"We are the ones who depict the grand mystery that is this world," Williams declared, his piercing eyes locked on Claus.
The young noble remained silent for a moment, dissecting every word, every inflection, as though behind that solemn tone hid truths far vaster than he could yet comprehend.
"And what does that have to do with me?" he finally asked. "I have my own goals to pursue. Becoming part of some occult order won't benefit me... not right now."
"Truly? You—who have no memories, no powers, no means of defending yourself against the threats of the Divine Order?" Williams replied, his voice firm but composed.
Claus lifted his chin.
"I come from one of the Empire's greatest noble houses. I still have connections. And I won't be lacking in potions."
A smirk spread across the mustached man's face.
"Potions? They are poison. Temporary catalysts, dangerous at best. Some can corrupt your soul. Others… consume it entirely. You think you're playing with light, but you're just dancing on fire."
He then turned to Elizabeth.
"Lady Elizabeth, go find our dear Winston. We'll join you shortly."
Without protest, she bowed slightly and slipped away in silence.
Williams gestured for Claus to follow him to a massive bookshelf lined with ancient tomes. He gently pulled a blue-bound volume. Instantly, a faint clicking sound echoed. The soft grinding of gears followed, then a sharp clunk: the bookshelf slowly pivoted, revealing a secret passage.
Claus widened his eyes.
Behind the hidden wall stretched a vast chamber, resembling a forgotten museum. Hundreds of artifacts rested there—some sealed by magic, others locked behind rune-inscribed glass cases: ancient spears, time-worn swords, sealed grimoires, shimmering jewels. A preserved world, frozen in time yet saturated with ancient power.
He stopped before a spear wrapped in old cloth, covered in runes.
"What are these weapons?" he asked, breathless.
"These are relics of the Mythic Era. Our mission: to retrieve them… and seal them away."
"Why?"
"Because they draw in things that should not exist in this world. Beings from beyond. Calamities. Entities I cannot even perceive… The Apostles."
Claus furrowed his brow. That name struck something deep within him. A flicker of determination lit up in his eyes. If these objects held fragments of the truth… perhaps they could lead him back to Sandra.
"Let's continue, Sir Claus."
They walked in silence through the chamber, Claus watching the relics with a mix of awe and unease.
At the far end of the room, lit by gas lamps hanging from the ceiling, an old man read a large grimoire. He murmured words in a language Claus could not understand.
"Good evening, dear Mr. Winston," greeted Williams.
The old man lifted his eyes.
"Good evening, my dear Williams."
"I believe Lady Elizabeth already paid you a visit. But allow me to officially introduce Mr. Claus."
The old man rose slowly, then shook Claus's hand with a warm, polite gesture.
"I've heard much about you… You're 'the one who cannot be seen.'"
"That title is a bit… cumbersome," Claus replied with a faint smile. "But thank you, Mr. Winston."
"Winston is a master of the runic arts," Williams explained with near-reverence. "He's the one who engraved most of the seals you see here. He's… one of our order's pillars."
"You flatter me, Williams," Winston replied with feigned humility. "But tell me, young man… do you truly know what runes are?"
"I'm still learning."
"And you always will be," he said solemnly. "Runes are not like mechanical sciences. They touch the world's most fundamental laws. Each rune can influence fate itself. Etched onto an object—or oneself—they grant symbolic power… real, tangible power."
Claus listened, still. He feared blinking and missing a single word.
"To carve a runic word, it's not enough to know the symbols," Winston continued. "You must understand the essence of that word… what it represents in the fabric of reality. The gods themselves call it the First Script."
He traced symbols into the air. Though invisible, they seemed to vibrate. Claus felt a strange sensation in his chest, as though his heartbeat had momentarily synced with a different rhythm.
"But such power cannot come free," Claus said gravely. "There must be a price."
Winston nodded.
"A heavy one. Every word etched upon yourself acts as a restriction. This power is not meant for mortals. To wield it fully… you must forsake your humanity. Abandon who you are… to become what you represent."
"What do you mean by 'represent a word'?" Claus asked, intrigued.
"Every being capable of wielding the true language eventually becomes one with their word. They become its guardian, its bearer, its embodiment. Some become 'Will', others 'Death', or even 'Truth'. But this path isn't taught. It's discovered."
Winston slowly closed his book, his eyes gleaming with ancient light.
"We are not here to teach you, Claus Bloodfall. Only to show you that truth exists. The true path… you must carve it yourself."