As both Blackwell and the dark-haired lady stepped out of the building, Blackwell turned his head slightly toward her.
"What do you mean it was an illusion?"
She replied with a smile on her face. "Oh, I mean the box… and anything that was going to happen."
Blackwell looked surprised. "What do you mean, Ophelia Ravenscroft?"
"Oh, it was obvious. The tiny shift—the box appearing out of nowhere—made me realize everything inside the store was an illusion."
Someone knew we were coming… and packed up before we even arrived," the dark-haired lady, now known as Ophelia Ravenscroft, said with confidence.
Orin Morvane, listening to what they were saying, was in disbelief after wasting his spirituality.
All he could do was laugh out loud.
The sound drew the attention of Blackwell and Ophelia.
Both of them glanced at him—even the officers outside quickly noticed and turned their eyes toward him.
Orin stiffened, biting his lip. "Oh… nothing."
Blackwell had no time to waste. He turned to the officers and said, "For now, lock this place down. Do not let anyone in. You can take the night shift."
Klaus's face was filled with intrigue and surprise. He said, "Didn't you notice? That was Commander Blackwell of the Black Crows, currently stationed in Iron Gate City."
Orin Morvane, recalling fragments from Percy's memories, remembered something strange—Klaus was obsessed with the Black Crows.
Trying to find a proper reply, there were no words in Percy's mind to answer with.
All he could do was shake his head and say, "Oh… so that was him."
Klaus took one glance at Percy, then said, "You're not feeling fine. Maybe you should go home."
Orin Morvane looked at him, surprised. He could see the concern in Klaus's eyes.
He had no choice but to accept. Since he was currently occupying the body of his friend, he simply nodded.
Before walking away, he said, "Do you have two gold coins I can borrow?"
Klaus checked his pockets for a while before finally bringing out two gold coins and handing them to Percy.
Walking away from the building and the officers, Orin moved straight ahead, then turned left, passing through a narrow corner. On the other side, the streets were filled with a crowd.
He entered a store and bought four candles, then walked away to another store. He bought a mirror, salt, and a lighter.
After a while of walking, he finally got home.
Inside, he placed the four candles at the four corners of the cramped apartment, lighting each one.
He set the mirror on the floor, then brought out the broken wristwatch and placed it close to it.
Sprinkling the salt around it—
Creating the same hand sign once more, he took two steps backward, away from the mirror and the wristwatch.
His feet tapped the wooden floor twice, then he shifted back slightly.
He whispered the same words again, but this time his voice was low, almost silent. The only words he spoke out loud were—
"The mechanism of mystery and fate."
Turning to glance around the room, he shook his head. "Maybe the cost of my spirituality means I can no longer summon the mechanism…"
But before he could say another word, the room twisted.
It was as if the space itself turned—he was falling sideways, passing through seven crimson moons—
Then he landed.
In water. A dark swamp.
Sitting in the black water, his gaze lifted to the door in front of him.
Beneath his feet, something moved—machinery, shifting and grinding. Pushing himself up, he stood and looked around. Seven crimson moons hung above, casting light over a sky of unnatural colors.
Pillars stood at every corner. Scattered buildings stretched into the distance.
Strange circles appeared at random—some like human flesh, others like glowing spheres of light.
He walked closer to the door. Placing his hands on both sides, he pushed it open. Light flooded his vision.
Inside, he saw a throne at the center of a vast glass-like space—more like an empty void filled with moving machinery, mechanisms clashing and turning endlessly.
The room was filled with thick fog.
He walked forward and sat on the throne, his feet resting against the fog-covered ground.
He tapped his foot twice, then said,
"Respond to me… Castle of Fate."
A voice echoed through the air.
"Welcome back, Master."
A slight surprise crossed his face.
"Athena?"
"Yes, Master," the voice replied. "For a moment, we lost connection. It seems you have lost your spirituality."
Orin nodded. "Yes… but for now—the building I was in before."
"Yes, Master."
The fog shifted, forming the image of the building they had just investigated—the inside of the room taking shape within the void.
He stood from the throne and walked forward, passing through the store, then into the room.
Glancing at Blackwell and Ophelia Ravenscroft, he waved his hand, shifting them aside like illusions.
Moving closer to the desk, he saw the box.
He opened it.
Inside was a piece of paper.
The image of the building faded as he took the paper and raised it. Ancient words were written across it—symbols from a tribe unknown to him.
"Athena… break this code."
The voice responded, its tone shifting slightly.
"Unable to comply. You have lost your spirituality, falling back to a pawn of the mechanism, Master."
Orin tilted his head slightly. In his mind, he said, I knew this would happen.
He tapped his foot twice against the fog-covered ground.
Everything collapsed—
And he was back in Percy's room once again.
Having received the answer he wanted from the Castle of Fate—also known as the Mechanism—and from Athena, his eyes slowly closed, drifting away.
In a dim whisper, he murmured, "What a weak body you have, Percy," as his form hit the wooden floor with a heavy impact.
His eyes slowly closed, drifting into sleep, calm as if none of it had ever happened.
With a gentle touch on Percy's frail body, his connection drifted once more. He saw himself back at the Mechanism, sitting on the throne made of blades.
Dragging his vision closer to the figure seated on the throne, the face inside the Mechanism was blurry, as if scratched over with ink. He could not make out his own face—Orin Morvane remained hidden behind the distortion.
Alone, Orin sat at the Mechanism, waiting for the morning sun to rise.