to the ground in a standard buffered posture, disregard the cuts on your skin, and start running desperately.

The Campus.

The Corridor.

The Underground Passage.

Again and again, you narrowly avoid that pair of scythes. You stumble into walls and fall around corners, yet you never dare to stop, fleeing for your life amidst heavy, ragged breaths.

Undisguised laughter, brimming with madness, pursues you like a ghost. The murderous intent almost pierces your back as you narrowly plunge to the ground once again, hearing the scythe clang into the metal pipes behind you.

Unidentified steam leaks from the pipes, filling the narrow space with scalding vapor and obscuring your vision.

You keenly sense something and immediately hide in a lab, following the direction of the pipe.

Soon, the lab's sealed door bursts open with several loud crashes, and a familiar voice gradually draws closer.

Her scythe scrapes the ground, emitting a sharp, grating sound.

Through the hazy smoke, she catches a glimpse of a piece of clothing next to the large machine in the center of the room, and the corner of her lips curves up faintly.

The ear-piercing metallic screech suddenly vanishes, and the lab falls into a deathly silence.

Time nearly freezes during the agonizing wait; her voice finally reappears, quiet as a whisper.

The scythe strikes the machine with lethal force, yet all that collapses is a lightweight school uniform.

Seizing the moment the scythe is stuck in the device, you press the red button gripped tightly in your hand. The loading doors of the furnace mechanism open swiftly, revealing the infernal molten scene inside.

You appear behind "Doll" and shove her with all your might toward the furnace.

Engulfed by the flames, "Doll" turns back in surprise, her eyes still holding a vague sense of appreciation and a strange, knowing smile.

Lowering your head with a bad feeling, you see the doll's other hand gripping your last piece of clothing.

Your hands instinctively brace against the machine's frame. The residual heat instantly sears the skin of your palms. A sizzling sound accompanies the intense pain as you grit your teeth and resist the tremendous inward pull.

The outline of the doll's body blurs in the dazzling firelight, leaving only its eyes, brighter than the flames, still staring at you.

Mythag's faculty and students finally arrive, having been alerted by your distress signal, and hurriedly pull you away from the furnace.

Gazing through the flames, you catch the last message on her lips just before her face turns to ashes.

You look across at Clementine, who is about to do a psychological consultation for you, and notice her face growing redder.

You can't help but reach out to touch Clementine's forehead. At your touch, she lifts her eyes to meet yours, her expression softer, more tender than ever before.

Her gaze shimmers with an unfamiliar moisture; her cheeks flush crimson, and her breath comes in slight, trembling gasps.

Clementine lets out a soft, breathy laugh. Her cheeks are flushed deep red; she clenches her hand tightly over her heart, her entire body trembling slightly.

Words fail her. She takes a step closer to you, only to collapse weakly into your embrace, her legs giving out.

You lift her gently toward the chair. As you turn to leave, her fingers seize yours, fiercely and feverishly.

Her hand burns hotter than usual, like a spark igniting your skin, like a cage locking you in place.

Clementine's smile deepens, her gaze fixed intently on you. And you, you cannot move.

The world around you blurs into a dreamlike haze. Suddenly, petals swirl through the air, drifting down between you.

A flash of light suddenly pierces through the darkness.

The radiance draws closer and brighter, accompanied by the sharp, rhythmic crackle of electricity.

You bolt upright, eyes snapping open, only to see...

Corposant speaks while pressing a hand firmly against the @2 on her chest, but her efforts are in vain. It continues to pulse with erratic bolts of lightning, glowing with increasing intensity.

You take a step forward, closing the distance between you and Corposant.

Just as you suspected, the lightning does not lash out at you. Instead, as you draw near, the sparks begin to settle, finding a strange sense of stability in your presence.

Corposant suddenly seizes your hand, forcing your palm directly onto her chest.

You find yourself backing away, but Corposant presses forward, closing in on you step by step.

Her expression remained as earnest, serious, and convincing as ever, but at this moment, it was tinged with stubbornness and rigidity.

In the deep slumber of the night, you feel a strange itch, as if someone is gently tickling your skin with a feather.

Upon opening your eyes, everything is still shrouded in a blurry darkness as if something black is tightly enveloping you.

Turning your head, you see a pair of gazing eyes in that strange darkness, silently facing you.

The darkness that held you firmly suddenly withdrew, and Castor bashfully retracted the wings that had encircled you, sitting properly at the bedside.

You turn and sit up, meeting the eyes of the flustered Castor.

Embarrassed by the impropriety, Castor's face turned even redder, his gaze wavering slightly, and his voice grew softer.

At your call, Castor slowly turned his head, showing a hint of confusion in his now damp eyes, yet they are still filled with trust toward you.

Castor paused briefly amidst his internal struggle, seemingly wrestling with some inner principle.

Eventually, he nodded silently, submissively lowering his body, gently lying on your lap, exposing his back to you.

Moonlight falls through the gaps in the curtains and spreads across your bed along with the relaxed, outstretched black wings.

Your hand gently strokes, from the root of the wing to the long flight feathers, like soothing a sleepless child.

The giant black bird gently trembles under your hand.

Castor suddenly turned his head and sighed as if in reproach.

You see his ears blushing with a delayed reaction, and Castor buries his head back into the pillow, making a muffled sound.

You return the silver knife and fork to their place as the butler steps forward to clear the messy plates, then presents an exquisite vintage ceramic dish.

A bright, translucent red cherry rests atop a small piece of creamy white cake, making your mouth water.

He skillfully picks up a pastry and brings it to your lips. You hesitate for a moment, then allow him to feed it to you.

The smoothness of the cream, the richness of the biscuit, and the sweet-sour burst of fresh cherries melt together, a symphony of distinct layers on your tongue.

He gracefully lifts your hand, his gentle lips softly touching the back of your hand with a surprising warmth.

As the King of Ghouls, his body temperature should be lower than a normal person's. In the past, his touch felt like brushing white frost from a gravestone on a cold night.

But today, even this restrained kiss on the hand nearly burns you.

Doresain presses your hand onto the invitation letter on the table, fingers intertwining. Even through your thin gloves, you feel his increasing warmth.

In his eyes, the flames of desire scorch, like burning wood roasting tender meat, the rich, greasy fat sizzling in the fire.

Your hands are lifted. Doresain bites the hem of your gloves with his teeth, slowly pulling them off.

His tongue wraps around your finger, gently nibbling at your fingertip, leaving faint red marks and a tingling sensation.

Doresain's long fingernails gently press against you, sensually tracing a slow, invading path from your neck down to your legs, crawling ever so slowly along your body.

He intoxicatingly sniffs your wrist, his beast-like gaze fixed on you, as if you are already a dish on the plate.

You feel Doresain's warm lips press against your neck, the thick mist covering your visage, your lips, every inch of your body...

The night is deep. You lie in bed, watching the clock tick away, staring blankly with nothing to do.

On ordinary days, by this time you would have already stripped off your dusty clothes and sent your weary body into slumber.

But thanks to the celebration, the busyness and fatigue hadn't disturbed you yet.

Thus, you still have the energy to pick up the novel left untouched on your bedside, to "research" the current literary trends.

Bang bang bang! Bang bang bang!

Suddenly, a rapid, insistent knocking interrupts your reading plans.

You put a bookmark in the unfinished "Muskets and Mead," leave the comfortable warm bed, and walk toward the door.

Bang bang bang! Bang bang bang!

Before you stands a drunken Kathigu-Ra, who forcefully shoves open your half-closed door and locks it with a quick twist of her hand.

Kathigu-Ra seems to be in an unusual state; she emanates a desire best described as the most primitive impulse of living beings.

As if watched closely by a powerful beast, a strong sense of crisis arises in your heart, warning you to leave this place quickly.

Kathigu-Ra loosens the hair tie at the back of her head and slowly approaches you in her long boots. You have no choice but to keep retreating, trying to maintain a safe distance.

You intend to use this as an excuse to escape, but Kathigu-Ra quickly grabs your right hand, wild, rude, and disrespectful.

Reluctantly, you can only continue to retreat, but it seems there is no space left for you.

Kathigu-Ra backs you right to the bed, casually sheds her outerwear, and leans down upon you, her falling hair brushing against your skin.

You lay in bed with your eyes open, at a loss, letting her breath mixed with sweet wine brush across your cheek.

Kathigu-Ra's gaze is filled with mockery, her face getting closer and closer to you.

Her nose gently touches yours, as if savoring the rich aftertaste of your breath.

Those warm lips hover just above yours, suspended at a hair's breadth, letting out a soft laugh. And so she opens her lips, rubbing against yours in this tiny gap.

Pickman's dim studio is messier than before, with countless sheets of leather filled with colors and lines scattered randomly in every corner, as if experiencing a strange war.

He, with disheveled clothes, kneels on both knees, frantically smearing on a blank sheet of paper, nearly tearing it apart. The splattered paint covers his body, resembling a devotee in the midst of a savage ritual.

You snatch your hand back. Inside his scalding body flows what feels like lava.

He suddenly straightens up, his gaze, almost searing, fixing directly on you.

He is so excited that he forgets to stand up, crawling toward you on all fours.

Pickman's anxious and pleading red eyes flicker slightly in the dim light. You find your words of refusal can no longer be spoken.

...

Pickman remains kneeling, dragging his knee closer to you.

Without hesitating for long, you gently sigh and approach him.

He raises his head and looks at you with wide eyes. Those eyes belong to a creature that is simultaneously greedy, yearning, obedient, and loyal, a beast or a devoted pet. He is pleading, begging for a command that will lead him to the Muse.

Your hand gently rests on Pickman's face. His hot breath lingers, but his body instantly becomes docile. You do not know if you are taming him or if he is melting you.

The sounds of the ghouls begin to fade, replaced by the rough and primal voices of the protagonists, resonating throughout the world within the painting.

That is the voice of the Muse.

In the dead of night, a frantic, anxious pounding suddenly wakes you up.

You recall unpleasant memories, not opening immediately, but carefully approaching the door.

You quickly follow Castor to the room, where a figure moaning is curled up on one of the two beds, the sheets wrinkled from long torture.

Hearing your entry, Pollux awoke from his stupor and struggled to get out of bed.

Such a simple action left Pollux gasping for air, his figure swaying on the verge of collapse.

You hurriedly reached out to support, but his burning, sweat-slicked arm slipped from your grasp. Pollux staggered, weakly collapsing against the bed's edge.

Pollux also lifted his eyes from the ground, waiting for his judgment amid his suffering.

Two pairs of trusting eyes locked on you, leaving you unsure of how to articulate an explanation.

Pollux chuckled self-deprecatingly, his chest heaving, his sweat-slicked hair clinging to his skin. The unbearable heat plunged him into fragility and pessimism.

You swear an oath, bending down to try and help Pollux up from the ground.

As your bodies touched, Pollux's burning breath brushed your skin. He inhaled sharply, as if attempting to draw strength from your presence.

Pollux momentarily turned his head away in restraint, furrowing his brow and murmuring, as if he realized something new.

Castor looked at Pollux, who could only offer a subtle nod. Castor then closed the door with concern.

In your answer, Pollux found the reassurance he sought. He understood that his act of faith had been acknowledged and accepted by you.

He took your hand and placed it on his cheek, pressing his hot forehead against yours in dependence.

Those eyes, lost in the feverish heat, gaze at you like a devout believer looks upon their lord.

In the hollow hall, only the echoes of your and Murphy's footsteps remained.

Murphy did not respond, walking straight towards the top of the steps where the throne stood.

You tread carefully until she finally turned, settling onto the Throne. Her slightly angry gaze pierced you.

You felt confusion, but still stepped back two paces, aligning your gaze with the young woman on the throne.

Before you could process the command, icy tentacles snapped around your calves. The crushing pressure forced you immediately down onto the cold stone floor.

You tried to resist, but a paralysis toxin seeped into your nerves, rendering you powerless.

Murphy's tone was furious. The octopus tentacles tapped anxiously against your leg. It seemed that even she was struggling for control.

You resisted the grip of the paralysis toxin and lifted your head, reaching out to gently touch her flushed cheek.

The blue-ringed tentacles crawled up your spine, leaving a tingling sensation along the way.

Yet, you felt the bonds of the tentacles relax slightly, as if a cloud was supporting you. When you tried to break free, however, the restraint held firm, not allowing you to move an inch.

Her breathing lingered in your ear. Then, a gentle, soft kiss landed on your forehead.

The sky is darkening much faster than usual today; heavy and leaden, a storm is clearly brewing.

To avoid getting drenched, you hurry toward the dorms, only for a silhouette to block your path.

She keeps her head low, silent. You can only sense her inner turmoil by the way her knuckles have turned white, gripping her axe with trembling force.

Finally, she speaks, her voice laced with an uncharacteristic flicker of hesitation.

She looks up, her face flushed with an unnatural fever. A smile spreads across her lips, a haunting mix of confusion and pure mania.

Before you can utter a word, her axe swings. It grazes your cheek with terrifying precision, leaving behind nothing but a whistle of freezing air.

The draft invades your collar and chills your chest, sending an instinctive shiver racing down your spine.

Your protests fall on deaf ears; both the weapon and its master are beyond words.

Under the weight of your persistent shouting, the axe finally halts. It thuds into the wall, inches from your shoulder, embedding itself deep into the stone.

The girl stands right in front of you. Her face is burning hot as she bunches her fists, violently seizing you by the collar.

She exhales sharply, trying to vent the River's corruption. But you can feel it, the heat radiating from her, the surging impulses, and the desperate internal war she's losing.

Sensing her desperation, you sigh softly. You take her hand in yours and gently guide her fingers back onto the handle of her axe.

Her eyes widen in shock, searching yours for a hint of a joke, but finding none.

At that moment, the sky finally breaks. A stray droplet lands on Mouchette's cheek, slides down her chin, and vanishes into your collar, trailing a cold line down your skin.

Then comes the deluge. Rain hammers the earth with a wild rhythm, stinging your faces and washing away the tension with a cold, damp itch.

She wrenches the axe from the wall. But instead of swinging it, she simply stands there, locking her eyes onto yours.

She steps toward you, leaving the axe behind. The weapon leans quietly against the wall, surrendering to the cold baptism of the pouring rain.

The flooding of the Holy River has brought unprecedented trouble to Mythag. Unexpectedly, Xu's room has become one of the few places where you can take refuge.

Her beautiful eyes brim with smiles. Several white Weiqi stones click lightly against the board. Xu seems quite fond of this ancient game from the far east.

The flickering candlelight traces her faint, shadowy silhouette as she sits gracefully on the bed.

The sky has dimmed before you could noticed She lets out a soft laugh.

Mist.

Delicate as silk, fine as thread, the mist coils around you in layers.

A shimmering, gilded wisp flashes at the edge of your vision. Something smooth as satin coils around your arms and back, gently guiding you to lift the curtain woven from mist.

The mist parts. Beneath the fan, something warm gently brushes the tip of your nose. The feathered tassels on her shoulder cascade down, softly caressing your trembling skin.

Tap.

A drop of molten candle wax falls onto the table; the go stones scatter in disarray.

The light goes out.

The restraints vanish. This ancient and mysterious deity has clearly left you a path of retreat.

And with it, a barely audible, ambiguously playful invitation, brimming with delight.

BANG!

Vortice suddenly bursts into the room. She throws her arms around your waist, burying her face in your chest as her long silver hair tickles your skin.

You breathe a silent sigh of relief. It seems she had the foresight to retract the 'horrific object' on her left hand, sparing you the risk of an accidental bite.

THUD.

Just as you feared, Vortice fails to temper her strength. The momentum sends you both tumbling onto the floor.

Her gaze grows hazy and unfocused. Her slender fingers slip through the gaps in your clothes, gently tracing the surface of your skin.

You are all too familiar with this sensation. In those dreams of yours, 'Coalsie' would often enjoy this sort of 'petting' while curled in her arms.

She leans in, sniffing you softly. You aren't sure if it is a lingering fragrance or your own unique nature that finally settles her spirit.

But one thing is certain: you cannot let this continue on the floor.

The wood is hard against your back, and your waist is already aching for the comfort of a mattress.

You take the opportunity to lead her to the bed. The two of you sink into the soft blankets, locked in an embrace and staring into each other's eyes, just as you once did upon that ship.

You push open the heavy doors of the theater. Moonlight falls in slanted shafts through tall windows. The cool night air and Arachne's gentle voice from somewhere within pull you sharply awake.

She smiles at you. A pressure, like the weight of fate itself, closes in from every direction.

You turn to leave. But your feet carry you forward on their own, bringing you to stand before Arachne.

Arachne's breath is at your ear now. Warm, and barely there.

Her smile remains as serene as ever. But deep within those fathomless eyes, something burns: a flame you have never seen before, as though it could consume everything it touches.

An invisible web closes around you, drawing away every last measure of your strength, swallowing every impulse to resist.

The threads draw taut. You look at the face so close to yours, and your heart lurches, your breath coming faster.

Fate dictates that you have never wanted to run. You have wanted this: You wanted to come here, wanted to see this performance through, with no audience but the two of you.

Arachne's soft words move at your ear. She is no longer distant, no longer serene. Her breath trembles faintly, her smile impossibly close.

The web of threads is cold, supple, clinging with a closeness that leaves no room to breathe, drawing tighter, pressing through fabric, against skin.

Then chelicerae close around you, and cold pedipalps part your lips, sealing away whatever resistance had not yet found its words.

The threads begin to guide your limbs. Gently, and without appeal.

Of course. You have never been fate's puppet. You are Mythag's Keeper, the one who holds your fate in your own hands.

This is exactly what you want. It is fate that bends to your will. It is your body answering your own call.

The threads shiver, like fate drawing a bow across strings. You reach out, tracing the spider limbs swaying gently in the air, tracing the hands that have never stopped turning the spindle, tracing the lines of that gentle face.

That familiar face. The compassion it always carries, the stillness that never leaves it. And now, just barely, something else, a warmth rising to the surface, unguarded, that you have never seen before.

Two threads of fate wind around each other, pulling, yielding, without cease. The trembling ripples spread outward along the invisible web, dissolving toward a boundless, unreachable edge.

...

Given Saya's special abilities, everyone has been on edge about how she might react to the influence of the Holy River.

Yet to everyone's surprise, she simply stands by the window in silence. Her pale skin is nearly translucent, as if she were sealed away in another world.

As if sensing your worry, the girl spins lightly on her heels...

no fever, no racing heartbeat, no strange euphoria. Nothing strange.

She sits closer to you, nestling into a plush cushion and smiling like a harmless, small animal.

As she speaks, she passes you a cushion.

You let out a long breath of relief, leaning back just as she does.

Your eyes well up with tears of pure relief as you make your desperate plea.

At this moment, what matters most is that the poor Keeper of Mythag finally has a reliable safe house.

Saya knits her brows in a playful show of hesitation, smiling only after she's seen the look of disappointment on your face.

Like two close friends who share everything, you fall into a comfortable, lighthearted conversation.

A certain figure drifts into your mind. You close your eyes, relaxed, offering a silent blessing for Saya's future, May this existence endure across the vast expanse of time.

The power of the Holy River flows between you like a gentle tide, silent and unhurried.

Everything rests in stillness, shrouded in mystery.

This is not your first time in Ebwynnos, but never before have these faceless creatures been this restless.

The assault ceases, yet darkness sweeps over you without warning. In a heartbeat, a leaden stillness pulls you into a nameless undercurrent.

As though confirming something, and entirely indifferent to the shiver racking your body from the sudden shock, the lord of this domain strokes your brow, the corner of your eye, and down to the side of your neck with an air of absolute authority.

...Wait. You're, why are you here again?

A piercing white noise drowns out your thoughts. An ancient, formless tide compels you to lift your heavy head, your gaze fixing on the only thing you can still recognize.

His deep voice cuts through the sound of the surrounding waters. The lord draws the hunting circle tighter, his presence looming over you.

You murmur the words back to yourself, the corners of your mouth lifting unbidden. Everything that follows feels perfectly natural.

The abyss has claimed you entirely. Your fragile awareness fractures under the weight of each cresting wave, until his words no longer make sense.

A husky, breathy laugh.

Wet, chaotic, overwhelming. You are filled to overflowing, then pulled deeper with every rolling swell. You have lost all autonomy.

Only murmurs, laced with ragged breath, linger at your ear.

You don't understand a word of it. You simply yield to the pleasure, drifting with the ancient tide.

He shows no sign of stopping.

BANG,

The door flies open with a crash like a war drum. Reeking of blood, someone storms in and drops onto your bed, gasping for breath.

You stare at her battered form in disbelief.

She frowns, irritation flashing in her eyes.

...

You try to slip out of the room, but Lotan doesn't give you the chance.

Two sharp cracks ring beside your ears. Lotan's bone blades pierce the bed, their bone-hilts pinning your hands to the mattress. You can't move.

A blood-streaked hand clamps over your jaw, muffling your voice into incoherent whimpers.

Lotan stares down at you as if pinning a rival who brings her ultimate pleasure, the fighting spirit in her eyes turning into naked hunger.

The iron claws of her gauntlets trace down your jawline, sliding past your throat, your chest, and your waist... You struggle wildly, gasping out meaningless noises, but the blades hold you fast, immovable as stone.

Lotan leans in close, admiring your face flushed red from the struggle.

She smiles, letting her blood drip from her lips onto your face.

The door halfway down the corridor is already furred with white frost, and the frost looks like it's spreading.

You steel yourself and, fighting down a cold so violent your chattering teeth could nearly bite through your own tongue, you push open the door to Caraboo's dorm room.

But that quick, mischievous little figure doesn't pop out in some dazzling way to show off her latest prank, the way she always does.

There's a rare flush across her face. She looks, well, almost... pitiful.

She bites her lower lip and, eyes brimming with tears, throws her arms open toward you, the posture of a child begging to be held.

It's the first time you've seen this little con artist wear an expression like this, but some lingering wariness keeps you rooted where you stand, breath fogging white, just working your limbs to stay warm.

Without warning, Caraboo's tears fall straight down, as if she's truly just witnessed something horrifying.

Crystals of ice are spreading outward with her at the center, and she looks helpless, breakable, her eyes red-rimmed as she stares at you, swaying, as though she might collapse at any second.

In the instant before she hits the floor, you lunge and catch her after all, and the very next second, you regret it.

Those ice-cold arms coil around you with the boneless ease of some invertebrate thing, and a breath dusted with snow-crystals spills into the hollow of your neck and the curve of your ear.

Behind her, something softer and colder still wraps close and languid around you, drowning you down through layer upon layer of deep snow.

You struggle, muffled sounds catching in your throat, and just before you black out completely, you hear that sly little laugh.

The night is thick and gloomy. Having just finished a field mission, you walk onward, followed quietly by Ogier: Oathbound, the young knight from another world and your Awakener companion.

The task itself posed little challenge. As an experienced Keeper, you and Ogier dispatched every foe with ease.

All around you is dead silent. Weariness begins to cloud your mind, until a sudden voice behind you makes you start.

You know that Ogier has long struggled against the formless thing bound to him. But tonight, something about him is unmistakably off.

And so you turn and walk toward him.

Ogier has been staring fixedly at the toes of his boots. At your voice, he jerks his head up and takes a step back, trembling slightly.

The moment the words leave his lips, your vision plunges into utter darkness.

The formless thing that has long coexisted with Ogier surges all at once, closing in around you, clinging to your limbs, veiling your eyes, binding you fast in a chilling embrace.

You cry out, but the viscous slime only coils tighter, as if desperate to seal you completely within it. You reach out and tear at it with all your strength, yet it stubbornly weaves back around you like creeping vines.

The boy's voice reaches you in muffled, broken fragments. He is clearly struggling with all his might to suppress something.

The hold on you shudders faintly, then suddenly tightens again, as though caught in a fierce struggle between two conflicting wills.

You can only make out a few indistinct words, as if he is merely talking to himself.

Tightly as the slime binds you, it causes you no pain or suffocation.

Your words seem to reach him. This time, the slime's grip begins to loosen, and you seize the opportunity to pull free of it.

You see Ogier standing before you, his head bowed in dejection, brow faintly furrowed, eyes still clouded with confusion, like a statue of penance weighed down by a monumental sin.

He murmurs with his eyes closed, shaping the small coil of black slime around his hand into a dagger. Moonlight falls upon its cold, gleaming edge, which he points directly at his other arm.

But the blade does not come down. You rush forward just in time to stay his hand. Only then do you realize that the formless thing which bound you so tightly moments ago has now entirely withdrawn.

You stoop down slightly and gently draw him into your arms, patting his back to soothe him.

Instead of shying away as he usually does, he simply freezes, standing still in your embrace.

Holding Ogier close, you feel the abnormal heat radiating from him, and you begin to piece it together. You never expected that the Holy River would directly influence the other power that dwells within him.

After a brief silence, you hear the boy's quiet, sheepish voice.

In the hollow hall, only the echoes of your and Murphy's footsteps remained.

In the hollow hall, only the echoes of your and Murphy's footsteps remained.

In the hollow hall, only the echoes of your and Murphy's footsteps remained.