"You were frightened by the records left behind by the black sorcerers, Oryga—or perhaps the fault is partly mine," Tusca said, his voice devoid of any inflection. His gaze, veiled beneath the black mist, fell upon the Moon Beast. "This poor little creature—he's not one of the independent races recorded by the sorcerers, at least not anymore. He's merely a fallen soul whose spirit has been twisted."
"Wonderful," the white owl cooed twice, its snow-white face mimicking anger—though not very convincingly. Her tone dripped with sarcasm. "The bizarre acts of these insane elder gods are even harder to comprehend than those lunatic demon hunters," she snorted lightly, like a cat sneezing. "And now we have to rely on Hood's priests, putting our plans in the hands of these incomprehensible gods. If I die in this cursed place, who'll be responsible—you?"
"Canis mortuus non mordet." ("A dead dog does not bite.")
"Oh, very clever of you... pah, damn your 'dead dog'!" the owl screeched, flapping her wings and swiping at the hood of his cloak.
Meanwhile, amidst the frenzied squirming and swelling of his body, Naskar exhaled a warm breath.
In an instant, the shape of the entire world changed—Naskar, whose eyes had been squeezed beneath his skin, now 'saw' the two beings before him again—through the extension of his own expanded consciousness. The black-robed figure was filled with solidified shadow, silently writhing and boiling beneath the robe like smoke trapped in a chimney; and the owl—beneath her skin—was a constantly shifting, morphing mass of unspeakable substance.
But that no longer mattered.
Using the divine power and speed granted to him, Naskar moved his bloated body and plunged his claws into the black-robed man's torso, effortlessly ripping through flesh, snapping ribs, seizing Tusca's heart, and tearing it out in one brutal motion, leaving a trail of blood sparkling like jade in the air. He moved with an agility entirely at odds with his grotesque new form.
He unleashed spells brimming with blasphemy and distortion—more than a dozen phantom tendrils of ghostly mist gathered in the air, cracking like whips as he swung his arm toward the owl. The strikes cracked through the air like the lashes of a whip striking a horse.
The creature cooed, as if laughing at him, then spread her snow-white wings and leapt between the gaps of the tendrils, flying past him.
Light from the chandeliers illuminated his face—a face now consisting only of writhing pink tendrils.
Naskar crushed the still-beating heart in his hand, intending to turn and finish off the owl—but the sight before him gave him pause: Tusca's robe collapsed to the ground like a deflated sack, dissolving into nothing. His body melted onto the floor, like liquid pouring from a broken waterskin, vanishing along with the crushed heart.
What…?
Something condensed above his head. He tried to tear it apart with the tendrils sprouting from his face—but to no avail. A cold, damp black shadow drifted effortlessly past his attacks, like smoke passing through a sieve.
The shadow split into writhing cords, seizing Naskar by the neck and lifting his massive body effortlessly into the air. He struggled, but shadowy wisps continued to peel off from the cords, pressing against his pallid, bleached skin.
A searing, tearing pain.
The tendrils on his face were sliced away at the root, as if by invisible blades. When he tried to scratch at the pain, his fingers were sliced into shreds along with whatever they touched—his skin was torn open across his belly and limbs, exposing raw, bleeding flesh. He let out a scream of pure agony, a howl that sounded like the death cries of a hundred beasts.
"When you die, I shall forgive your sins." He heard the words rise from within the shadows—Tusca's voice.
You are the true sinner!
Naskar thought furiously, though he could no longer form human sounds. He could have projected his thoughts into the souls of other beings—to communicate, to manipulate, to torture—but both the owl and the black-robed man had shielded their souls with spells, spells born of systematic training. Though the techniques varied, the effect was the same: he could not penetrate them.
He tried once more to wield the divine magic he had been granted—but it was too late.
Hundreds of twisted, slender shadows pierced out from his body, making him resemble a naked corpse covered in writhing hair. His body was shredded into fragments amidst the countless shifting chains of darkness; his spells choked within his soul. The shadow engulfed him like water, lifting him higher into the air, his fragmented limbs scattering like a lover's discarded garments to the floor...
Tusca leisurely reformed his body. The owl beside him cooed mockingly.
The sorcery lamps outside the door glowed with a ghostly green light. The bell tower crouched at the center of a dozen stacked, crisscrossing streets. Leaning pillars pressed against each other, leaving only narrow gaps through which not even a sliver of sky could be seen. Illegible writing hung on the crossbeam above the bell tower's door, and symbols shaped like stacks of books were carved into the lintel. Aside from the narrow staircase they had climbed, there was no other way to reach the entrance.
Sassel watched as Astolfo pushed the door open. Inside, faint oil lamps cast a dim glow, and the contours of the room were hazy. He heard wind chimes jingling softly.
"—Hello?"
Astolfo cautiously poked his head inside, lightly tapping the doorframe.
Deep inside the room, on a long wooden table lit by an oil lamp, sat an open book. Beside it stood a mechanical clock.
A man with gold-rimmed glasses climbed down from a scaffold.
"Welcome to my dwelling, seekers of enlightenment," he said softly. "My name is Plain. Although I no longer remember where I come from, my proclamation tells me I am from Sasu."
Sassel stepped aside, signaling Jeanne to enter first. He followed last, closing the door behind them.
Rather than a simple bell tower chamber, the place resembled a library combined with a museum. Bookshelves lined the four walls up to the ceiling, stuffed with volumes. In front of each bookshelf stood long glass display cases. Narrow passages allowed one person to walk between the shelves and cases, which were filled with strange and rare antiques: statues missing limbs piled in crates, ancient coins and medals gleaming on velvet, and little mechanical devices of recent make perched atop the cases.
Astolfo's eyes also seemed to sparkle.
Plain was a composed young man, with bright blue eyes and sleek, stubbornly sticking-up black hair. He wore a black wool coat and carried a closed black leather book, its cover stamped with gold letters:
de vermiis mysteriis
"The Secret of the Worms…" Sassel murmured, staring at it in a daze.
"You know Latin?" Plain paused briefly before continuing, "No—you recognize this book?"
Sassel cast a glance at Astolfo, then quietly extended the tendrils of his soul to connect to the young man before him.
"Cognoscetis veritatem, et veritas liberabit vos." ("You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.") Only Plain could hear the voice.
"You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free..."
He repeated it, seemingly lost in distant memories. "It sounds so familiar, but aside from the Moon Goddess and the doll in my dream, I've forgotten everything else. Only these books keep me company now." He sighed softly, sending his reply through the soul link.
"Can you tell me what's going on in this place?" Sassel asked. "Also, don't tell that rather girlish-looking fellow over there about our conversation—or my identity."
"Ah, so he's actually a man?" Plain said, a little surprised.