Everything became dark and blurry, as if the world hadn't just spun but melted and exploded into fragments of chaotic sensation. There was the sound of a scream—whether from me or someone else, I didn't know. There was a terrifying pressure on my neck, like two iron bars squeezing my throat, cutting off air, cutting off life. Then there was a blinding white light, an explosion of pressure inside my skull, and then… emptiness.
Consciousness crept back like a cold, muddy tide. First came physical sensations: a hard, unforgiving surface beneath my back. Not the soft velvet of the four-poster bed in Lynch Manor, not the expensive cotton mattress. This was thin, hard, with the texture of rough fabric completely alien to my pampered skin. The sharp chemical smell of disinfectant stung my nostrils, mixed with a faint scent of old sweat and fear.
Had I died? The thought surfaced, flat and emotionless. But no, the dead don't feel pain. And the pain was here, lurking in every muscle, gathering like a thundercloud in my throat. It felt like I had been swallowed by a giant and chewed, then spat back out half-shattered.
Was it all just a dream? I murmured in my heart, the voice in my head sounding small and frightened. But dreams don't leave pain like this. With an effort that made every joint creak in protest, I lifted my trembling hand and touched my neck. The skin there felt hot, swollen, and excruciatingly painful as my fingers brushed it. Finger marks. There were finger marks on my neck. That was no dream.
Pure, primitive panic spurred me to move. I rolled sideways, my unfamiliar and heavy body tumbling off the narrow bed. My knees hit the cold linoleum floor, and I stood up shakily, leaning on the iron bed frame for support. My entire body felt clammy and cold, coated in a cold sweat that made my crude clothing—a simple set of coarse cloth that was clearly not mine—stick to my skin. My breath came in gasps, each inhalation jostling the bruises in my throat.
This place… Slowly, my blurry eyes began to focus. I was in a small, sterile, utterly impersonal room. There were several other simple iron beds lined up neatly, empty and lifeless. Across from me was a plain wooden table and two iron chairs. Thick leather-bound books were placed on it, but I couldn't read the titles from here. And then there was the window—a large glass panel spanning one wall, with metal blinds now open.
Behind that glass, in a brighter room, stood two figures.
They weren't hiding. They were just standing there, observing. Both men wore neat Loen military uniforms—deep blue with silver trim, but without any insignia I could recognize. Their faces were indistinct because of the light's reflection on the glass and, I now realized, because of my long hair—John Lynch's hair—falling disheveled across my face after the struggle. But I could feel their gazes. Cold. Analytical. Like scientists observing a newly awakened lab specimen.
"So… I guess I'm not dead?" My voice was hoarse and raspy, sounding strange in my own ears. The question was directed at the empty room, at the hanging silence. My thoughts spun, trying to piece together fragments: the party, the broken laughter, the unblinking stare, the hands on my neck, the darkness. Too much. It was too much. My head throbbed, a deep dizziness and nausea beginning to gnaw from everything that had happened to me, from this terrifying uncertainty.
Before I could try to string together a coherent thought, a sharp squeak broke the silence. The heavy steel door at the end of the room opened. The two men from behind the glass entered. Now, under the dim gaslight from the ceiling, I could see them clearly.
The first was a bald man with a thick, neatly groomed white mustache. His face was wrinkled like a map of experience, but his eyes—steel gray—were sharp and tireless. He walked with a calm authority, the aura of a man accustomed to giving orders and seeing them obeyed.
The second was younger, perhaps mid-thirties, with neatly trimmed dark brown hair in a military cut. He was of average height for a Loenese, his posture erect. His face was plain, forgettable, but his brown eyes were alert and moved quickly, noting every detail of the room and me.
They stopped a few paces from me. The bald man wasted no time.
"What are the results?" His voice was deep and resonant, directed at his younger colleague. "Did you find any signs of abnormality in this person?"
The younger man opened the leather notebook he was holding. "No," he replied, his tone flat, professional, and utterly indifferent, as if he were reporting the weather. "This individual shows no signs of unnatural spiritual contamination, no abnormal response to sacred symbols, and his memory of the incident—though traumatic—is consistent with a victim's perspective. All confirm he is not connected to the Aurora Order cult."
Aurora Order.
That name echoed in my head like a warning bell. So my attacker, the madman with the mechanical laugh and vacant stare, was part of that cult. My thoughts raced faster. Hey! Now that I think about it… the entity the madman was mumbling about was the 'True Creator'. The phrase surfaced from somewhere deep and murky. Hmm… it's truly strange. It feels familiar even though this name never crossed my mind before in my memories.
Does… does this mean my memories are truly erased? A chill not from the room's air seeped into my spine. Who exactly erased my memories? Could it be this True Creator who did it? Paranoia began to gnaw, wild and unchecked. No… stop thinking about this, I scolded myself, forcing my focus back to the room, to the two dangerous men in front of me. I don't want to die stupidly from thinking about this too much and attracting a certain entity's attention.
The two men were now looking directly at me, as if trying to see into my soul, seeking cracks in the John Lynch mask I wore, seeking any abnormality their tests might have missed. I tried to stay calm, blanking my expression, pretending to be still confused and traumatized—which, truthfully, wasn't hard. I saw them exchange a brief glance, a silent decision being made.
Then the bald man stepped closer. "John Lynch," he said, and my own name sounded like an indictment in his mouth. "Were you involved with or have you ever met Baron Edmund Percival before?"
As the words were spoken, something strange happened. An impulse, almost like a physical need, welled up inside me. Not just a desire to answer, but a compelling feeling that I must answer, and answer as truthfully as possible. It felt like a hook was lodged in my mind, and someone was gently pulling on it. My subconscious, usually the last bastion of my secrets, suddenly felt like spilling everything.
"No," my voice came out, quicker and clearer than I intended. "I was never involved with nor have I met him before. The party was the first time we met. I also don't know why he specifically targeted me, and I only know that he is from the Aurora Order cult." The words tumbled out, unnecessary details, repetition—everything flowed out uncontrollably. I was like a ventriloquist's dummy being played by an external force.
Once I finished, the strange feeling vanished as quickly as it came, like a switch being turned off. Cold sweat soaked my back. With this, I could confirm that these two men were Beyonders. Without a doubt. This was their ability—perhaps from the Arbiter Pathway? I wasn't sure. My understanding of the Beyonder pathways tended to be limited, I admitted bitterly to myself. Because even though I checked the Wiki a few times or paid attention, of course I didn't care much about pathways that didn't interest me or weren't used by main characters. My own ignorance now haunted me. Heh, this is really bad.
The bald man gave no time to think. Less than a second after my answer, the next question shot out: "Have you ever used a sealed artifact before?"
The compulsion returned. Stronger now. A pressure at my temples, a whisper at the base of my skull commanding: Answer. Tell everything. NO! My inner heart screamed. If this continues, he'll know I bought several sealed artifacts from Mr. Hobert! Images of the red revolver and the faceless mask flashed in my mind. I would automatically explain everything—Hobert's shop, my suspicions, everything!
My heart pounded, knocking against my ribs like a bird trying to escape. My palms were sweaty. But I couldn't fight it. My mouth opened.
"No, I have never used a sealed artifact before, although I am aware such objects exist. However, up to this point, I have never actively used one."
There was a pause. I drew a ragged breath, processing what I had just said. Thank goodness! A wave of relief so strong it almost made me faint. I didn't mention Hobert. I didn't mention my purchases. I only acknowledged common knowledge about the existence of artifacts. Did their ability only force truthfulness, but not read thoughts? Or did my answer—technically true, since I hadn't used the revolver or mask—satisfy the enforced "truth"?
The two men narrowed their eyes, considering. The younger man in the Loen military uniform scribbled something in his notebook. Then the bald man let out a small sigh, then looked at me with increased intensity, as if preparing for a core question.
"Have you ever heard whispers from beings or disturbing murmurs?" His voice was low, but each word was laden with terrifying weight.
"No." My answer this time was immediate, driven by the same force. "I have never received whispers from any specific beings or entities so far. I have also never received blessings or specific things that would cause greater beings to pay attention to me up to this point." I held back from adding "fortunately".
This time, the silence that followed was different. Thicker, more considered. The younger man closed his notebook with a soft click. The bald man observed me for a long time, his steel-gray eyes like pincers.
"Finally," he said, breaking the silence, his voice losing a bit of its flatness, replaced by controlled relief. "With this, we believe you are not involved with Aurora Order activities, and the incident at the party was entirely due to you being merely an unintended victim of theirs."
"Sir," I interjected immediately, forcing a worried tone into my still-hoarse voice. "Does this mean I will be released?" Inside, another panic swirled. If I'm released, I'll die! The Aurora Order attacked me, whether deliberately or not. With that organization full of madmen worshipping an evil entity, they won't stop just because of one failure. They will come for me. They will finish the job. Being released into the wide world unprotected was tantamount to suicide.
"No." Thomas Clarke answered firmly. "After this, you will still receive expensive treatment from a royal psychologist to ensure there is no hidden spiritual trauma. And more importantly, you will receive temporary protection—both from our service and from the Church of Steam and Machinery, as a prominent citizen and a victim of a threat to the state."
A deep, almost weak-kneed relief flowed through me. I nodded, trying to look obedient and grateful. "Alright, Sir…?" I deliberately let the sentence hang, tilting my head with feigned confusion. Their identities were important information.
"I am William Grey, from the Department of Internal Security," said the younger man, giving a formal nod. "And this is Colonel Thomas Clarke, from the Military Intelligence Division 9." MI9. The name felt weighty and dangerous.
"Thank you for the information, Mr. Grey, Colonel Clarke," I bowed slightly, my polite gestures emerging automatically.
Inside, my mind raced. Protection. Escort by Beyonders from the Steam Church or MI9 itself. This was a safety net, a layer between me and the mad cult that wanted to strangle me. This is probably a special privilege impossible for ordinary people attacked in this world! An unexpected upside to being the Lynch heir.
However, William Grey immediately tempered that relief. "However, Mr. Lynch," he said, his gaze sharpening again, "this protection comes at a price. You must cooperate fully with us in the in-depth investigation regarding the incident that befell you. The process will be… invasive."
"You were the last person to interact with the perpetrator before he was neutralized," added Colonel Clarke, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. "Your memories, your sensory experiences—all are crucial. You must be involved in this at the very least."
I nodded, accepting my unavoidable fate. But one burning question, driven by genuine anger over the pain in my neck and deep fear, pushed its way out. "Sir," my mouth spoke before my brain fully approved, "why didn't you or the other guards help me immediately at the party?" The tone sounded more accusatory than I planned. "Why were you so slow?"
The two men exchanged a quick, meaningful look. For the first time, their professional expressions cracked, revealing a hint of deep weariness and frustration. "There were many complications," William Grey finally answered, his voice sounding sincere. "Spiritual interference at the scene was nearly impossible because it was a public space, and the person who attacked you was an important figure from a party, which certainly slowed movements."
Complications. Such a simple word to describe the hell I just experienced. Do you know how it feels to be strangled by a madman! My mind screamed, but I bit my tongue. Anger wouldn't help me now.
"But Sir," I asked, trying to return to a more cooperative tone, "what actually happened to the man who attacked me? Baron Percival?"
"Baron Edmund Percival had been corrupted beforehand," Colonel Clarke answered flatly. "The exact cause is still under investigation. We are collaborating with several other parties to fully understand what ritual or coercion he underwent."
Corrupted. The word hung in the air. How could someone be corrupted in a public, open place like that? But to be honest, I'd rather not know.
"How long will this investigation—and protection—last?" I asked, showing a fully genuine anxiety.
"We cannot give a definite timeframe, Mr. Lynch," said William Grey. "But considering the threat level and the attention given by… higher-ups, the process might be quicker than usual cases. Many organizations now have an interest in dismantling this network."
He didn't name those organizations. He didn't need to. I could imagine them: MI9, the Nighthawks, perhaps the Church of Storms, the Steam Church. All hunting the Aurora Order. And I, poor John Lynch, am now caught in the middle, no longer just a paranoid bystander, but a pawn in a game far larger and more dangerous than I ever imagined.
The "Do not change the plot" rule felt like a pathetic joke now. The plot had come and strangled me nearly to death. And now, the only way to survive might just be to involve myself deeper into it, guided by the cold hands of MI9.
The thought hit me with undeniable force, a cold, hardening truth like steel: I absolutely must become a Beyonder. No more room for debate, for paranoia, for theorizing. The hands choking me, the unblinking stare, the broken mechanical laughter—they were all more real proof than anything. If I remain like this, just an ordinary human trapped in the skin of a very rich man, I will die. And it will happen very quickly. The Aurora Order has marked its target, and they will not stop.
But this decision felt like stepping on a landmine whose existence I knew, but didn't know how to detonate safely. After all, I just arrived in the world of LotM not long ago, protested a voice in my head, a voice that still wanted to hide, that still wanted to obey the first and highest rule: do not change the plot. Becoming a Beyonder means actively involving myself in this world's mechanisms, means radically altering John Lynch's destiny. It is the biggest disruption I could possibly do.
Yet, after a moment of cold terror, another logic surfaced. Of course, my goal of not changing the plot remains the same, I convinced myself, trying to find justification. The main plot of the novel revolves around Klein, the Tarot Club, the gods, and their conspiracies. My safety—or rather, John Lynch's safety—isn't directly connected to that core story. Seeking power to survive from a side cult targeting me... that could be considered a defensive action, a necessary minor deviation to ensure a background character like myself doesn't die too early. This is the right choice. It must be done.
But then, a more practical and more terrifying question arose: which pathway?
My head immediately spun. Should I ask MI9 or anyone about potions? That was a tempting idea—instant access to official knowledge, perhaps even resource support. But it was also extremely dangerous. No… My paranoid instincts screamed. I'm not even sure about the Acting Method or how all the Pathways work. My knowledge from the novel and the wiki is fragmented, full of holes. What if I choose the wrong pathway? A pathway that conflicts with John Lynch's personality? Or a pathway that would make me a target for a certain Church? If I rush this decision, it would be suicide, I realized with dread, remembering the risks of madness and corruption when becoming a Beyonder. I've read about it. I know how thin the line is between power and self-destruction.
I flipped through the fragments of knowledge I possessed. I only truly knew the general workings of three pathways: Seer, Bard, Sailor, and Visionary. But out of these, the details were infuriating. Fool: I know some ingredients for Sequence 9 Seer and 8 Clown, but that's about the limit. Visionary: I remember some ingredients for Sequence 9 Spectator and 8 Telepathist... or was that Sequence 7? Seriously, my memory is fuzzy. Sun? Only a general picture, Sailor as well. This is incredibly frustrating. My supposed greatest advantage—knowledge from the future—is half-baked and unreliable.
No, I can't decide now. I need information, but I can't get it from obviously dangerous sources like MI9. I need time, but time is a luxury I don't have. However, there is something I can do now. I can test the waters, leverage my position as a "victim in need of protection".
I shifted my gaze back to Colonel Clarke, trying to display an expression of sincere worry—which, once again, wasn't hard.
"Sir," I began, my voice sounding fragile, "how can I truly be safe from the Aurora Order? They are worshippers of an evil god, while I am just an ordinary human." I paused, letting the fear show. "And even if a Beyonder stays near me and tries to protect me, the results certainly wouldn't be as good as me having... some self-defense abilities of my own." I chose those words deliberately and carefully. "Some self-defense abilities of my own"—not "becoming a Beyonder". Let them draw the conclusion.
Thomas Clarke observed me, his gray eyes analyzing. Then, he nodded, as if my expectation was reasonable. "True. Of course, we won't just give you a Beyonder bodyguard; we will lend you some charms that could be useful against them," he answered in a casual tone, as if discussing lending an umbrella.
Charms. That was something. Not true power, but a tool. It could buy time. "Is that so?" I said, trying to show a hopeful expression. "I hope to receive any charms or protections as soon as possible." My genuine desire needed no faking.
But my top priority now was to get out of this place. I needed space to think, to plan, perhaps to access John's collection or… other sources. "So… after this, am I allowed to go home?" I asked, glancing between Thomas and William.
Seriously. I want to return and immediately prepare a potion to become a Beyonder! The thought urged, full of panicked haste. Every second here is a wasted second, a second where that cult might be planning their next attack.
"Yes," answered Thomas. "You've already slept here overnight, so you are free to go home until we call for you again. Also, when you return, there will be a Beyonder from the Church of Steam and an officer from our service accompanying you, ensuring your safety during the journey."
I nodded, relief beginning to ease the tension in my shoulders. But then, a detail in his statement jolted me.
"Overnight"?
Time. I had forgotten about time. In the chaos, I had no idea how long I was unconscious, how long I had been trapped in this sterile examination room.
"Wait?" I asked, eyes widening. "Overnight? So now it's… June 27, 1349?"
Thomas Clarke and William Grey exchanged a brief glance, perhaps attributing the question to post-trauma disorientation. "Yes," William answered, his voice still flat. "June 27th, 2 a.m."
June twenty-seventh. I swallowed hard. The day had changed. I had lost a full day. And more importantly, this meant there were only a few days left before June ended, before Klein Moretti transmigrated in Tingen City. The world's timeline kept moving, indifferent to my personal chaos. A new, different pressure piled on top of the existing ones. I had to move. Now.