Inside the building where he had dragged the Clown, Orin knelt beside Lucien Harrow's body. For a few seconds, he examined it, searching for anything of interest. All he found was a letter and a card. At first glance, the card looked like a meeting invitation—blue and yellow, intricate in design. Embossed in the center was the Circle of Sin, and beneath it, a location was braided into the card.
Orin slipped both the card and the letter into his pocket, shaking Lucien slightly to see if anything else would reveal itself—but there was nothing.
He tapped the Clown's head twice. A soft crack echoed faintly.
Instantly, Orin slipped inside Lucien's mind, moving through memories and echoes, seeking a link to the maximum exposure of the manuscript.
Horrors sprawled before him: brutality, chaos, fragmented glimpses of madness. But what captured his attention was the strange church—the same church where Percy had died.
This time, everything was meticulously arranged. Pews lined in perfect order, left to right, straight and exact. The altar was pristine, devoid of symbols, polished and waiting.
A noise drew him to the back of the church. Following it, he found a man standing near a door, a square circle engraved at its center. The man lifted something inside—a card and a letter identical to the ones Orin had found. Blue and yellow, the same crest sealing the letter.
Orin moved closer. The Clown's Gambit, Lucien Harrow, handled them with care. Orin expected more—perhaps a clue to the one behind the transaction—but he could not see the person's face. Only a hand was visible—a woman's hand—and a man's voice cut through the air.
The vision fractured. Orin withdrew from Lucien's mind before it broke completely.
Placing his palm over the Clown's chest, he dissolved the remnants of the manuscript embedded within him.
The flint of knowledge surged briefly, giving him insight: the Red-Haired Lady and the Clown's Gambit were both bound by a corrupt contract. Their heightened spiritual strength was not natural—it came from servitude to a corrupt Oracle, the so-called Goddess of Sins, known also as the Seven Deadly Sins.
Orin stood, dusting himself off. The information he had gleaned would stay with him forever—but something else unsettled him.
They were feeding something beyond the Goddess of Sins. Something larger. Something transcending, reaching toward divinity.
Orin had no proof. Only the unease crawling beneath his skin, the sense that what they served was something far older… far more dangerous.
After a while—seconds and minutes passing—Orin brought the information to the Black Crows. He told them what had happened: the Clown's attack, the chaos, and what he had discovered on the Clown's dead body. But he revealed only the letter. Nothing more.
The Clown's body was carried into a room, placed on a lab table, and covered with a cloth.
Orin was detained by the Black Crow officers and placed in a separate room.
Outside, the officers debated quietly, weighing their options, trying to figure out how to solve the problem they now faced.
"Do you think the kid knows that the Clown who attacked him was connected to the Red-Haired Lady who killed his friend?" Ophelia asked in a serious tone, turning to look at Blackwell in his office.
Blackwell's expression was stern. "Do you think the child understands what you're saying? This child… he just gained his spirituality. When he came to my office, you noticed his spirituality was weak."
He turned back to Grandpa Jack.
Grandpa Jack replied thoughtfully, "We should Check the memories of the child, see if anything he said was lies. And more importantly… we should focus on the Circles of Sin written under the letter."
He paused, then added, "If not for him, we would never have known that the Red-Haired Lady inside the house—the one described in the letter—is Cruella Augustine."
Ophelia shifted her gaze, first to Blackwell, then to Grandpa Jack. She nodded, agreeing. "Yes… I agree with the old man."
Grandpa Jack walked away from the room, turning back to them one last time. "It's good to be young again," he said before departing.
After the discussion, the information was passed to Ema, who was instructed to interrogate Percy Thornfield.
Ema walked into the room where Percy was being held. He sat alone on a chair, his hands and legs tightly bound.
She moved closer, silent and composed. Then she stepped behind him, raising her hand. Two fingers rested gently at the corners of his head.
Orin felt it instantly.
A sharp awareness surged through him—danger. Ema followed the Deck of Knowledge. If she dug too deep, she would see more than she was meant to.
He searched for a way to hide his memories, but his body was restrained. He tried to move—nothing. The chair held him in place.
Ema tilted her head slightly, her eyes lifting—then turning white. A thin line of blood slipped from her lips.
The world broke.
A heavy wave crashed—water folding over itself, sand grinding against stone. The echoes of tides whispered endlessly, rising and falling.
Then—stillness.
In the distance, a woman stood in an empty void.
This was Percy's mind.
Time itself twisted here. Winter came and vanished. Rain fell and stopped. Oceans dried, then returned. Wars began, ended, and began again. The flow of time and space bent unnaturally, cycling without meaning.
And in this place—Ema Rose had control.
Orin tried to resist. But inside Percy's mind, he was bound—liquid chains wrapping around him, tightening, holding him still.
Ema drifted closer.
A whisper echoed through the void.
"Tell me what you are hiding… show me your secrets."
Her hair lifted, spreading like wind. Her eyes burned white, her body reflecting the shifting tides beneath them. Above, a faint crimson moon flickered.
She reached him. Her hand pressed against his head.
Memories poured out.
Percy's life unfolded—childhood, fear, growth, struggle—everything laid bare. Every moment played in perfect clarity.
But something was missing.
The moment Orin Morvane took control… was not there.
It was absent. Completely erased.
Because Orin was no longer inside Percy.
He stood apart—within the mechanism, hidden beyond her reach, surrounded by a thin fog of separation.
From there, he watched.
He could see Percy's memories clearly, feel the pull of Ema's spirituality as she searched, digging deeper, trying to uncover what did not exist within her reach.
For a brief moment, their spiritual traces overlapped—just enough for her to see fragments: the fight, the beginning… but nothing beyond it. Nothing of Orin himself.
She searched further. Found nothing.
Then she withdrew.
The void collapsed.
Ema stepped back into reality, her eyes returning to normal. The blood at her lips faded as she exhaled softly.
Without a word, she removed the restraints—unlocking the cuffs, loosening the bindings, freeing Percy from the chair.
But her silence carried something heavier than suspicion.
It carried uncertainty.
"Follow me," she said, turning and walking away from the room.
Orin quickly got up and followed her. "If I may ask… why did you release me?"
Ema stopped, turned slightly, and looked at him. She yawned, covering her mouth with her hand.
"Hungry," she said simply.
Orin blinked in disbelief. That's it? he thought. She released me… because she was hungry? Or Because she didn't find anything?
She looked at him again. "Are you hungry?"
Orin hesitated, then shook his head. "No… but thank you."
"Oh I See," Ema replied softly.
They continued walking down a long corridor. The silence stretched between them, broken only by their footsteps. She stopped at a door on the left.
Turning her head slightly, she pointed at it. "My room."
"Your room?" Orin said, trying to remain polite. "Should I… come inside?"
It was unusual. The first time he had seen her, she had seemed distant—quiet, unreadable.
Now this.
Still, he followed her in.
The moment he stepped inside, a familiar feeling struck him. The room… it resembled Percy's.
Messy.
Filthy.
Garbage scattered across the floor. Leftover food rotting in corners. The air carried a heavy, raw smell of waste and meat.
Ema turned left, heading toward a massive bed near the wall. The windows were shut tight. On the other side of the room sat an old couch.
She pointed at it. "Sit."
Rain began to fall. At first, light taps against the roof—then heavier, faster, louder.
Orin had little choice. He moved to the couch, brushing aside bits of dirt and garbage before sitting down.
Before he could speak again, Ema had already collapsed onto the bed. She lay sideways, half her leg hanging off the edge.
Despite her small frame, she took up the large bed as if it belonged entirely to her.
Orin's vision began to blur. The steady sound of rain filled the room, mixing with the faint pull of Percy's spirituality.
His body felt heavy.
His thoughts slowed.
He glanced at her one last time—but his head dropped back against the couch.
And he fell asleep.
The rain continued outside. The smell of decay lingered in the air, thick and unmoving.
Minutes passed.
Ema stirred.
She rose quietly, walked over to him, and gently placed a blanket over his body. Then she sat beside the couch, resting her head near him.
After a moment, she pulled part of the blanket over herself.
Both of them lay there in silence.
Sleeping.
Calm.
Peaceful.
Outside, the rain fell endlessly. Inside, the quiet carried something soft—something almost innocent. A fragile stillness neither of them fully understood.
Ema's lips moved faintly in her sleep.
"Good night…" she whispered.