Shallow waters surround me, thinly dampening the soles of my feet with its cold touch. Lightning crashes on a solid canvas of blue, pale and lifeless.

This world I have been brought to—is, somehow, a world I have been living in for a very long time.

My feet slowly wade the waters, headed towards the endless horizon where the buzz of electricity roars the loudest.

I know not where I am going, nor why I am headed there. All I know is that this is my path, my direction.

My soul knows this place like the back of my hand, the ceiling of my hospital room. It is only my eyes that have never bore witness and my ears that have never heard. It is my tongue that has never tasted, my nose that has never smelled, and my hands that have never felt.

To run would be to deprive myself of enlightenment. The scenery that rests in front of me, behind me, above me, below me, and beside me, are all flowers that bloom with the truth—

—the truth that the world was beautiful, but I will never be able to experience anything but an eidolon of it.

March 6th, Year of the Golden Scales; Day 18:

Today marks the eighteenth day I have been lost at sea. Goddamnit all.

The ocean drags my ship away, then, it refuses to return me to my land, but instead, sends a storm my way, as if to slap me in my face. Do the gods of the water and sky wish to see me die an early death from anger?

Once again, my supplies are low. I expect to not make the trip back to my village.

.

March 7th, Year of the Golden Scales; Day 19:

Thank the grace of the world!

Today, the fierce storm continued, wrecking my ship. The gods loathe me, but the world desires not my death. It has sent an angel to save me!

_The hand of the water god pulled me down into the depths of his domain (a tyrannous being he is!) but I have escaped his grasp and survived, making it onto shore to tell the world of his evil deeds! I am triumphant, though, I must be truthful, my survival was not by my own efforts. _

Fortune, in the form of a beguiling existence of the sea, was my guide.

As inconceivable as the concept may be, and as mad as I may seem, I swear, it is the utmost truth.

I shall never speak falsities of my savior.

.

March 8th, Year of the Golden Scales; Day 20:

This will be the last entry of this journal.

Originally, I had begun keeping records of my days in hopes a passing sailor would find this journal once the shade had claimed me, and perhaps, tell of my story to my friends and family at home to ease their anxious hearts.

Now that I am back home, however, I have no need for it.

I only hope to describe my first encounter with my savior, for if this journal ever finds its way into the hands of another, they may too praise this beautiful being.

I witnessed my savior as I was on my last breath. I was torn apart by the storm and falling deep into the sea. Scarce was the air, cold was the water, and rapidly fading was my vision.

In the murky depths of the waters, that was when his light appeared, golden, arresting, and celestial. Like the glorious North Star of the cosmic night sky, I was drawn in by it.

Miraculously, my breath recovered.

My body was instantly healed of the wounds from the sea, and there, I saw the visage of an angel. Eyes as mystical and opulent as a gemstone of translucent amethyst, and locks as fair and ethereal as the wispy clouds above.

Never had I seen an appearance so enchanting and enigmatic. The loveliest woman of the fairest land could not be compared to his divine existence.

Despite that, what I first saw of him was not even the whole of of his beauty.

I was stolen away, carried to the surface in his arms with incredible speed. Though swift, it allowed me an opportunity to observe with greater precision his ethereal appearance. Entering my vision was a fishtail of resplendent gold. It was shimmering, iridescent in all shades of yellows and oranges, like a swelling sun in the blue sea.

Our meeting was brief, for the moment my feet touched land, he disappeared, but his existence was forever engraved into my heart.

.

Nimble fingers flipped the pages of the journal with graceful ease.

Yellowed, worn, and sun-dried, the pages blurred the reverent words upon them, past encounters with water distorting the neat penmanship. Despite the state of the journal, however, a pair of lavender eyes still traced over every single word with care and affection.

"So, this was how we met..."

His finger gently stroked the last line on the last page.

"I'm sorry. You never forgot me, but I could not do the same for you."

The old journal was closed. Having been through many years of existence, its fragile binding was treated with tender care as it was placed onto the shelf.

Each touch was soft and delicate, and the current owner of the journal hoped the relic would continue to exist—to remain a reminder for the last century of his time in the world.

Every time he opened its pages, the image of the true owner's face could be reignited in his memory, and the happenings of their first encounter could be relived once more.

There was no better fulfillment than this, and no better encouragement to hold out just a little longer until reunion.

Sun never visited the graveyard on the outskirts of the village. It was a peculiar phenomenon—most definitely not a common occurrence anywhere else in the world. It was as if there was a repellent presiding over the domain, keeping the ubiquitous, yellow orb in the sky at bay.

Perhaps the repellent was the impenetrable, gray clouds that perpetually loomed over the graveyard, or perhaps, it was the man who perpetually wandered the area.

No one knew who the man was.

The current village gravekeeper, who had inherited the ostensibly-morbid position from his folks, had been warned of the man's relentless presence many times before he officially assumed his duty.

His great-great-great-great—and so on—grandparents had been the first to pass the knowledge down to their children. From there, it seemed to have become a family tradition to pass along unnerving tales of the man of the graveyard to the next generation, alongside maintaining the village graveyard. This bizarre tradition continued, until finally, it was his turn.

The young gravekeeper had been warned, but he had also witnessed the absurdity of the man the very first week he struck up the position.

It was the first time he had set foot into the graveyard, which he had only had contact with by word-of-mouth.

Gray and dusty—the graveyard was much more dull than the grand, macabre tales he was told, and the job was much more mundane than the imagination.

Six days filled with marking graves, plucking weeds, and keeping records flitted by in the blink of an eye.

His hands grew dirty and callused quickly, and so too was the speed at which his mind grew numb.

On the seventh day, logic came crashing down, and the young gravekeeper had begun to contemplate running away.

He was on his way to dig out a grave for the village's kind widow who had recently passed from old age when he halted in his steps. The gravekeeper brought the shovel in his hand up into the air and planted it into the ground, his chin resting atop of a the steely handle with his two hands acting as a cushion in between.

Numerous escape plans generated themselves in his mind, behind his closed eyes.

CRASH—!

The young gravekeeper toppled over.

Unfortunately, a bold stroke of unprecedented ingenuity did not cause him to jolt in shock, but quite the opposite. A burst of the cold night's wind had struck him in the face, awakening him from his deep contemplation.

The young gravekeeper sat on the ground, slightly dazed—not at just having fallen over, but at the figure that dominated his vision. It was murky figure of a man, arising from the ground just past the lofty tower of his shovel.

Brown eyes dilated in horror.

Clumps of dirt fell from the slowly-rising body like blood from a bloodbath. The man was tall—too tall, and too thin. He was skin and bones walking amidst the many graves, porcelain-white and deathly alabaster under the midnight moon.

His face was unhealthily gaunt, his cheekbones prominent, and each of his steps bore a wretched haggardness that seemed to bestow him the ability to collapse and vanish at any point in time.

The young gravekeeper did not breath. He was too assured of the presence of an invisible scythe at his throat—too close and too lethal for comfort—so he chose to remain still, motionless, so as to pass off as a rock, or better yet, a speck of dust.

Yet, his wishful disguise was easily seen through.

The two eyes that slowly crept towards the direction of the gravekeeper on the ground brimmed with madness beneath that crimson veneer—complete and utter madness, spiraling endlessly.

But then, those eyes disappeared, and the man walked away in the opposite direction, fading into the forest as if he never existed.

It happened in the blink of an eye, yet it felt so much longer.

Fear was cemented into the being of the young gravekeeper. He was defeated, sitting on the dirt, floored. Half an hour passed like that before strings began to pull him. The young gravekeeper stood up, abandoned his shovel, and walked straight to the space the man had emerged from.

The strings were curiosity, its hold relentless. He couldn't stop his feet from moving nor his eyes from seeing. He was powerless, and drawn in.

He peered over the pit in the ground, and his eyes met a blackwood casket, a silver cross adorned on its sleek cover.

Blackwood caskets were a unique product of the village, the only location in the world abundant with the main material: blackwood trees. These trees were colossal, and coal-black in color from leaves to branches to trunks to roots, containing properties that made their caskets the highest of qualities.

The crafting process for blackwood caskets required the utmost skill and technique, and, most notably, considerable time. Meanwhile, the villagers considered the ancient blackwood trees to be protectors of their village, thus, outsiders were forbidden from handling them, as well as occupying their caskets, made only using fallen or old trees. With both these factors combined, only a couple dozen blackwood caskets were crafted per year.

However, that was not the only remarkable thing about them.

It was well-known throughout the village that once a blackwood casket was locked, incineration was the only way to open it.

The young gravekeeper's eyes grazed the untouched cover of the casket before subconsciously traveling in the direction the man had walked.

That man had not come from the casket...

A shiver crawled up his spine. Somehow, that prospect was more horrifying than if the man was a corpse that had arisen. His eyes drew back towards the headstone resting beside the pit. The name read:

'Chance W. Vacien'.

That was the name of the casket's true tenant.

That was not the name of the man of the graveyard.

The headstone dated back many centuries ago, correlating with the long-standing, gravekeeping tradition of his family. It was no doubt an important villager who had been buried here if they were granted the burial rights to a blackwood casket, but they were a stranger to the young gravekeeper. All he knew was that, by being buried here so long ago, that villager had become one of the first 'customers' of his family's graveyard.

And horrifyingly enough, that man, who had just climbed out of the grave, had been the very first 'regular customer' of his family's graveyard.

The young gravekeeper had been maintaining the graveyard for the six full days—today being the seventh—and he had never once paid close attention to any grave.

He regretted it.

He had walked past this very grave many times, completely oblivious to the breathing body underneath his feet...

The young gravekeeper shuddered, vigorously rubbing the goosebumps from his shoulders. His mind twisted and turned.

The more morbid question of exactly how long the man had been buried six-feet underground beside the a centuries-old, rotting corpse was still up in the air.

His ancestors had seen and described the man before, but words could never fully realize his absurdity. Now, the young gravekeeper saw it for himself, and he was strucken deep to the core by true insanity.

Those demonic, red eyes pierced into his soul.

Thump, thump, thump.

Suddenly, soft and uneven footsteps emerged from the depths of the forest, breaking the unnerving silence.

Like a shadow escaping the abyss, the man's figure reappeared before the gravekeeper, crimson-red eyes now peering downwards upon his scalp.

The young gravekeeper's head unconsciously lowered, and he bit his lip for the lightning pain to remind him not to pass out. He braced himself.

Surprisingly, however, the man did nothing but step beside him. For a moment, their heights were side-by-side, in a stark contrast with one being nearly three heads taller than the other, who was an adult man in his prime years. Of course, the flesh of their bodies were wholly different in amounts.

Head still lowered and hands still sweatily clamped onto the sides of his pants, the gravekeeper perked his ears to listen to the rustling behind him. He refused to turn around, for if he did, he feared the hideousness of the other's existence would cause his vision to blacken, but, something within him told him that he had to listen. He had to. Thus, he listened in absolute stillness.

Behind the gravekeeper, the man of the graveyard slowly knelt down on one knee. A train of prayers passed by in silence before the man placed what was bundled in his tattered, bony hands gingerly beside the headstone—

—two, bright-red orchids.

Then, the man dragged his weakened body back into the grave and laid himself beside the blackwood casket. His hand grazed the silver cross one last time, engraving yet another burn into his pallid flesh, before he crossed his arms over his chest and forever closed his weary eyes, permanently relieving the world from their burning mayhem.

Dirt fell of its own accord, as if to block the two bodies from the tumultuous outside world, enclosing them in a solitary space of their own.

A small breeze traced over the petals of the two flowers intertwined beside the headstone.

The sun eventually rose.

The young gravekeeper's eyes were blind to the final event of the night, his ears the sole witness.

Unconsciously, his eyes began to wet, and small droplets of tears steadily streamed down his cheek.

The young gravekeeper wiped them away with his hand as he looked at the headstone one final time.

Chance W. Vacien.

His eyes passed the uneven dirt of the grave.

Retracing his steps to his shovel that was left standing in the ground on its lonesome, the young gravekeeper then picked it up. He returned to the grave, patting down the dirt until it looked as brand new as all the other graves. He cleaned the headstone as well, but left the two flowers untouched.

His finger accidentally grazed the name on the headstone, and for a moment, the young gravekeeper did not move, frozen in place. He stared, before finally making a decision. He brought out his family's set of carving tools and sat down beside the grave, gently carving out a second name onto the headstone—

—Al. Night.

Afterwards, the young gravekeeper left the graveyard, heading into the forest in the same direction the man had left in earlier that night. He spent a couple minutes walking past rows and rows of blackwood trees, densely obscuring the forest in darkness with their inky leaves despite the sun ruling the sky.

Eventually, the deeper the gravekeeper trekked, the sparser the blackwood trees grew, replaced with blossoming red orchids. The dark, gloomy world turned vivid and lively within moments, swept up in a lovely, passionate charm.

A pure-white cathedral lied ahead of the flower garden, flanked on both sides by a parting sea of red.

Its windows were clean and pure, and its stately elegance remained despite the years as it rested undisturbed within the forest, its only visitor likely to be but one man—one very devout man who visited every week to clean the sacred building.

If not for that one man, the church may have been dilapidated ruins by the time the gravekeeper visited, as the holy religion had long been tossed within the village.

The gravekeeper entered the cathedral and walked up to the angelic statue piously positioned at the far end. He kneeled on both knees before the statue and put his hands together around the silver cross that hung from his neck, tucked behind his shirt.

The day passed in silence with the young man kneeled before the statue.

As the sun set, he finally stood and left through the front doors of the cathedral, his destination—the graveyard.

...I see someone.

I do not know who he is.

Everyday, my friend sits next to me and tells me stories about him.

There is one story I remember the most.

Once upon a time, he dove into the waters of a faraway, frozen land to save someone.

He brought that person to land, but the waves dragged him back to sea.

It was cold.

It was so cold that his heart stopped beating.

My friend described to me what happened next, but every sentence was filled with a terrible, scratching sound.

It was painful.

It was so painful.

It was the first time that had happened.

I could not understand anything.

'It's normal,' he said. 'You still need time to acclimate.'

He smiled.

'You'll be better soon...I promise.'

He wrapped his arms around me.

The mirror fell from his lap, and it broke on the floor.

Glass was everywhere, but he did not pick it up.

He stayed with me, with his head on my shoulder.

I think he cried.

I think he fell asleep.

He woke up the next day.

He brought in a new mirror and showed it to me.

Then, he smiled and told me another story about the man in the mirror.

And that was the end of it.

I really liked the story.

Even though I could not understand anything, I really liked it.

I do not know why.

I just really liked it.

All of his stories are good, but I liked that one the most.

He is very verbose with his words, and his smile is really pretty.

He is kind when he talks to me, and he can make anything sound interesting.

Although I liked that story the most, all of his stories are good.

I wnat to hear more of his stories.

Maybe une day, I wille be able to tel him my own story.

I hope taht hapns soone.

Buut four niow, i jsut want tu liesten to him.

his stroies maike me hiappy.

i relaiy likew his srtories.

bxut he teils me hteh tsoeries.

dueis thsijs meiane tahta he amkes mye hapeoy?

...

yeas.

he maeks mie hapeyi.

i rekaly leiek him

i reaiye lejskei him

i raelzxsy liwxke him

i leikeczkx him

i liezcxqkecxa him

i him

him

h

'To the Four Pillars of the Underworld, this is the underworld advisor writing. Please, make your return to your homelands with haste, and as soon as possible. Catastrophe has arrived. A disastrous outbreak—"

...

"Well, shit, looks like that stupid cat ripped out the bottom half..."

"And it turns out to be the most important information too. Who could've guessed?"

"Wait, but if the clue's ripped, how are we gonna find the treasure for the treasure hunt?"

"Idiot... There is no way in hell this letter that looks like it was writting by a kid with middle-school syndrome was sent out by the school. They probably got the actual clue sheet mixed up with some kid's fanfic project."

It was early morning, but the sun shone brightly in the clear sky, casting long shadows of houses and trees across the concrete pavement. In front of a particularly grandiose, two-storied home, four boys huddled around a mailbox embedded into the grassy front lawn. All four of them wore casual, flowy clothes perfect for the hot, mid-summer weather, but each with their own unique style and aesthetic.

Under the sun, four pairs of eyes scrutinized a yellowed letter—one that had been arduously wrestled from the fangs of a temperamental feline thief.

They were looking for clues in the upper half that had not been torn.

In the midst of this eye-reddening examination process, one of the boys—the tallest, and likely also the sleepiest of bunch—yawned. He had deep eyes bags and messy, brown hair. Having just woken up from a one-hour nap and a sleepless night of gaming, he then proceed to hike all the way to his friend's house, which was, notably, up on a hill.

No doubt, he was tired and ready to head home.

"Hey, guys, since this probably—" His sentence was halted by another, irresistible yawn. "—isn't the real clue, how are we gonna get the real clue? Or are we just not gonna do the treasure hunt?"

He looked like he was really gunning for a unanimous agreement on the latter question, but the boy beside him dangerously narrowed his green eyes.

"No way!" His voice erupted in a sudden rise, and he shook his head vigorously. "Listen, this stupid treasure-hunt thing or whatever is worth a shit-ton of points—

"—points which I could really, really, really use right about now... So we can't quit! Let's just go to the school or something and ask for the real clue."

His emphasis on his rapid-fire 'really's gained him no sympathies from his fellow friends and classmates, and his suggestion to pay a visit to the dreadful hell that was school only earned him groans.

"Dude, you're the only one with summer school, and you're the only one lacking in points and braincells. You roped us into this—we only agreed to be on your 'team' because you said you'd host at your house for all of summer, but you know, there's no obligation to help you if the school mailed the wrong clue."

Another boy with longer, black hair piped up. The ends of his hair curled up on his shoulders and around his neck uncomfortably, so he had a hand occupied at all times to brush them away and tuck them behind his ears. The hot weather and his unruly hair had already made him irritated enough, but the mention of school sealed the deal to abandon ship and jump into a pool instead.

A sigh escaped on the side.

"Hey, can we not stand outside, in the sun, and argue about this stuff? We can always talk inside, you know? Or we could just go to the school, get the clue, solve this hunt, shut this guy's mouth, and be done with it?"

Hiding from the sun under the shade of a local liquid amber tree, a boy slumped against the trunk, his face stippled by vibrant filterings of verdant-green leaves. He had a water bottle in hand, but little time had passed since he left his house and it was already half empty.

He was hot and sticky, covered in thick layers of sweat, and wanted to get the activity done with as soon as possible. Thus, despite being the one who had asked the question, he closed the answer window and gave himself the position of the 'ultimate decider'.

"Actually, scratch that, no one has to say anything—we're going to the school. Let's just finish up quickly so we can all head home and do whatever it is we want to do."

After swiping his hair off his shoulder for the millionth time today, the curly-haired boy voiced his agreement.

"Sounds like a plan. Let's go for it. I wanna use this idiot's pool afterwards."

He pointed a thumb to the green-eyed boy beside him, who gritted his teeth in annoyance to the not-so subtle insult but ultimately acquiesced to the plan of action.

On the other hand, the sleepy-eyed boy, as the fourth person, practically had no rights in the decision with three out of four 'yes's. With no other choice, he was simply dragged along by the feet by his friends.

The four teen boys set off moments later with a decision settled on majority rule, making their way down the hill and through the streets of the local neighborhood. Sporadic topics arose in conversation along the way, lightening the mood and abating the maddening effect of the summer heat.

Finally, they arrived at their local high school.

Unfortunately, to their great inconvenience, the current day was a joyous Saturday, and summer school was not in session. The gates were locked shut by thick, steel chains.

At this unwelcoming greeting, the boys could have simply looked at the sun-glazed building and the locked-in shelter and turned away, returning on a more convenient day, but they, in fact, did not do so despite claiming to have braincells.

Refusing to turn away at the first sign of opposition from the natural world and make their long walk under the sun become in vain, three out of four once again decided for the team to venture forth.

And so, the four boys somehow found themselves in the awkward position of vaulting the lofty gates and sneaking onto school property likes rotten thiefs.

Like acrobats and monkeys all the same, they climbed the vertical metal bars that made up the wrought-iron school gates. Reaching the the summit, they easily hopped over onto the campus pavement, successfully bypassing the barrier and encroaching onto the boundaries of school property.

Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!

One by one, shoes hit the ground, and the boys found themselves standing before a massive building which caused horrifying images and vivid sensations of pain to resurface from the deep recesses of their memories.

All of them were incapacitated in an instant.

A wave of pain struck their heads, like a marching band of horns and drums had invaded their skulls.

The young boys had their visions turned black, their sense of control fleeing from their grasp until four bodies laid still atop the pavement.

Miraculously enough, as one tragedy struck, another fortune was born.

Simultaneously, in another space of existence, buried deep beneath the knowledge of the mortal realm of humans, the Four Pillars opened their eyes.

Large feathers of vibrant, cool gradients swept across the rows of jars bearing perfectly-orbic eyeballs of of various shapes and sizes, preserved in an unknown humectant fluid.

A distorted visage flitted by the cylindrical reflection of the moldy-green glass jar.

The Doctor smiled into the glass, greeting it with a cordial 'hello~' and 'good morning~' while tapping the floating eyeballs in a teasing yet endearing manner.

His white-gloved hand ran along the shelves with the flamboyant feathered duster in a loose hold by the crooks of his fingers, as if it would slip out at any second, while his black-gloved hand stroked the small cranium of a skeletal rodent specimen.

Dressed in a clean, white lab coat, the aptly-named 'Docter' hummed a strange tune that no man could name, an erractic, discordant melody flowing from his lips. As he carried out his daily routine, his pitch rose and fell at irregular intervals.

Finishing the maintenance of his dear companions on the shelves, his sleek, black dress shoes stepped up and down the steps of the ladder to clean the three heads mounted upon the dilapidated walls fostering colonies upon colonies of moss, fungi, and bacteria in its endless gaps.

The Doctor first stopped by 'Mr. Fox' with a small, wooden brush in his hand.

"Hello, how are you doing today, Mr. Fox? You know, those livers you sold to me yesterday were not as delictible, nor as fresh, as you claimed. Please, do not hold against me if there comes a time in the near future where I do not brush your lovely hair as nicely as usual."

Then, he moved onto 'Mr. Bear', holding a paper bag with a vial of an unknown liquid inside.

"Good day, Mr. Bear. Yesterday, I heard from a little bird that you were feeling unwell? Please, take this medicine I have crafted especially for you. I can guarantee that is made from one hundred percent authentic human tongue—most suitable for a 'get well soon' homebrew."

Last but not least, 'Mr. Wolf' was paid a visit, offered a gray, wilting flower into his hair.

"Mr. Wolf, what a lovely morning we have here. I am deeply regretful that I could not bring the rest of your family here with you, however, you need not worry—there are plenty of good, kind people here that would be ecstatic to make your acquaintance. I am sure you will find someone to your liking, and I hope to see you back to your usual, confident self tomorrow."

With the final wall mount cleaned and adjusted to perfection, the Doctor took a step back to soak in the camaraderie of his old friends and newfound companions. He stood in the center of the room, flanked by a cushioned operating table glowing under a cracked and industrial-white ceiling light, the sole light source of the room. His chest beneath his buttoned-up coat undulated up and down as he took deep breaths in and let deep breaths out.

There was no clock in the room, nor did any sound other than faint breaths exist.

Time passed imperceptibly, in a maddeningly-slow ocean of silence, until he finally opened his eyes.

"Good morning, everyone~ Lovely day today, isn't it?"

[Now, contestants, an audience is awaiting your performance ahead—please demonstrate your greatest skills, your wisest minds, your most exclusive talents...for an unforgettable show.]

[Ingrain yourselves in the minds of your audience, so they may continue supporting you in your future endeavors.]

[The system wishes all contestants the best of luck.]

One by one, contestants of all shapes and sizes moved out of the archway in a single-file line, crossing the threshold into a bright, resplendent world filled with screaming and cheering and crying.

Clink, clink, clink!

The line moved in a robotic rhythm, walking in measured steps to make their way across the vast stage, and with each step, the manacles fastened around their wrists and ankles banged noisily against the thick chains that linked them together. A hundred people passed under radiant spotlights and flashing lights, which only did well to incapacitate their eyes and quicken their drumming hearts.

Soon, those one hundred of people stood upon the stage, backs straight and heads held high. Innumerable, horrendously-deformed faces entrenched their hazy vision, glowing, serpentine eyes drilled deep into their souls, and wicked, sinister grins crawled up their spines to scream madness into their ears.

In that moment, all the contestants knew—never again would there be another instance that could solidify true, primal fear into their being like this.

This axiom was engraved into their minds like the numbers carved into their neck.

A slender, alabaster hand grazed the runic carvings of the obsidian counter, and softly, under the black silk veil, thin lips spoke the Tongue of the Dead.

Rusted over with a refulgent, copper hue, the horizon in the smooth, crystalline orb sunk into blackness, as deep and bottomless as the pit of the wheat-like plains, swelled with corpses.

With its tremendous size, the pit of corpses existed as an abyss that marred the face of the earth. Countless bodies slumped over one another in that abyss, limp and indistinguishable from the next. Dirty-brown remnants, chipped steel spears, and pierced iron garments layered the dump.

It was the aftermath, the unforgiving consequences of a vicious, hungry conflict called 'war', that left death and ruin in its wake, all to be forgotten in the passing of but a few generations.

At the moment, the veiled figure before the crystal orb, which held the bloody battlefields in its glassy, sheer core, was the one of the many witnesses of war's tragedy, but the sole one to remain to bear its weight.

The burning candles of the cubed room flickered gently to an even rhythm; the black silk swayed. A hum escaped the pair of thin lips and penetrated the orb. Swathing the small room, the sound then wholly pervaded the war-torn lands, soft and slow, like feathers serenely encasing the aggrieved souls of the dead. That ghastly-pale hand stroked the crystal orb in the center of the obsidian platform, and a small smile revealed itself in the fiery light, bathed in the same care and affection as the God of Benevolence to his followers.

The sound was tender and light, yet solemn, deep with emotion and understanding.

"Please, brave men, do not worry—for your family, your wives, your children, your fellow countrymen and comrades, your neighbors and elders—they will all be okay. The citizens of your kingdom will be safe, and it will have been in thanks to your efforts. Your deaths are not in vain.

"You may not be able to see it, hear it, taste it, or smell it, but you can feel it. Your kingdom has won, and your country is safe.

"Now, please be at ease, knowing everything is okay—they are safe, and waiting for your due return."

Dust had long settled on the vast plains. The rich and golden hue of the land was now no longer, damp with the blood of its people. Seven years, thousands of lives, and millions of livelihoods were squandered in the fight. No matter how vigorously the blood was scrubbed, how numerously the men of god that traveled, or how piously they prayed, it amounted to nothing in the face of the unfathomable misfortune that was war.

Beyond the grief and suffering of those remaining within the high walls, the brave men who fought for their country would forever burn in unrest, under the torment of their agitateds minds and their utter powerlessness. After their fall, they would be unable to influence or be influenced by the physical world, and for as long as this continued, their souls would remain awake, their humanity gnawed away by cruel uncertainty.

No doubt, this would have been the reality for the thousands of soldiers in the pit if not for the unforeseen light that had arrived in their moment of despair—the voice of god, with a merciful message of hope.

Those kind and gentle words, bathed in a halo of good light, dissolved every relentless worry and fear of the soldiers.

All the souls, drowned in the abyss of blood and sweat and tears, were able to finally close their heavy, tired eyes—

—all but one.

"How sweet your words are, Marionette's Hands, but how unfortunate is it that none are worth even a pinch of copper?"

A man's voice drifted from the crystal orb, and all of the sudden, hazy-white eyes narrowed menacingly.

Despite being millions of paces apart, the cutthroat silence in candlelit room and the pit of corpses intertwined.

"Ah, forgive me, I misspoke—the correct address should be Marionette's Hand now. I apologize."

The last two words were relayed by a voice succinct and crisp in manner, remarkably sarcastic and feigning remorse undisguised.

Nonetheless, that curt and insolent apology was met with none other than a staple greeting.

"Prince, how have you been?"

...or rather, a staple greeting for any other recipient but one rotting away in a hole.

In spite of the backhanded inquiry, however, the prince answered most courteously.

"Well, well—most thanks you the hand you played."

A blithe chuckle, unfitting of his horrifying situation, arose from the unmoving corpse in the dark pit.

The orb's eyes lingered for a moment too long on the body before a cordial voice replied in turn.

"It is unfortunate that you have found yourself in such a predicament. Though I pity your situation, I am afraid I cannot be in your company for much longer."

Though he said that, his far-removed cadence made his true sentiments plain, and his body did not move a hair. The veiled figure stood in place, almost motionless if not for the swaying flames that made his shadows dance, as though aspiring for something.

The prince's voice soon returned to melt the silence of the room's interior, entering the veiled figure's ears as a low and rich note.

"Marionette's Hand, your mouth is still as healthy and false as ever, I see, spilling such words that almost make me rethink as to whether you did pierce my chest with a crook of your finger."

"We are not sufficiently acquainted for those words to hold weight."

"_Ironic—_I would say our first encounter was well over 'sufficient', would you not agree? But perhaps you are simply saying otherwise because you are still bitter of my actions. Shall I deliver you my deepest sincerities once more—?

—or would you rather that I return that dear arm of yours to your residence?"

His speech was flagrant and airy all throughout, making the steeliness of the last line all the more conspicuous and harsh.

"Neither," the Marionette's Hand answered, all traces of benevolence and patience vanishing.

In the small room, a pale-white hand loomed over the orb, glazed in candlelight. All five fingers attempted to grasp it, but all five fingerstips withered into an ugly coal-black.

The owner of the hand restrained himself from verbally expressing his displeasure to the soul connected to the orb's core. He dipped his dying hand into a jar of a discolored, transparent liquid. The jar rested on the obsidian counter to the side of the orb, framed by heaps of humanoid, crystalline statues and hammers and chisels in the background. The solution within seeped into the flesh and bones of the hand, restoring it to its formerly pallid complexion in an instant.

"Let us cease further back-and-forth. I have not come to you to argue on my nature or dwell on past disagreements—I only have a simple proposal."

A monotonous hum dominated the room, hiding a subtle viciousness behind its indifference.

"Oh? What is it?"

The prince replied immediately, showing a swelling of interest and signaling the successful deviation of the conversation. Contradicting his initial interest was his gloomy silence following the words the of the other:

"Join me."

One was sheltered within a cramped room; one was dead and buried alongside thousands of corpses in a pit millions of paces away. A crystal orb of unknown origins was the only thing closing the distance, connecting these two souls.

The prince in the pit understood the meaning behind those two words instantly; there was no need for further explanation that would simply transform civilized conversation into incisive remarks and murderous, two-faced squabbling.

Understanding hidden meaning and accepting an ominous proposal were two different things, however.

The man gave his answer to the Marionette's Hand with little delay, but he stubbornly refused to be concise with it as the other had wished, directly drawing a line to an extent of authority.

"Suppose I am willing to ally with the man who played the mastermind behind the war, destroying my homeland and bringing suffering my people.

"You surely have your methods to use me despite my state, and you have conveyed your wish to bring me to your side, but yet...you have not revealed to me your purpose? Tell me, why should I trust in a man like that?"

A pale hand twitched unnervingly in a jar of solution.

"My purpose is not essential to this matter, and you are in no position to demand it. As it stands, there are only two options for you."

As if deaf to the words of the other party, the prince continued on in a light and wishful manner.

"Ah, so you wish to remain silent? How unfortunate. Very well, then you may let me rot in his dirty hole for eternity, or at least, until my humanity is no longer. Perhaps if you have discovered a method to immortal life, you may even be able to visit me when that fateful time comes?"

Crash—!

Glass shattered and liquid spilled from the pitch-black counter onto the floor the of the room. A candleflame was extinguished as a drop of crimson red flowed from a pale finger.

The face under the black silk veil turned dark.

Never had he been so affected by another in his life until he met the prince. Between consistently escaping the influence of his threads, contending his every word, and doing as he pleased despite every terrible, wretched thing that could possibly happen to him, the Marionette's Hand did not know which aspect struck him so violently down in his core the most.

He had watched the prince fight desperately to gain position on the frontlines, and then, plow his way through the enemy lines, competent and powerful despite his ostensibly-sheltered bearings.

Wanting to strike down this rising power at his peak and prevent his pawns from being wiped out too quickly, the Marionette's Hand had deployed his strings, his runic tongue, everything at his disposal, yet it was all met with retraction, pain, and impotence.

His first physical encounter with the prince was a violent confrontation that deprived him of his right arm; his second filled him with a burning desire to control this enigmatic, evasive being and crush his persistent will and obnoxiously light heart.

"Is it due to your baffling penchant for those overabundant, sentimental things? Or is it because you simply wish to oppose me, even at the stake of your life? Is it worth it—remaining awake, yet ignorant and powerless, all to lose your humanity and become a mindless beast?"

By now, his voice had become uneven and coarse, grating on the ears and sending chills down the spines of all those alive and uncontrolled who could hear it.

The 'God of Benevolence' no longer existed, and indifference died under the surge of wrath.

Despite the dangerous turn in the situation, the prince, lying in a bed of dried-blood and corpses, remained unfazed, his attitude unchanging.

"There you are, Marionette's Hand. So you have finally decided to reveal to me your true self, but still refuse to answer my lone inquiry, instead resulting to condemning me?"

His jest was met with boiling silence, so he sought to clarify himself.

"Alas, it is neither of those suspicions you carry. Is it so wrong for a man to reassure himself of whose hand he is taking before he takes it?"

"..."

"You must know, I am not opposed to you in any way like you say. Revenge is a fruitless deed, and rather than that, you intrigue me more. I feel that you and I get along rather well, you see.

"It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Let us have many more encounters in the future, shall we?"