The lanternlight swayed with the wind, shadows stretching long and jagged across the bunker walls.
Everyone's breath carried a very weight, the sort that pressed into the lungs and wouldn't let go. Ghira lay silent in her sack like a corpse that refused to rot, the demonic broken bracelets around her wrist faintly moved, a reminder of the storm barely leashed inside her.
Tom reached into his torn coat. His fingers brushed the object that felt cold even through cloth. Slowly, he pulled out a shard of pale stone, fossil-like, with lines etched into it as though they had grown there naturally over centuries.
"The Dream-Fossil," Tom muttered, His voice was steady and explicit, "I earned this.… when I first went after my Face. Thought it was junk at first."
The System's window flickered in his vision, lines appearing as if scraped into the air with invisible chalk.
[Dream-Fossil]
[ An artifact that allows one to tether minds for a certain moment ]
[ However, It can be used in different ways by creating " Recipes " ]
[ To use, one must prepare its Recipe,
– The Fossil's dust must be ground and turned into a paste.
– The paste must fuse with the Liquid of Soul Mantis Flower. ]
The words rushed like mouse in his head, each syllable pounding impactful against the tension in the room.
Grace, standing close, exhaled quietly. She'd already been working for minutes before, as if she knew this moment would come. On the nearby table rested a small clay bowl. Inside it, the indigo liquid was dancing, thick as honey but glimmering like oil. The smell was dizzying, sharp and sweet at once, same like roses rotting in vinegar.
Rosario leaned back in his chair, one arm propped casually as though this wasn't madness unraveling in front of them. "Smells like a nightmare made soup," he whispered with a crooked grin. "Careful not to choke, Tom."
"Shut up," Vera muttered, serious eyes fixed on the bowl.
Grace's hands shook faintly as she lifted the paste with a wooden spoon and swirled it into the liquid. The bowl came alive, tiny sparks fizzed along its surface, and the colors bled deeper, swirling into indigo so dark it looked almost black.
Finally, Elior stepped forward, his shadow casting long across the table. "That's it," he said flatly. "The potion is ready. Once he drinks, he'll enter her consciousness. There will be no second attempt."
Johan blew out a drag of smoke, eyes narrowing. "What if he doesn't come back?"
"Then his mind stays trapped in hers," Elior replied without hesitation. "His body here will become a part of her memories, knowledge, thoughts."
Grace flinched, her lips curved in thoughts, refusing to speak. She set the bowl down in front of Tom. The liquid shimmered, dizzy smell filling the bunker like fog.
Tom's hand hovered above it, fingers trembling slightly though his face remained calm. He glanced at Grace. "You mixed it?"
She nodded once. "Yes." Her voice was thin, quiet.
"Then I'll trust it," Tom said softly.
Rosario chuckled under his breath, the sound was sharp like a broken string.
Tom lifted the bowl with both hands. The liquid sloshed faintly, catching what little light the bunker had. He hesitated just a moment and then tipped it back.
The taste hit him like a slap. It was bitter, sweet, metallic, burned. His throat convulsed as the sludge went down. Every nerve in his mouth screamed to spit it out, but he forced himself to swallow.
The second it hit his stomach, his body turned ice. His vision spun, his head pounding as though the walls of his skull were caving in. His strength vanished, muscles slackening fully. He staggered backward, dropping the bowl. It shattered on the stone floor, indigo drops scattering like sparks.
"Tom!" Grace lunged forward, catching his shoulders.
He was already falling. His eyes rolled back, turning darker, darker until they weren't eyes anymore. Just black stone. Solid, lifeless. His body convulsed once, then lay still.
The bunker went silent, except for the ragged breaths of those watching.
Grace's hands pressed against his chest, trembling hard. "Elior! He—he's not moving—"
Elior stepped closer, calm but sharp, gaze fixed on the black-stone eyes. "Don't panic. This is how it begins. He's inside her mind now."
Grace's voice cracked. "But his body...."
"Isn't here anymore," Elior cut in. "His tether is. We bound the sigil to keep track of him." He gestured to the glowing mark burned faintly onto Tom's forehead. A similar mark burned on Ghira's palm inside the sack, pulsing faintly in rhythm. "If he drifts too far, the sigil might crash out. Then he's lost."
The silence after his words was unbearable. Grace clutched Tom's hand like she could drag him back by force.
Johan exhaled, smoke curling around his lips, his eyes sharp with an unease he tried to hide. Vera stood over them all, jaw clenched, as though guarding them from shadows.
Rosario smirked faintly in the corner, voice low. "Let's hope the boy walks fast enough in that pit. Or else.…" He trailed off, tapping his violin case with a finger. "We'll be feeding his body to the worms."
Grace's glare snapped to him, fiery, but she said nothing. She just held Tom's hand tighter.
On the floor, Tom's body lay unmoving, stone-eyed, his soul already wandering in the abyss of Ghira's mind.
....
Inside Ghira's mind, Tom opened his eyes or maybe he just thought he did. It was hard to tell. Everything around him was appearing in the most disgusting way possible.
The ground looked like melted wax mixed with raw meat, pulsing under his boots like it had a heartbeat. The air wasn't air at all but thick slime, stinking of sulfur and rot. Every breath he took felt like inhaling moldy socks boiled in acid.
"....Gods," Tom muttered, gagging. He pressed his sleeve against his nose, though it didn't help. "She really needs a maid in here. An exorcist could be better."
In the distance, streams of memories drifted like rivers of light, flowing, breaking apart, reforming into grotesque shapes. At first, he thought they were just threads of information, but when he squinted, he could see them twitch.
Eyes blinked out of nowhere. Mouths whispered things he couldn't understand. Some streams even grew legs, scuttling away like spiders when he got close.
One of them brushed against his arm, and instantly, his head filled with the sound of screaming. Thousands of screams all at once. It lasted for just a second, but it left his chest heaving, his mind saw heaven for a moment....
"Lovely," he groaned. "A place where even touching someone's memory makes you want to puke. If this was a tourist attraction, it'd close in an hour."
He tried to take a step, but his foot landed on something solid and cracked. Looking down, he realized it was a massive tooth, half-buried in the flesh-ground. Dozens of others poked out around him like gravestones. Some were chipped, some still bleeding.
Tom grimaced. "Yup. Definitely the worst neighborhood I've ever visited. Ten out of ten, never coming back."
Still, he had to move deeper. So he reached for what looked like a branch hanging low from above. It was pale and bony, dangling like some kind of rib. He grabbed it and gave it a rotation, hoping to shift his path. Thought to draw this grotesque world a little.
The branch shuddered, then whipped back smacking him square in the forehead and knocking him flat on his back.
"—AGHH!" Tom yelled, rubbing his face. "Of course! Of course it bounces back. Because why would anything here be helpful?"
He lay there for a second, groaning. Then it clicked. His hand paused mid-rub.
"This place isn't mine," he whispered, sitting up slowly. "I'm already inside her thoughts. I'm not the painter.... I'm the paint here."
That realization was darker than it sounded. He couldn't bend this place to his will. He was stuck walking inside her truth, her memories, her filth. He wasn't the dreamer here, he was just another dream.
So he stood, brushed the slimy dust off his legs, and walked deeper.
The further he went, the worse it got. The "sky" overhead wasn't a sky at all. It was stitched together with faces, some screaming, some crying, some blank, all of them sewn by strands of black hair.
They moved slowly, mouths opening and closing like fish gasping for air. Their whispers dripped down like rain, words falling directly into his ears.
The memories here weren't just sights and sounds. They were feelings that were waiting for an apology that never came.
Tom walked past a shattered doorway, and suddenly a wave of grief smashed into his chest so hard he staggered. He saw flashes of Empress Ghira, younger, beautiful, reaching out for someone but then the frame faded. He passed a pool of stagnant water, and dread clung to his skin like tar.
Every step was heavier than the last. Not because of the ground but because of the weight of what she carried.
He'd seen nightmares before. Hell, he lived with one on his shoulder, his Face. But this.... this was worse. This was raw, uncut trauma, packed into every corner.
Further ahead, he found something unbelievable. A staircase made of ribs leading downward into darkness. The bones bent as he stepped, creaking like they were alive. Each step echoed with laughter that wasn't his.
At the bottom, he entered a chamber. The walls here weren't walls, they were pages. Torn, burned, dripping pages, each etched with blood-letters. They flipped themselves, as if unseen fingers were reading them. Information flowed across them like rivers, spilling out into the air. Some words were bright and sharp, like steel. Others oozed like pus, dripping into puddles at his feet.
Tom swallowed hard. His hands trembled. "....So this is what it looks like inside someone's memory." He laughed, though it cracked halfway. "I always wondered. Now I kinda wish I didn't."
Every page he glanced at carried stories he didn't want. Murder, betrayal, loneliness. He looked away, trying to avoid reading too much, but the words crawled across his eyes anyway. They itched in his skull, seeping into his thoughts.
He wanted to run. He wanted to throw up. But he forced himself forward.
There was more to see, more to uncover. Somewhere in this filth, in this nightmare that smelled like rot and iron, was the truth Elior wanted.
Tom moved deeper into the rotten halls of Ghira's mind. Every step pulled him closer to something more solid, more personal.
The chaotic rivers of memory narrowed, flowing into one corridor where the air smelled less of decay and more of…. ash.
The walls shaped themselves into visions very sharp, painful visions. Tom couldn't control them, couldn't even look away. He was forced to witness.
First, he saw her in golden light. Ghira, younger, beautiful beyond measure, wrapped in silk robes, standing beside Emperor Watcj. She smiled at him with warmth, with pride. She wasn't the monster she was now—she was radiant, innocent, alive. Watcj looked back at her with love. Not the cold look of an emperor, but the quiet eyes of a man who had found his home in her.
They had been true companions. Husband and wife. Partners of Eternity.
The War, Great Old War. A calamity that swallowed empires and influenced almost the whole world. Watcj rode away, leaving her in the palace with words that were both a promise and a curse: "When it is over, I will return for you."
Tom's chest ached at the sight, because he knew what was coming next.
The palace fell into chaos. Accusations spread like poison. Ghira was framed for treachery, for crimes she never committed. The false statements piled high, whispers planted by jealous nobles, enemies within, opportunists clawing for her throne.
Watcj knew. Deep inside, he knew she was innocent but war was more important than love. He couldn't risk the Empire, not when rebellion threatened to split it apart. And so he did nothing.
Tom saw the moment Ghira stood on the palace steps, chains on her wrists, tears streaming down her face as the people threw stones.
She looked for him in the crowd, her Emperor, her beloved but he wasn't there. He was on the battlefield, fighting for something larger than her.
She waited for him to return, hoping on the promise. Weeks became months, months became years. Watcj never came back.
The vision shifted, darker. Ghira wandered through shadows, cast out from her home. That was when she met him. A devil with eyes like burning coal, smiling with charm that cut deeper than any sword.
Satan.
He didn't just offer her shelter. He claimed her. Adopted her, twisted her, dragged her into his world of ash and fire. He crowned her with the black steel of Darga, the capital of Hell. What began as comfort became chains.
Not only Satan adopted her, but also used to sleep with her and many others at a night.
Tom grimaced as he saw glimpses, things too vile to stare at directly but enough to know that Satan owned her body and her soul.
Yet she stayed. Because in Satan's arms, she wasn't abandoned.
Years passed. The War of Ashura. Angels descended, swords of light against the fires of Hell. Satan fell, even though he did a huge damage on lands. Neither side claimed victory but she lost everything again.
Tom saw Ghira kneeling in the ruins of Darga, clutching the broken crown, her sobs echoing across the burning wasteland. From then on, her only goal was revival.
To bring Satan back. That was why she worshipped miracles, why she worked with the Order, why she fed herself to darkness.
Tom saw one last memory. A whisper carried to her in secret. Emperor Watcj had returned from war, but not as the man she knew. He had changed, hardened. He killed his own brothers to stop the Empire from tearing itself apart. People began rebellion in order to achieve light crossing the edge of discipline and law.
And the promise he had made to her?
The light that once bound them became the blade that cut them apart.
Tom staggered back as the memory dissolved, bile rising in his throat. He understood now.
Ghira's wrath wasn't just madness. It was betrayal, heartbreak stacked on heartbreak, shackled by the hands of devils and gods alike.
Tom understood that she has some personal matters for the descent of Overseer.
According to Lore, Satan was the one, managing to defeat an Overseer alone....