A few moments had passed. Moriarty hadn't made any particular move to draw attention, instead simply following the lead of the other two who had been summoned alongside him. Still, he was caught off guard when, without warning, a large table and several chairs suddenly emerged from the rolling fog — fully formed, as if they had always been there.
He swore he saw the figure — or rather, the presence responsible for orchestrating this entire bizarre scenario — take the head seat, which stood out like a throne at the far end. Following that silent command, the man with the rough, masculine voice seated himself as well, and the young lady gracefully mirrored the gesture.
Moriarty lingered for a beat, left with the subtle but critical decision of where to sit. Though it might seem trivial, he knew better than to dismiss such things. In a setting like this, the choice of position in relation to others could carry great weight — affecting perceptions of status, alliances, and even one's chances of survival.
After a short but careful deliberation, he chose the seat beside the young lady. From her refined speech and composed manner, he suspected she was of noble or aristocratic origin, even if the ever-present grey mist blurred much of her physical features.
His reasoning was simple. He lacked knowledge. Sitting beside her, the only woman among three men, would not only present him as approachable and reliable but also give him space to learn. Aligning with her seemed safer — a calculated gesture of courtesy. On the other hand, sitting with the masculine man would imply a claim to equal footing, a stance Moriarty was not prepared to take without understanding the rules of this strange gathering. Better to seem trustworthy to the "naïve lady" than to court unnecessary rivalry.
"Miss, are you from Leon?" the man across from them suddenly asked.
Before she could answer, he continued in a lecturing tone:
"If you wish to become a Beyonder, you may have to join the churches of either the Evernight Goddess, the Lord of Storms, or the God of Steam and Machinery. Even though most people never encounter a Beyonder directly, some clergymen undergo the same experiences. While this is the case, I can assure you: Beyonders still exist in courts, tribunals, and execution agencies. They are still fighting against the dangers festering in the dark — though their numbers are far fewer than they were before, during the early days of the Iron Age."
The lady's voice was calm, yet firm in reply:
"Mister, I already know what you've said. In fact, I know more — about the Nighthawks, the Mandated Punishers, and the Machinery Hivemind. But I have no desire to lose my freedom."
The man chuckled, his tone rough but oddly amused.
"You cannot become a Beyonder without sacrifice. If you refuse to join the churches and take the challenges they impose, then your choices narrow: seek out the royal families and nobles with ancient bloodlines, stretching back more than a thousand years… or gamble with fate by pursuing the shadows of clandestine, evil organizations."
Moriarty's ears caught the words, but his mind began to drift, racing to piece together the implications.
Beyonders…? Are the churches truly tied to gods? Do these Beyonders have abilities granted directly by divinities? Then those Nighthawks and others she mentioned — are they the enforcers of such power?
As he silently mulled over these questions, the discussion moved forward without him. The man and the lady eventually struck an agreement — to trade a potion formula, an apparent path to becoming a Beyonder.
The man revealed he possessed two recipes. Though different in nature, they belonged to the same "sequence" — some kind of structured progression, perhaps a measure of rank or ability, not unlike the leveling systems in games.
One potion was named Sailor, the other Spectator. From the way he described them, each seemed to grant unique enhancements. Moriarty immediately drew parallels to gaining new traits or skills in a character sheet.
His attention lingered on the Spectator potion. He found the very idea almost comical — a convenient shortcut to becoming a master detective. He couldn't help but imagine what chaos might unfold if some man named Holmes had such a potion at hand. The thought drew a quiet chuckle from him, his lips curling into a faint smirk.
It was then the young lady leaned forward slightly, her voice polished with aristocratic grace:
"To think, I still haven't asked… Your Excellency, how should we address you?"
Naturally, both she and the man expected the mysterious figure — the one seated at the place of honor, overseeing this strange negotiation — to formally bear witness to their exchange.
The figure merely smiled, tapping his finger lightly against the table.
"You may address me," he said, his tone calm yet weighty, "as The Fool."