Chapter 26: Reenactment

Opening the door had clearly required an occult Spell Formula, ensuring that anyone who stumbled down here by mistake would never be able to get inside.

The space beyond the door was vastly larger than the corridor outside. The oil lamp's light only reached a few steps ahead.

A silver plate was embedded perfectly in the center of the room.

A thick layer of frost coated its surface. It was the same substance that had clung to the silver discs in the corridor, but much denser, nearly obscuring the plate entirely.

Mr. Hutton carried his leather bag into the room and crouched about three steps away from the center.

He poured a few drops of holy water into his palm, rubbed his hands together, and gripped his Engraving Tool.

Erosion had worn away the original inscriptions, leaving some of the strokes blurred.

The old man traced the blurred strokes with his Engraving Tool to deepen them anew. Despite being in his fifties, his fingers did not tremble in the slightest.

There wasn't much to re-carve, and he finished the task quickly.

The engraving done, he picked up the tin of grayish-white wax, scooped out a small lump with the tip of his tool, and packed it into the grooves to patch the inscriptions.

Richard leaned back against the iron door, maintaining his Breathing rhythm as he watched the process unfold.

In his mind, he filed and categorized every detail he observed.

The silver plate was the "subject," the inscriptions were the "grammar," and the wax was the "binder";

the holy water was likely "extra insurance" to ensure he didn't carry anything tainted back with him.

The underlying logic of the entire system perfectly mirrored what he had read in that textbook on mineral mediums.

Theory was manifesting into reality.

About ten minutes later, Mr. Hutton checked his work one last time. Satisfied, he packed his tools away.

He retrieved the Silver Coin from his pocket, placed it dead center on the silver plate, and held it down with his index finger.

He began to chant.

Reading his lips, Richard guessed he was reciting a prayer.

The repetitive syllables stacked upon one another, his tone growing heavier and more forceful.

The frost on the silver plate began to converge toward the Silver Coin. Ultimately, the entire layer broke down into incredibly fine dust and was cleanly absorbed into the coin.

Mr. Hutton hit the final syllable of his prayer and fell silent.

The moment the seal was complete, the oppressive pressure tightening their chests abruptly vanished.

Richard was just about to breathe a sigh of relief.

But an image suddenly flooded his vision.

There was no warning, no transition.

The circular room, the silver plate, Mr. Hutton's back—everything in his sight was instantly drained of color, fading into a grayish-white negative. In the very next breath, a new scene overwrote it.

He saw a textile factory workshop.

Silk-reeling machines sat in two long rows. The wooden frames were stretched tight with dense arrays of silk thread. Spools spun; drive belts churned.

Gas lamps hung from the ceiling beams, their dim yellow glow casting the workshop into a jagged patchwork of light and shadow.

Female workers sat at their stations, their fingers darting rapidly through the threads.

The air was thick with the distinct, raw stench of unrefined silk. Mixed with the sharp tang of machine oil, the smell clung like grease to the back of his throat.

Richard's five senses had been completely hijacked. He was seeing through someone else's eyes and hearing through someone else's ears.

The workshop doors opened. The thing standing in the doorway used to be a young woman.

Its hair hung loose, completely concealing half of its face.

It still wore its white burial dress. It stood barefoot on the floorboards, its toenails turning black.

On its exposed half of the face, the pupil was blown wide and completely clouded over.

The workers stationed near the door spotted it first.

An older woman dropped her shuttle. It struck the iron base of her reeling machine with a sharp clank.

The noise echoed across the workshop, drawing everyone's attention.

They turned to find a corpse that should have been resting in a coffin standing right before them, fresh blood staining its lips and white dress.

After a split second of dead silence, screams erupted from every corner of the room.

The women scrambled backward, but two bold male workers snatched up iron shuttles and massive shears from a corner and charged.

The first man's iron shuttle smashed into the ghoul's shoulder, letting out the dull, heavy thud of metal striking metal.

The ghoul didn't even flinch.

It reached out and clamped a hand over the man's face.

As its fingers contracted, Richard heard the sickening crunch of a shattering skull.

The man was hoisted into the air and violently hurled aside. He slammed into a reeling machine, snapping several silk threads.

The second man plunged his massive shears into the ghoul's back, but the blades only sank in a fraction of the way.

The ghoul slowly turned around. A careless shake of its body sent the shallowly buried shears clattering to the floor.

Seeing their attacks prove utterly useless, all remaining order in the workshop shattered.

The women stampeded toward the rear exit. They shoved at one another, trampling those who tripped and fell.

Piercing screams, terrified wails, and the mindless hum of the still-idling machinery churned together.

The ghoul didn't chase the fleeing mob. It locked onto the nearest person sprawled on the ground.

Its head tilted to an angle that would have snapped a living neck, and its mouth opened wide...

In that exact instant, Richard was yanked from observer to participant.

He suddenly realized he wasn't just watching the scene anymore. He was in it.

He was one of the workers.

He was stumbling backward. His foot caught on something, and he crashed to the floor.

His gaze was forced upward, locking directly onto the ghoul's clouded pupil as it prepared to feed.

There was no consciousness in that eye. No malice. No hunger. Just... nothing.

You could weep, run, or beg for mercy—it wouldn't speed up or slow down a fraction of a second in response.

Physical attacks were ineffective; vitality extraction efficiency was exceptionally high; behavioral patterns were driven purely by instinct... The gulf between the dry descriptions in a textbook and witnessing it in the flesh was vaster than he could have ever imagined.

He wanted this power.

The ghoul's strength was nothing more than a polluted, defective byproduct. What he truly desired was the power from the vast system hiding behind the veil.

The power to ignite the inscriptions on the silver plate. The power to bind—and even dispel—these evil creatures.

The moment the thought crystallized, Richard naturally began to regulate his Breathing.

Inhale for four beats. He forcefully tore his focus away from the residual vision, drawing it back behind his sternum.

Hold for four beats. The familiar warmth within the Seat of the Sun condensed once more, acting as an anchor amidst his chaotic senses.

Exhale for four beats. The textile factory began to bleach of color; the stark outlines of the reeling machines blurred.

Hold for four beats. The basement phased back into existence, the sharp glare of the silver plate stinging his eyes.

The vision shattered. The residual images peeled away from the edges of his sight, piece by piece.

Mr. Hutton's hand hovered inches from his left shoulder, just about to shake him awake.

Richard turned to look at him. The old man froze, visibly stunned.

He had fully expected to see a face warped by uncontrollable terror.

Anyone swept up in a death-echo vision usually suffered violent trauma responses upon breaking free:

Vomiting, spasms, incontinence, or even a temporary psychological collapse.

He had seen it happen far too many times. But Richard showed none of these symptoms.

Mr. Hutton's hand hung awkwardly in midair.

"Are you..."

"I'm fine."

"What did you see?"

"The textile factory. I saw what happened after the ghoul walked through the door."

Mr. Hutton's Adam's apple bobbed.

"The entire sequence?"

"Everything. From the moment it pushed the doors open to when it started feeding."

"How did you break out?"

"I adjusted my Breathing rhythm. I used the Fourfold Breathing framework to reel my focus back to my Seat of the Sun, and the residual images dissipated on their own."

The old man let out a heavy sigh and covered his face with his other hand.

"Mr. Hutton?"

"It's nothing."

His voice came muffled through his fingers. "I am reflecting on my mistakes."

He pulled his hand away, revealing an old face deeply lined with lingering fear.

"It was a severe misjudgment on my part. I assumed your current ether affinity was far too low to trigger the residual images...

The final stage of reinforcing a seal always comes with a brief burst of ether. That's when they are at their most active."

"For the vast majority of people, a release of that magnitude wouldn't have the slightest effect. But your Inspiration is leagues beyond what I had estimated."

He patted the dust off his trousers.

"You endured a full scene reenactment with zero protective measures, and you managed to break out entirely on your own."

"Or perhaps..." He suddenly paused, a strange expression crossing his features.

"Don't tell me... you weren't scared at all?"

Richard didn't answer immediately.

The old man shook his head.

"Never mind, I don't want to know. Let's go. We can talk outside."