“Which way do we take?” Acryl asked as Kaspar and he stood at a crossroads of staircases. In the damp and old, rot-scented, and dark manor, the only abundant things were mold, mosses, and stairs. Acryl couldn’t imagine what the architects of this place were thinking. Was it to show the pride of the owner? To make him look fabulous while walking down the stairs and welcoming his visitors? But after so many years, there will be no one to welcome them and walk in. No god for the pilgrims and no idols for the followers.

  There was darkness unlit by the blooms of light; it was darker and gloomier than the lake water and opened up sewer, only without the damp and compost-like smell. Instead, it was dry the walls had cracks, and perhaps with the slightest spark, it would trigger an explosion due to the dust accumulated over the years. At the end of the staircases was a door, on which Acryl could see fading symbols.

  Kaspar pushed open the door. It slid and screeched on the floor as he turned it. Wet, humid air was the first thing welcoming them, it reminded Acryl of summer days in southern Siyue. Behind it was a hall, akin to a ceremony hall, different from the entrance and the corridor-bright, lit by the cathedral-like glass roof, the light split into shards, literal and abstract shards of light. Light blossom floating and falling, dropping. They were cherry blossoms with no trees, forever sealed within the blooming seasons. Their trip was safer and more smooth sailing than Acryl expected. There were no abnormalities, no temple and tomb traps, and pulp-fiction-like enemies. On their way here, Acryl picked up many things for Kaspar, mostly books and scrolls; some bottles that he carefully placed between the leather covers of the worn-out books.

  He and Kaspar stopped to gaze at the blossoms. Acryl could only see Kaspar’s back, but he was sure even Kaspar’s steady, unmoving, and almost ignorant expression was melted down by this scene never seen.

  One blossom of light fell on his shoulder, it melted like a real snowflake. The shard and dust of light rolled down his linen sleeve, down into the ground, and disappeared before it reached the floor.

  “Kaspar…what is that?” he asked, wanting to reach for his sketchbook, but his hand was full of books.

  “…I don’t know….I don’t know…” Kaspar said as a smile appeared on his face. His eyes were sparkling.

  “Shard-light…shard-light…” Kaspar mumbled. His hand reached for the light snowflake.

  “Put the books down…we have plenty of time,” Kaspar said as he turned Acryl, his eyes wide open. Acryl did as he said. The books slid onto the dust blanket, one on another.

  He walked on the grid-wooden floor, leaving footsteps in the dust. Some deeper than others, some- just scraping off the surface. The scene in front of Acryl felt unreal, despite seeing the horrors in the Prolonged Mist and growing up listening to the tales of Remnant tides, he felt this hall was something truly alien, something of this world yet unbelievably out of place, like a harmonized painting with a splash of bright, conflicting colors on it. The sound of the footsteps and the floor’s creaking was amplified by the structure of the walls and the roof as if he and Kaspar weren’t the only ones here.

  The light fell on his shoulder and melted on the pale gray linen. Dust from years Acryl couldn’t comprehend layered on top of each other as if they were snow of light.

  “The First Mephisto was the first sage among all, the first to blend the border of the dust and stars,” Kaspar said as he stood beside Acryl. His voice and tone were loud and clear, talking in a way Canvas would talk when explaining how the pigments he used were made, and enthusiastic as Neon’s father when talking about Siyuenese folklore.

  “What else did he do?” Acryl asked, feeling the strain and pain of his Realm-art, as if it was strangling him, the hexagon marks crawled up his arms.

  “These shapes,” Kaspar said, grabbing Acryl’s wrist and rolling up his sleeve, “are the extension of the Realm-art implant.”

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  “This is why you can control Furnace better,r and it was only one of his many contributions.”

  “What happened to him later?” Acryl said while Kaspar walked away, towards the other side of the hall. Kaspar left a trail as his lantern wobbled by the beat of his footsteps.

  “Later? Nobody knew. After a tragedy where most of his pupils died and those who remained spread to other countries, the First Mephisto exited this grand play of history.”

  Acryl followed him, out from the other side of the hall. As he exited it, the darkness took over and so was the unpleasant cold air.

  “Good question…from what I’ve observed as seen, this house doesn’t follow the traditions or customs of the pre-Starseeker descent time.”

  “But the exterior looks way newer than pre-calendar times,” Acryl said as he felt chills coming from the upper floor’s direction. There was no wind, but it was cold as a knife passing by his throat, not cutting it, but piercing fear in him.

  “Kaspar…we have been walking so long, where is the thing you looked for?” Acryl asked. His hand fidgeted with the eraser in his pocket, letting his fear be absorbed by the rubber. He didn’t remember how long he had kept this habit of fidgeting, but with anything of an art supply, he would fidget with it.

  “…It is here, in this place…but…why is it missing?” Kaspar said as he cast his Realm-art. Acryl could feel it, the wave of reality slightly rocking him as the sense of casting crept up to him. An unconscious reaction and realization, like a sense outside sight, smell, touch, hearing, and taste.

  Realm-art: Free Marksman

  “It only reveals its secret to those who don’t have a sharpened Realm-art.”

  “…It’s fine, Acryl, it’s fine, I knew it from the beginning…you don’t have to be the key to the gate, nor the kindling to the furnace,” Kaspar said, eyes locked onto Acryl. He shivered at Kaspar’s stare. In Kaspar’s eyes, Acryl saw the thing he would see in the reflection of a blade. Acryl didn’t like the sensation, but he was ready to face it as he clenched his fist.

  “We, humans, are lost in the sea of the Realm. Stranded on the island of This World, nations rise and fall, believing that they are the closest to the truth, the enlightenment, the absolute.”

  “But in the end, we are all ignorant fools, trapped in this cave and entertained by the slip of sunlight coming through the cave’s opening, believing we had seen it all.”

  “…Kaspar, what do you mean?” Acryl said, preparing to cast his Realm-art. The wave of his casting whirled, but was quickly overshadowed and crushed by Kaspar’s Realm-art. Acryl can’t see through Kaspar.

  “They should have arrived, no?” Kaspar said carelessly as he took a look at his watch.

  “You know who I’m talking about, the secret only reveals its secret to those without a sharpened Realm-art.”

  “She doesn’t have a Realm-art,” Acryl said, frowning. He was ready to turn the ground around Kaspar into a cage of spears if he ever mentioned Neon’s name. But his hand was trembling. He knew what his Realm-art could and could not do. Acryl would like to melt the ground on which Kaspar stood, but he couldn’t; the livingness of creatures protects them.

  “That…did I specify if they need a Realm-art at all?”

  Realm-art: Pure-white palette

  The light emerged in Kaspar’s fingertips as he made a finger gun hand sign and pointed his index and middle fingers toward Acryl. His muscles jerked as he turned the ground around him into colors, dense and thick. The colors rose like an invisible paintbrush picking them up.

  Acryl wanted to be defensive, at least, walk out of here in one piece. As he was waiting for Kaspar to shoot out his Realm-art, observing his Realm-art’s effect, Kaspar aimed above the ornamented and shining ceiling.

  Acryl’s eyes followed the bullet as he squinted his eyes. Its trajectories resembled a cut on a skin. As he was sunk in his thoughts for a second, the breaking of the glass brought Acryl back.

  And something fell out of it.

  “What do you think I came to Euth for? It would be only a waste of time if I don’t get the most out of this trip…knowledge, clues, powers, secrets.”

  “But sadly…I will be returning to Auderheim without shaking the hand of the Letter-Writer.”

  “And you, my friend, I made a fatal mistake of trusting strangers.”