Entry VII
So it really wasn't just my imagination.
I… we tried it again.
Out of curiosity—and yes, a little bit of greed.
Wishing before the Holy Grail… really makes things happen.
For example, we wished for the foundations in the Western District to stabilize.
The soil there is notoriously loose, waterlogged year-round, and construction always collapses halfway through.
The very next day, a worker accidentally unearthed a layer of rock-hard subsoil—
as if an entire "natural platform" had been buried beneath.
Just like that, one-third of the groundwork was done.
Even the builders' guild was stunned.
Or the time Edgar wished to open a new trade route at a river bend.
No one thought it possible—centuries of silt and failed excavations had buried that path.
But days later, a storm rolled in, flooding from the mountain sent a surge downstream—
and miraculously, it flushed the entire bend open.
The channel was shaped perfectly.
Instinct told me all this was too coincidental.
Too convenient.
Too precise.
Too… wrong.
But Edgar only grew more convinced.
He now visits the Holy Grail daily, eyes closed, whispering wishes.
He even brings city maps, jabbing at spots with his finger, muttering prayers under his breath.
His eyes have changed.
Gone is the composed, sharp-minded partner in governance—
in his place is a man possessed.
His speech has grown fevered.
He talks only of "progress," "miracles," and "great achievements."
He insists "this is a divine gift,"
but all I see in his gaze is a consuming, fanatic obsession.
Celesta tried to reason with him—kindly at first, then firmly.
But each time, he'd glare at her coldly, as though she was the one obstructing destiny.
We even argued.
Edgar and I—decades of friendship, and we've never once raised voices.
But that day, he shattered a teacup and screamed:
"You're just afraid your legacy will never match mine!"
In that moment, I had no reply.
Because standing before me wasn't my friend anymore—
it was someone corrupted, mind and soul, by some unseen force.
We have to stop.
We must stop.
But the Grail's gifts are too tangible.
The city is flourishing.
The poor are praising us like saviors.
Even the officials are coming with silver notes, begging us to "make more wishes."
Even Celesta has started to say…
maybe using the Grail once is justifiable.
But my dread is growing.
What exactly are we trading away?
When it grants our wishes—what does it take in return?
I don't know.
But I've grown too afraid to count the vault's artifacts anymore.
Entry VIII
Today… it seems the vault's contents have finally stopped changing.
I carefully went through every record, checked with the vault keeper multiple times,
even brought in a memory-trained finance officer—
they all confirmed:
nothing's moved in the last two weeks.
Could it be that Edgar's come to his senses?
He no longer visits the Grail room—at least not openly.
His speech is coherent again.
He's stopped talking about "divine revelations" and "grand designs."
I even caught him smiling at Celesta—
a warm, genuine smile I hadn't seen in a long time.
I let out a breath of relief.
And then—Celesta collapsed.
No warning.
She simply lost consciousness.
The doctors can't explain it.
Every vital sign is perfectly normal.
But she won't wake up.
Edgar hasn't left her side all night.
His face is drawn, eyes hollow.
He hasn't spoken a word.
The people of the city are praying for her—
to them, she's the kind and wise "Mother of the City."
And me…
I'm sitting before the vault's sealed doors.
Staring at that Holy Grail.
It's humming.
A low, deep, almost imperceptible hum.
As if it's laughing.