Ince Zangwill clutches his hand, his expression contorted as writhing masses of flesh sprout from his arm. His aged face is etched with terror. The growths aren't mere "deformations"—they unfurl as extensions, alien structures defying human anatomy, forcibly grafted onto his arm in a grotesque mockery of logic.
On the desk, 0-08 scribbles frantically, its nib carving into the wood. Even a layman could sense the sealed artifact's fear and madness. But as it writes, the words are erased by the "desk" itself. Warped wooden planks sprout chaotically, transforming the table into a massive, sanity-shattering geometric monstrosity. Gritting his teeth, Ince Zangwill severs his mutated arm.
The thud of the limb hitting the floor signals the retreat of the surrounding anomalies. Clutching his stump, he gasps heavily, panic in his eyes. Shaking his dizzy head, he retrieves 0-08 from the floor. Testing a few sentences, he confirms the pen still functions, but a shadow of dread settles in his heart.
Unseen by Ince Zangwill, a pair of cold, sluggish eyes watches him silently. He gazes skyward, where a crimson moon hangs high, clouds drifting to let its scarlet light bathe the earth. Clenching his remaining hand, he lets out a beastly roar.
Those who thwarted his plans—the Nighthawk team in this city—must die!
"Utterly foolish," I scoff, adjusting my attire and inspecting my reflection for any details betraying my guise. This body's original owner was a Backlund merchant and a covert Abraham family descendant, credentials that secured an invitation to Viscount Glaint's banquet. The young, ambitious viscount seeks to expand his network, unlike some nobles who shun those of lesser status for propriety's sake.
Thinking of the banquet's attendees, a mischievous grin curls my lips. I pin the Abraham family crest to my chest with mock solemnity, then pull a monocle from my pocket. Infusing it with a touch of my pollution to "cleanse" it, I place it over my right eye.
"Mr. A, it seems you've truly taken that book to heart," I tease, lounging on a sofa as Mr. A nervously adjusts his appearance. His face is grim, his tone tinged with martyrdom. "I'm fully prepared!"
Don't make a banquet sound like a suicide mission… I grumble inwardly, reassuring him. "Just act as you did at Beyonder's gatherings—relaxed, a bit languid. Your cover is a singer, with Sequence 8 'Pugilist' abilities, since that's the lowest sequence you've shepherded. Follow me in, and address me as 'Mr. Abraham'…"
We ride in a carriage driven by an Aurora Order "Secret Supplicant" doubling as a servant. Still uneasy, I give Mr. A last-minute instructions to ensure he won't raise suspicions. I trust his logic—after all, he's the future "A-chan" capable of posing as a maiden to assassinate an ambassador. My only worry is his nerves around me.
—It's definitely not that I can't predict his thought process now that the True Creator's lucid.
"Greetings, Viscount Glaint," I say, meeting his gaze calmly. Glaint pauses, then recognizes the Abraham crest on my chest. He recalls a reclusive noble who shuns gatherings, preferring travel, yet is often invited by Backlund's elite. Glaint had sent an invitation on a whim, never expecting a response. The man's name was…
"I'm Adrian Abraham," I say. "I received your invitation a few days ago. My apologies—I've been traveling for inspiration and neglected your kind offer." Gesturing to Mr. A, I have him unveil a cloth-covered painting. "Viscount Glaint, this is a work from my travels in Desi Bay. Please accept it."
Mr. A reveals a stunning landscape painting, its realism breathtaking, especially the fragmented starlight reflecting on the shimmering water. Glaint's eyes light up, but he restrains himself from seizing it—an impolite act. He signals a servant to take the painting for display in the banquet hall, smiling. "Thank you for your gift. This painting is truly a work of art."
"I'm glad you like it," I say, my eyes twinkling. Noticing an ornate carriage approaching, I pretend not to see it and lead Mr. A into Glaint's lavish villa. Amid clusters of chatting guests, I nod for Mr. A to mingle while I head to the dessert table, selecting two tempting cream cakes.
As I step away, I "startle," pausing to gaze at a beautiful woman in a beige, ruffled high-collar gown, her wavy brown hair cascading over her shoulders—Fors Wall, the future "Magician," currently an "Apprentice."
"Beyonder?" I whisper, audible only to us. Fors stiffens, glancing at me casually. Before she can respond, I set my plate aside, extending a hand with a warm smile. "Adrian Abraham."
"Fors Wall," she replies, shaking my hand politely and curtsying before moving to leave. Unfazed, I watch her go, retrieving my plate to savor the cake.
Not bad—pleasing to this human body. A pity the True Creator can't taste it. Too dull; I need to rile Him up. I, the High-Dimensional Overseer, project a close-up of the cream cake to Him, prompting a string of curses. He must suspect this outer god's body houses an Ancient human soul—how else could I be this infuriating?
Sometimes, humans outdog dogs.
I glance toward the entrance, where minor nobles swarm like treasure hunters. Under Viscount Glaint's spotlight, one figure shines brighter: Audrey Hall, "Backlund's most radiant gem." Her beauty is undeniable, fit for the heroine of a winding tale—her eyes blend girlish clarity with fathomless depth, her demeanor a mix of childlike innocence and feminine allure.
Audrey's gaze locks on the displayed painting, captivated. Glaint, standing beside her, smiles as she gasps, marveling at its beauty. Proudly, he positions himself before the painting, as if flaunting his prize.
"This painting is exquisite!" Audrey exclaims, unable to contain her admiration. "Viscount Glaint, look at the colors—so harmonious! The atmosphere is so serene… This must be Desi Bay! The ocean in the painting practically flows. It's surely the work of a great artist. You're fortunate to have it."
Her enthusiasm wanes as her Audience instincts detect a subtle discord. Frowning, she asks, "Viscount Glaint… why is the moon in this painting white?"
(End of Chapter)