William froze, blinking in confusion. Wait… didn't he leave just now? So why— He couldn't quite piece it together.
Did his appointment get canceled? Or did he just forget something and double back? But then… Why the need to exit the building at all? Of course, for him, it sounds ridiculous if that wasn't the case. So, he went outside when it's easier to go through the corridor?
He waved awkwardly, masking his doubt with a smile. Ralph returned the gesture with an easy chuckle.
"I guess," William replied cautiously. "I actually called out to you earlier. You didn't respond, so I thought you had something urgent. I figured I'd just wait here in the lab instead."
Ralph paused for a second, then tilted his head slightly. "Oh… I do recall someone calling out. That was you? My mind was wandering, I suppose. You could've just come to me— I was free."
William forced a laugh, though inwardly, something tugged at him. That ridiculous theory— the one he'd brushed aside—lingered at the edges of his mind.
He watched in silence as Mr. Ralph turned toward the lab door and inserted the key with practiced ease. The mechanism gave a low click, and the door creaked open. William followed, pushing down the unease gnawing at his stomach.
The laboratory was dim but familiar, its scent a mix of dust, oil, and old paper. It wasn't vast, but it was layered with purpose. Just past the entryway, a narrow foyer branched into two distinct areas.
To the right was the heart of experimentation—a chaotic yet ordered space where scraps of metal, loose gears, and half-built mechanisms lay like relics on the ground. A chalkboard loomed against the far wall, smeared with equations and notes in fading white. Near it, a smaller room stood partially open, its door yawning as it was half-opened.
To the left, the room softened. Mr. Ralph's personal office sat comfortably— a polished desk cluttered with parchment and glowing tools, a cushioned chair behind it. Two sofas, parallel to each other, rested in the corner for guests, and tall wooden shelves lined the walls, sagging slightly under the weight of countless books.
William exhaled slowly. He had always admired this place. It was more than just a lab. It was a sanctuary of ideas—where thoughts took form in metal and sparks.
The two first went toward the left area, where the theoretical materials were situated.
After settling at his desk, Mr. Ralph— almost as if something had just come to mind— spoke up. "Have you heard about the philosopher Chalestin?"
William, who had been flipping through a book from the shelves, paused and turned his gaze toward him. He gave it a moment of thought, recalling the name and his contributions.
Chalestin was one of the foundational thinkers of the ancient world, someone whose ideas had paved the way for modern scientific understanding. His philosophy focused on finding clarity within processes— on simplifying the complex by studying what lies in between steps.
"Chalestin? One of the old philosophers, also something of an archaeologist, right? Yeah, I've read a few of his works from documentaries. Why do you ask?"
"I recently acquired a book with him as the author," Mr. Ralph said, "and at first, I assumed it was just a novel. But what's strange is… it's written in a language we're familiar with."
William furrowed his brows. That was odd. Languages naturally evolve over centuries, morphing with time and use. The idea that an ancient book, presumably authored by Chalestin himself, would be written in their contemporary tongue was— at the very least— suspicious.
"So... rigged, then? Maybe someone just used Chalestin's name as a pseudonym?" William guessed aloud.
Mr. Ralph shook his head. Then, from a drawer in his desk, he pulled out a book. Its cover was aged and brown, encased in what looked like rusted leather—clearly ancient. And yet, despite the wear, the book remained solid, almost well-preserved. On the bottommost were embedded with Chalestin's name and alleged penmanship from the history, likely carved from the leather.
"That was my first guess, too. See for yourself," Mr. Ralph offered, placing the book on the desk.
William approached with his curiosity sparking. The book looked ancient— its cover cracked and discolored, like it had been unearthed from beneath centuries of soil. But it held together well, almost too well. He didn't plan to read it yet— just skim.
He opened it cautiously, expecting perhaps brittle pages or endless, crumbling sheets. But there were only three. Three pages— thicker than normal paper, more like finely treated parchment. Not quite stiff, but dense, with a strange texture that made them feel deliberate, as if they had been crafted with purpose rather than simply written on. Despite their thickness, they turned with ease, smooth under his fingertips.
The pages were old, yellowed, some torn at the edges. The ink had faded in places, and the words were scattered across the pages with a strange, almost erratic layout— nothing like modern formatting. On the first page, one phrase stood out among the rest. Situated on the uppermost are the words 'The Prophet'.
"Can you read the beginning and tell me what you think?" Mr. Ralph asked. His tone was calm, but William could sense the eagerness beneath it. Clearly, Ralph hoped this book wasn't a forgery— or at least, not a worthless one.
William nodded and took a seat on the visitor's sofa. Rather than just skimming this time, he started to read those pages in earnest.
The following pages were a narrative— not a formal treatise or philosophical dialogue, but a story. It followed a character named Michael, whose path intersected with a figure known as the Prophet. This Prophet was introduced in a cryptic ritual— drawing a sigil into the ground with the blood of an owl and a tool to shoulder its ability.
His expression subtly shifted— one eyebrow raised while the other furrowed. The supposed artifact of a renowned philosopher reads more like fiction. A tale, not a treatise.
"Someone's pretending to be Chalestin?" he muttered under his breath.
From the second page held the cryptic ritual instruction. The sigil was not described through words— but, a stark image, black ink etched sharply against the thick parchment. It was a seal: circular, almost floral in design, yet unmistakably disturbing.
Twelve eyes stared outward from its form, each one placed precisely like the numbers on a clock face. They extended from the center like petals, but there was no softness in their gaze. No two eyes were alike—some wide and human, others slitted like reptiles, one almost avian. Yet each shared the same eerie quality: they looked at him. Through him. Transparent and layered, as though no barrier, not even his thoughts, could hide him from their scrutiny. He felt read. Understood. Undone.
Beneath the illustration, written in archaic but legible crimson script, were words that demanded to be spoken:
"The heaven who wields infinite knowledge.
Grant me the strength to Celestiality.
The beginning and the end of one's fate.
Reform the formula to how it should be, as fate says"
William blinked and furrowed his brow. From the story, this is the words the Prophet uttered to enter the Sky of Formulas.
Isn't this a bit too… cringy? he thought as his lips was twitching in subtle disbelief. The phrasing struck him as theatrical— too modern in its structure to belong to an ancient philosopher. It sounded more like a modern occult performance than any traditional rite. His skepticism broke through instinctively, and without realizing it, he flipped the page, reading it normally. It really looked normal at this point.
Then, another attempt to flip the page, there was no continuation. He stared, startled, then sighed in frustration. The book had offered him so little, and now it offered less.
Only one thing remained below: a final line, printed in deep, blood-red ink at the bottom of the third page.
A gentle reminder to those who attempt calcination: 'Remind yourself who you are.'
His fingers hovered over the sentence. He didn't like how it was phrased. It sounded less like a warning and more like a eulogy pre-written.
"It has that strange air to it," William muttered, loud enough for Mr. Ralph to hear. "Something between the supernatural and horror fiction."
Ralph nodded faintly, but his eyes were sharp, still studying him. William knew the professor hadn't been seeking surface-level opinions.
He tried again. "This atmosphere… it doesn't belong to the past. I don't mean the past as in ancient myths or legends. I mean the actual documented eras. This book, its narrative—it feels written for today. For a world that already understands technology. Steam, gas, combustion… the presence of fear dressed in modernity. It's too self-aware to be ancient."
He looked up to meet Mr. Ralph's gaze. "That's what I wanted to say."
The professor smiled. A faint, weary thing—grateful, yet tinged with unease. He brought a hand to his chin, fingers tapping against stubble as though trying to stir something loose from the depths of his thoughts.
"Thank you," he said at last. "I appreciate your honesty."
Then the room fell quiet.
It wasn't an awkward silence, but a growing one. A silence that stretched like a shadow pulling long at sunset. William waited, then called out the professor's name— once, then again. No response.
Mr. Ralph was frozen, not physically, but mentally, trapped in some spiraling line of thought. Only when something visibly shifted in his eyes did he snap out of it.
"My apologies," he said, voice hoarse with something unspoken. "I… I've been on edge lately. There's a sense of danger I can't shake. A premonition. Maybe that's why I was so drawn to this book. Maybe that's why it frightened me. Its form— not its content—terrifies me."
He chuckled weakly, as though the sound could banish the unease. It didn't.
William remained silent for a moment. He couldn't sense what Ralph felt. He didn't share the dread, nor understand the root of it. But something about the way the professor spoke— with the certainty of a man not easily shaken— left him uneasy.
"You should rest, Professor," he said finally, setting the book aside. "With the fair coming up and all, you've been pushing yourself too hard."
Ralph gave him a glance that lingered just a moment too long.
"Yes," he whispered. "Maybe you're right. But I fear rest is something I'll have to force."
Without letting Mr. Ralph's thoughts wander too far, William continued, "Speaking of the fair, maybe I can assist you again—just like last year. That was when we started spending time in this lab, sharing ideas and creating things together."
That, in truth, was the very reason William had come to the laboratory today. Not for study. Not for reading. But to propose their next innovation for the annual fair— still two months away. It was enough time, if they began soon
"Ah, yes. The fair," Mr. Ralph echoed. "I nearly forgot about that."
He glanced toward the other side of the lab—the practical area. Gears and tools lay scattered on the floor in disarray, as if a project had been torn apart mid-construction. His gaze shifted further, to a small adjoining room at the back. Its door was half-open, casting a thin wedge of shadow onto the tile floor.
He looked back at William. "There is something I've been developing— a concept. But it's difficult to explain, and even harder to put into words. I'll bring it to you tomorrow. Will that be alright?"
William smiled, nodding with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Of course."
Now that their plans were set, he realized there was little else to do today. With a sigh, he stretched out on the worn leather sofa and gazed up at the ceiling fan spinning in lazy circles above.
That image triggered something.
The seal in the book.
Eyes. So many eyes. Staring—not only at his body, but into his mind. A shiver ran down his spine. Maybe Mr. Ralph's anxiety really is getting to me, he thought.
"I should busy myself…" he muttered, scanning the room for distraction. His eyes landed once again on the cluttered practical area.
"Mr. Ralph," he called, "are you still using those materials?"
He pointed to the scattered gears and tools on the other side of the lab. "I'm a little bored. Since I already made that duckling automaton, I've been itching to make another. Maybe something simple again. A turtle? A crocodile, maybe? What do you think, Professor? I want something… clean in form."
He paused. Animal... An owl?
He couldn't deny it anymore—Mr. Ralph's unease had begun to seep into him, like smoke through a vent. It was a strangely human trait: how another's thoughts could slowly warp your own perception. In this case, he felt that shift in real time— his clarity becoming cloudy, his thoughts touched by something alien.
Mr. Ralph noticed the change in William's expression. For a moment, he was silent—thinking.
Then, as if reminded of something he had long buried, his eyes narrowed.
"What I did there..." he said slowly, "was something… unimaginable. Best not to concern yourself with the details of my fantasy."
He let out a brief, hollow laugh.
"I still have a few things over there I'd rather not be disturbed. I'll clean it up later this late afternoon. But I promise: tomorrow, the area's all yours."