Lord of the Mysteries

Vines grew all over the dilapidated garden outside the glass windows. The river flowed softly, reflecting the stars in the sky as warm glows suffused out of the nearby buildings.

Everything was silent, as if awaiting the arrival of night.

Trissy, who had ordinary features which combined to make her look surprisingly beautiful, retracted her gaze and walked quickly towards the clothes rack to retrieve a long black robe fitted with a hood.

She quickly put the robe on, fastened the buttons and belt before pulling the hood over her head, transforming herself into an Assassin.

Trissy raised her right hand and swiped her face, immediately turning her appearance under the hood blurry.

Right on the heels of that, she grabbed a handful of shimmering powder from the hidden pouch near her waist and scattered it over herself while reciting an incantation.

Trissy’s figure started to disappear bit by bit, her outline vanishing like how pencil marks were being erased by an eraser.

She silently left the bedroom after completing her concealment spell. She moved to the opposite room and then opened the non-grilled window.

With a light leap, Trissy stood on the window sill and looked over the grassy plains to the back of the building. She looked down at the steel fence that had seemingly fused with the night. There, she saw Corpse Collector Frye who was silently making his way over the fence.

She took in a deep breath and fluttered down like a feather, stepping onto the grassy field without a sound.

Frye, who was wearing a black windbreaker, cautiously surveyed the surroundings with his custom revolver in his hand, seeking out vengeful spirits or evil spirits that might appear.

He could see such entities directly!

Trissy approached Frye silently, made her way behind him. It was unknown when a dagger smeared with ‘black paint’ appeared in her hand.

Poof!

She struck quickly, plunging the dagger into Frye’s lower back.

But at this moment, the scene in front of her shattered, as if everything was an illusion.

Trissy realized that she was still standing on the window sill, still looking over the grassy field and the steel fence.

Except this time around, it wasn’t only Corpse Collector Frye who was standing outside the fence. There was also Leonard Mitchell who was aiming straight at the window sill, as well as Dunn Smith. The captain of the Nighthawks was hunched over as he pressed down on his glabella, his eyes closed as formless ripples spread outwards from him.

Trissy’s pupils constricted. She understood that everything that had happened was just a dream. She had fallen asleep unknowingly!

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Leonard and Frye fired three shots, accurately hitting the invisible target who was still waking up from her reverie.

Crack!

started to appear, first cracking, then completely shattering into fragments of a

spell, turned around to escape. She followed the corridor and the steps, sprinting all

blew across the first floor, one that could freeze a person. Formless, transparent figures were numbly

her temperature drop every time she passed through the

altar was a round table, with a figurine of a deity

a

strand

at the tip

the puppets was crude. Names and relevant information were written on the puppets; for

with

deity’s figurine and

then pushed away the puppets and extinguished the flames of the

Whoosh!

as they

of glass flew

who had just made his way to the other side of the building, didn’t dare to barge into the sacrificial altar

as though they had been grabbed by something

would have turned completely numb by now.

side of his heels and pulled the trigger. It was as if he could

Bang!

pierced the air, causing a shrill

figure dissipated and Frye regained his ability

floor by avoiding a frontal assault on the altar, was similarly affected by the cold winds. His body froze as he stopped right outside a shattered

lifted suddenly and engulfed Dunn, as if a monster had just opened

head, seeming to have been imbued with life. Dunn’s facial features began to press through the constricting

both feet. He straightened his knees and twisted his waist, loosening the curtain’s

his left

Bang!

fired a shot at the other half of the curtain behind the window, stopping

dark red liquid oozed

Whoosh!

the field, Leonard Mitchell was reciting his poems and was also hit by the cold sinister winds infused with the

around his heels. A black shadow

whose body had become rigid, failed to fire in time. He could only

forearm,

was a pretty, bright-red flower, its origins