Albert sat frozen on the cold wooden chair. The room held its breath, as Morrigan's last words echoed again and again in his mind.
"You are now part of the Wanderers' Guild."
"Wait…" he finally found his voice. "Am I dead? Is this a dream? Or… did I really transmigrate?"
"The answer," Morrigan replied slowly, circling him, "lies somewhere in between them all."
The door behind her creaked open. A tall man entered, cloaked in gray, moving with a cautious grace, as if shadows followed every step. His gaze met Albert's, and he gave a polite, brief nod.
"Albert, this is Nathaniel," Morrigan introduced. "He brought you here. He is one of the Gatewalkers — those who guard the boundary."
"You collapsed on Baker Street," Nathaniel said in a calm, deep voice. "Your soul was nearly detached from your body. But… there was something different. A fracture — in time. She seized it before it closed."
"She?" Albert looked at Morrigan.
Nathaniel said nothing. His eyes held reverence — or fear — for the woman beside him.
Morrigan's smile returned, thin as a blade.
"This world is not the one you knew, Albert. Its laws are not written in science, but in ancient covenants."
She placed a black key into his hand — cold as ice, engraved with the spiral symbol.
"Room 13. In the Guild House. Tonight, you begin to learn what you must know."
Nathaniel gestured for him to follow. Albert stood — his body still heavy, burdened by the weight of two centuries. As he stepped through the door, London revealed itself beneath a pale moonlight:
Familiar... yet strange.
Not the London of cars, skyscrapers, and neon lights.
But the London of oil lamps, coal smoke, ghosts… and blood.
Albert swallowed hard. His heart pounded — not just from fear, but from the dizzying truth that for the first time in his life,
he was walking into something he could never walk back from.
A soft wind slipped past moss-covered stone walls, carrying with it the cold scent of ash and thick fog. Nathaniel led Albert through narrow alleys where the gaslamps only lit fractured pieces of broken bricks. From time to time, they passed still figures standing in corners — unmoving, unbreathing. Not quite people. Not quite anything.
"Don't look at them," Nathaniel murmured, never turning his head. "They can see the light on you."
Albert clenched the black key tighter.
"This… Wanderers' Guild. What exactly is it?" he asked.
Nathaniel stopped before a large iron gate, rusted and carved with ancient symbols. For the first time, he looked Albert in the eye, his tone quiet but solid.
"Our Guild is the final line between peace… and endless wandering. Some souls can't pass on — trapped by vengeance, secrets… or worse."
"And we help them move on?" Albert asked softly.
"Not always. Sometimes, we have to stop them. Permanently."
Nathaniel pushed the gate open. It screeched like a soul being torn in half.
Before them stood the Guild House — a three-story mansion of black stone, silent and heavy like it had stood outside of time, unknown to the living.
The door was already ajar. Inside stretched a long corridor lit by dim green-blue lanterns, glowing like ghostlight. On the walls hung portraits, old and dusty. Yet Albert could've sworn… they were watching him.
"Second floor, Room 13," Nathaniel said. "I'll introduce the others later."
Climbing the stairs, Albert felt like each step was suspended over a crack between two worlds. The house… was unstable. Alive. Aware.
Room 13 was already open.
Inside: a modest room with a wooden bed, shelves of ancient books, a writing desk, a cold fireplace. On the desk sat a gray envelope, handwritten in purple ink:
> Albert Gray
He opened it.
---
> Albert,
Welcome to the place where no one comes unless all other roads are gone.
Tonight at midnight, you will meet the first three of the Guild.
They will assess you — not with questions, but with what lies beneath.
Don't pretend to be strong. And don't lie to yourself.
People like you don't survive with masks — only with acceptance.
Lock your door. Light the lamp.
Wait for the bell to chime three times.
— M
---
Albert reread the final lines. The last sentence shimmered faintly… then vanished before his eyes.
From far away, a great clock tower rang. Eleven o'clock.
He locked the door, lit the oil lamp on the desk, and sat.
All that remained was the fire's quiet crackle, the howl of wind beyond the walls, and…
…the slow dragging sound of footsteps in the hall.
Albert didn't move. He didn't breathe.
Three chimes.
Exactly midnight.
The door creaked open again. Three people entered.
The three entered without a word. Their footsteps seemed to echo with the quiet rhythm of the house itself — as if the building had known them long before Albert ever arrived.
The first to step forward was a young woman, slender and pale, her long black hair flowing down like liquid shadow. She wore a deep indigo cloak embroidered with silver crescent moons. Her ash-gray eyes studied Albert without judgment, without curiosity — as if she already knew him.
"I am Seraphine Blackmoor," she said. Her voice was soft as wind, yet every word sharp as fractured glass. "I see your past. And, sometimes… the futures that haven't yet decided to happen."
Albert felt a chill run down his spine.
The second figure moved up — a broad-shouldered man in his forties, his hands gloved in worn leather, a heavy iron axe strapped across his back. Scars lined his face, and his left eye was covered with a black patch. Yet his presence wasn't threatening — it was protective.
"I'm Rowan. I guard the gates. I keep things out that shouldn't be in. I also… bury things that shouldn't be alive." He nodded once, then sat, placing his axe gently by his boots.
The last figure was a young man who looked barely older than Albert. He wore a sharp black suit, though his silver-white hair was an untamed storm. Around his neck hung a silver pocket watch — spinning backward.
"Elias Verdant, the Lost in Time," he said with a crooked grin. "I remember everything that hasn't happened. And forget everything that is. But don't worry… I'm always right when it matters."
Before Albert could speak, Elias flipped his watch face-down on the table — and time itself paused. Even the fire stilled. Even the wind stopped whispering.
Seraphine nodded.
"We will ask you three questions," she said. "Not to judge. But to see if you can stand beside us on the edge between life and death."
Albert swallowed. "I'm ready."
Rowan spoke first.
"Have you ever stared death in the face… and chosen to step forward anyway?"
Seraphine followed.
"Have you ever hurt someone you love — because you thought it was the right thing to do?"
Then Elias, softly, almost like a whisper:
"If you could go back to one moment in your life… what would you change?"
Albert was silent.
The questions weren't simple.
They pierced deep — to memory, regret, and fear.
He took a slow breath.
And began to answer.
Albert looked at each of them. The room remained utterly silent — as if the outside world had stopped spinning. Three sets of eyes. Three souls. Waiting for him to peel his own apart.
He began with Rowan's question.
> "I've seen death. Not once. Many times."
His voice dropped, steady but hollow. His gaze locked on the pocket watch Elias had flipped over.
"November 14th, 2019. A truck — brakes failed — on a bridge. I saw it coming… heading straight for me and her."
He clenched his fists. "I pushed her away. I stayed."
"I died. And… didn't."
Seraphine tilted her head slightly. Her gray eyes blinked, once.
"Her?" she asked.
Albert nodded.
> "Grace. My partner."
No one spoke. No one needed to.
He continued, this time turning to Seraphine's question.
> "I hurt her. Before the accident."
"Grace was a doctor. I was an architect. She lived for people. I lived for things that were never finished."
"We argued constantly. I used words to silence her. Not because I wanted to win — but because I was afraid to lose."
"One night, I told her: 'If you want to save the world, then go die for it.'"
A bitter laugh caught in his throat. "Five days later… she did. In my arms."
Still, no interruption.
Now Elias.
Albert inhaled deeply.
> "I'd go back to that night. On the bridge."
"But I wouldn't stop myself from pushing her. I'd still let myself die in her place."
"What I'd change… is that before the truck hit me, I'd tell her:
'I'm sorry. And I love you.'"
A long silence.
Then Elias flipped the pocket watch back over.
Sound returned. The fire crackled. The wind sighed beneath the door.
Rowan stood, stepped forward, placed a heavy hand on Albert's shoulder.
"All right," he said. "You know what to hold on to. And what to let go."
Seraphine reached out and touched his forehead. A faint symbol appeared — a circle with three lines cutting through it.
"A Traveler's Mark," she said. "From now on, you are one of us."
Elias smiled, more gently now. Less madness, more gravity.
"Welcome to the final threshold, Albert Gray.
Where life means nothing… without facing death."