The Cursed visited a local shop run by a strange man everyone called the Alchemist. They said he could brew the most unimaginable and cursed potions.
"I need a potion that mimics any terrible disease," he ordered. "Duration: several hours."
"For what purpose?" asked the man, with the gaze of a madman and yellow teeth.
"I intend to kill the Weeping Widow."
The Alchemist silently measured him with his eyes. He opened a small box, took a pinch of black powder, put it in his mouth, chewed a little, and then said,
"It will be done."
Later, he placed a bottle of freshly brewed potion in front of the Cursed.
"How much do I owe you?"
"Free. For everyone in the suburb, it's a cherished dream that the Weeping Widow be destroyed."
At night, the Cursed drank the potion. Black spots appeared over his face and body. His vision blurred, but his mind remained clear. He sat on the street near the gathering of mortally ill people. From there came heart-wrenching groans and cries of the dying.
He didn't have to wait long. A strange, ominous silence fell over the streets. Even the mortally ill grew quiet, sensing the terrible fate approaching. From afar, the sound of hooves echoed. Through half-closed eyelids darkened by the potion, the Cursed watched what unfolded. In the moonlight, a strange procession approached along the street: a carriage drawn by four black horses. The carriage windows were covered with black curtains. Two more wagons followed, led by other horses. On the carriage door was a green three-petal flower.
The procession stopped next to the cluster of mortally ill. The carriage door opened, and a tall female figure stepped out. She wore a dark tight-fitting suit and a mask that completely hid her face. On her head was a wide-brimmed hat with black feathers. In one hand she held a thin long cane with a yellow tip, touching the mortally ill as if testing whom to take with her.
From the wagons, large figures also in closed suits and white masks emerged. They accompanied their mistress as her guards and assistants.
When she impatiently tapped someone with the cane, the large figures threw a lasso around the person's neck and dragged them into one of the wagons. This repeated several times.
Then the procession approached the Cursed. He closed his eyes.
The sound of high-heeled footsteps echoed. Someone tapped impatiently on his armor with a cane.
"Die—die, Dead Fifth, look, this one still has armor," a thin muffled female voice said.
"Yes, Mistress," came another, heavy male voice, as if drinking a soul. "Shall we recycle him?"
"The star has gone out—gone out. He seems suspicious. He might cause us trouble."
"So what will you have us do, Mistress?"
"But the armor—the armor. What peculiar armor. Very well, recycle him."
A lasso was thrown around his neck, his arms grabbed, and he was dragged somewhere. Then thrown into the wagon, and the procession continued. At first, judging by the sound, they traveled through the streets. Later, the sound of hooves became muffled. Through a slit in the wagon tarp, the Cursed saw they were moving across a scorched plain. Bone remains drifted past. The dead plain gave way to frozen stone walls. Apparently, the convoy had entered some tunnel. The journey into the dark world continued.