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!

cracking, then completely shattering into fragments of a

escape. She

a person. Formless, transparent figures were numbly pacing around every corner of the

temperature drop every time she passed through the spirits.

altar was a round table, with a figurine of a

man’s head, with only a mere indication of her eyes, but the figure was that of

hair extended from her head to her heels, each strand

the tip of every strand of hair,

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

with a yellowish-green flame despite the cold, sinister

figurine and quickly

away the puppets and extinguished the flames of the candles

Whoosh!

winds howled fiercely as they shook

Shards of glass flew

way to the other side of the building, didn’t dare to barge into the sacrificial altar recklessly. He shivered, feeling

heels as

contact. A Sequence 9 Beyonder would have turned completely numb by now. But as a Corpse Collector, Frye was no

heels and pulled the trigger. It was as if he could see who the enemy was, and

Bang!

the air, causing a shrill

Frye regained

who wanted to reach the second floor by avoiding a frontal assault on the altar, was similarly

engulfed Dunn, as if a monster had just opened its mouth

imbued with life. Dunn’s

He straightened his knees and twisted his waist, loosening the curtain’s grip with raw strength

head with his left

Bang!

the other half of the curtain behind the window, stopping

as a dark red liquid oozed out

Whoosh!

Mitchell was reciting his poems and was also hit by the cold sinister winds infused with the intense sensation of

the garden suddenly extended, wrapping themselves around his heels. A black shadow hurled itself

rigid, failed to fire in time. He could only pull back his

his forearm, the thorns on its body piercing his

bright-red flower, its origins