William stared blankly at the chaotic smear of patterns and nearly burst into tears.

  “I… I’m just a newbie who’s barely stepped into occult study…”

  He forced back the tears, locked his eyes on the stains, and used meditation to steady his mind and coax out the instinctive spark of intuition.

  At last, something in William’s perception twitched. He saw a mass of cloud so thick it seemed impossible to dissolve.

  “I see… darkness.”

  He murmured in a dazed voice.

  “What you’re seeing is your future. It means you’ll face a threat of death soon—something we already know without divination. Be more specific. Time. Place.”

  Javon clicked his tongue.

  “I…”

  William could only push deeper into that fragile intuition.

  In his eyes, the bar around them dimmed all at once. Only the coffee stains on the saucer shimmered with a strange light.

  The light flowed and shifted, offering hazy images. He tried to seize them—only to realize he couldn’t make out anything clearly.

  In the end, tears streamed down William’s face as he whispered, “I saw an occult symbol… for a weekday…”

  “Limiting it to within a week? That’s worthless.”

  Javon delivered the verdict.

  What Javon had seen in his own divination was far clearer: three nights from now, in a dim alley, William would be lying in a pool of blood, his eyes slowly losing focus. Beside the corpse would stand a gentleman in a white suit, masked.

  “Boss, I—what do I do? Within a week, I’ll die?”

  William screamed.

  “Aren’t you still alive? You’re too green on the Tower Path. I did the hardest part of the divination for you, and you still can’t read symbols. If you wanted to perform and interpret this divination yourself, you’d need to open the Third Sephiroth—become an Adept—or even reach the Beyond Mortality-grade as a Sage before you could barely manage it.”

  Javon waved him off. “Go back to work… I’ll be watching you.”

  “So even if I’m about to die, I still can’t escape the fate of a wage slave?”

  William’s eyes went dull. Like a walking corpse, he returned behind the bar, his hands moving mechanically as he kept working on instinct…

  Two days passed in the blink of an eye.

  Javon didn’t go to Havier’s The Displaced Castle during those two days. He needed to maintain the appearance of “working hard” on the commission.

  Only when he occasionally ate at the bar did he hear from Balkin that William’s condition was getting worse by the day.

  At last, the third day arrived.

  Phoenix Street, 27.

  Javon entered the room where the Transposition Drawer sat. His intuition stirred faintly. He stepped forward, reached the carved drawer-cabinet, and pulled open the first drawer.

  Where it had been empty before, there now lay a letter—along with a thick stack of documents beneath it.

  The letter was sealed in a white envelope, written in elegant, delicate handwriting:

  To Mr. Ryan—To be opened personally.

  Javon removed the documents and the letter, then casually wrote a small note—Received—and dropped it into the drawer before closing the room.

  In his study, he brewed himself a cup of tea, leaned back in the cushioned chair behind the desk, and used the desk knife to slit the envelope open. He read slowly.

  Honored Mr. Ryan, I have compiled and organized all materials regarding the descendants of the rebels, and I enclose them with this letter. Next I will provide a brief overview—after the Kingslayer Soren died, those rebels’ descendants soon fell into chaos as well, at one point nearing extinction. But during the Dark and Turbulent Age, they sought refuge beneath a Velthyr called The Night-Mother. With the help of that great existence, they barely preserved their bloodline, and established an organization known as—The Blood of Decay!

  They hunt the other descendants of Sothos with fanatic zeal. They appear to possess a bloodline secret art that allows them to draw strength from closely related bloodlines—this should be something The Night-Mother taught them. By now, The Blood of Decay has surpassed The Green Banyan Council, and possesses more than one Beyond Mortality-grade existence!

  They are extremely cunning and dangerous. The Council has confirmed that the other branch of House Sothos has been nearly wiped out by them. Moreover, they are very smart: they prefer to hide killings inside accidents and ‘natural deaths.’ Their operations are highly covert. As a result, they have drawn little attention, and have not attracted suppression from the National Bureau of Occult Affairs.

  Javon fell silent for a long time, set the letter down, and looked to the dossier beneath: materials on The Blood of Decay.

  The Blood of Decay uses a sect model, recruiting only among members’ descendants. They worship The Night-Mother. Most members are Transcendents with the Sanguis element. Known Beyond Mortality-grade figures include Bojin Soren and Bloodthirster—Lowfman Soren…

  Below that were portraits.

  Javon glanced once. Bojin looked like an elderly scholar. Lowfman was middle-aged, with a sullen, villainous face that didn’t even bother to pretend at decency.

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  Beyond those two, the dossier contained profiles of upper ranks—mostly Third Sephiroth. To The Green Banyan Council they were mortal enemies, but to Javon they were fodder; he skimmed and moved on.

  Yet his mind connected the threads and drew out more.

  “The Night-Mother… She shelters the descendants of Sean. Is She interested in Javon Sothos? After all—he was the first Transcendent…”

  “And She doesn’t even bother to disguise it. The Ossuary Lord is Her child. She holds the authority of breeding and propagation—who else could it be but The Flesh-Mother Tree?”

  “Renaming Herself The Night-Mother… does that mean The Flesh-Mother Tree, even after giving birth to The Ossuary Lord, still hasn’t fully stripped away the wounds Umbral left behind? Has She tilted toward Umbral? Or… is this so-called The Night-Mother merely one avatar of The Flesh-Mother Tree’s Umbral element?”

  Javon caught the scent of conspiracy.

  In ancient eras, among the Velthyr, aside from the Crimson Creator, the strongest had likely been The Flesh-Mother Tree and The Black Sun.

  The latter had fallen completely. But The Flesh-Mother Tree should not be dead.

  Still, raising The Blood of Decay as servants and studying bloodline traceback is probably just a casual move for that Obscured Existence. After all, Spirit of Null Observance has never appeared in the mundane world.

  I still have many layers of concealment. I left no direct bloodline behind. The chance of them catching any real thread is almost zero.

  That ruin the “Vultures” uncovered—was it left by The Blood of Decay? And they’re a purely Sanguis path. Perfect. Exactly what I need for my advancement to The Omniforge.

  Deep night.

  After a full day’s labor, William locked up the bar with practiced speed. He dragged his exhausted body outside and headed toward his lodging.

  “I’m dying of fatigue… maybe I should ask the boss to let me sleep in the bar. If I cancel my rental, that’s a whole rent payment saved…”

  He had already entered a narrow alley.

  If his divination skill were high enough, he would have noticed how closely this alley resembled the backdrop Javon had seen in the prophecy…

  A bitter wind cut at William’s face. He tightened his coat.

  Then—some special sound moved within the darkness.

  William’s hand went to the dagger hidden at his waist.

  In the next instant, a cold gust passed. His lower back took a crushing blow. A tearing agony erupted—worse still, his vitality seemed to pour out through that wound.

  Clang.

  The dagger fell from William’s hand. He collapsed into a pool of blood.

  A man in a white suit stood beside him without warning, like a gentleman dressed for a banquet.

  Mr. E.

  He licked the blood from his weapon with greed. “So this is the bloodline of Sothos? That unique occult flavor and texture… exquisite.”

  He looked down at William and smiled with open mockery.

  “Your behavior these past few days has puzzled me. You didn’t try to run. You didn’t try to seek help. I even suspected you had a trap beside you. Has madness and fear eaten your brain?”

  N-no… I did seek help. The boss said he’d help me…

  William’s lips moved, but no sound came out.

  “Relax. You won’t die.” Mr. E bent low. “I only injected a bit of anesthetic. In the Bloodcoat Club, plenty of members are waiting for your offering, dear ingredient.”

  “To cook you properly, there’s a procedure. I need you at the edge of death so we can draw the Tower Essence out of you. Shall we make it into mushroom sauce? Your Tower Essence is lethal poison to certain Paths, but some members adore it. Some even suggested eating you raw.”

  He sighed, as if magnanimous. “I refused, of course. Hoarding food isn’t good manners.”

  Mr. E spoke slowly, savoring William’s helpless terror. When he finished, he produced a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands with elegant care.

  Just then, another cold wind blew through, lifting scraps of newspaper into a graceful spiral.

  Mr. E’s expression changed.

  His Essence screamed warning—massive danger.

  “Who’s there?”

  He scanned the surroundings, but saw no intruder. Sweat beaded on his forehead. In his hand he crushed a high-tier talisman, ready to throw it.

  “Ghk… ghk…” A thin, granular sound answered.

  Mr. E looked down—and saw William on the ground.

  William’s teeth were chattering involuntarily, making that ghk-ghk sound.

  Then something grotesque happened.

  William’s face became blank. His body twitched without his will, and he rose—legs unbent—upright like a marionette on invisible strings.

  Even the blood on the ground began to flow backward into the wound, and the injury sealed at a frightening speed.

  “A wraith possession?!”

  Mr. E understood instantly. “The smell of blood drew in a spirit of the dead? But this one’s rank is… too high.”

  “This level of Spirit Body—how is the National Bureau of Occult Affairs allowing it to roam Wynchester’s streets?”

  William’s eyes were closed.

  When they opened again in the darkness, they shone like two brilliant violet gemstones.

  A chill unique to a Malevolent Spirit spread outward, frosting the ground.

  “Not a normal wraith—Malevolent Spirit!”

  Mr. E shrieked. He chanted, threw a talisman, and bolted without even glancing back.

  Even his hidden trump card couldn’t contend with a Beyond Mortality-grade existence.

  After tossing the talisman, Mr. E did not turn his head once. The muscles in his legs bulged as he ran for his life.

  Violet eyes—Sothos’s Malevolent Spirit? Damn it! These big-family descendants always have a lifeline.

  Mr. E sprinted like the wind. In the blink of an eye he reached the end of the alley, where he could see the brick-laid street and bright lamplight.

  He’d decided: once he reached the street, he’d scream and draw attention. Even being seized by the Bureau would be preferable.

  Inside the Bureau, he might survive through club connections.

  If the Malevolent Spirit caught him, he would truly die.

  Bang!

  Mr. E, mid-sprint, felt himself slam into a wall of iron hardness. Pain exploded. His nose felt like it shattered.

  He was thrown backward to the ground. Ignoring the pain, he stared at the alley mouth—the opening that should have been freedom.

  A transparent layer of insects emerged, and then a sky-filling tide of black beetles poured in, sealing him inside.

  One beetle after another landed. The surroundings warped.

  It was as if everything he had just experienced had been an illusion crafted by insects.

  “Ah!”

  Mr. E roared and fought desperately—only for black mandibles to bite through his skin. He screamed.

  The screams struck the insect-formed “walls,” and the outside world heard almost nothing.

  At last, a puppet-bug landed on Mr. E, and his body went rigid. He lost all ability to move.

  He could only watch William draw closer.

  How can a Malevolent Spirit command insects? Unless… this isn’t a Malevolent Spirit at all. Unless it’s a Transcendent… and William has a Beyond Mortality-grade existence behind him.

  Mr. E cursed The Blood of Decay in his heart. Their intelligence had a failure this catastrophic—it was practically an attempt to get him killed.

  The marionette-like William stopped before Mr. E. His voice was dry and scraped raw.

  “Why did you frame William on purpose? Give me an exact name.”

  In a flash, Mr. E weighed a thousand thoughts.

  In the end he spat out a name. “Rafael Soren—he’s directly under The Blood of Decay’s hunting unit. Their leader is Lowfman Soren. My lord… I’m a member of the Bloodcoat Club. I’m willing to serve you!”

  “The Bloodcoat Club’s background is huge—what does that have to do with me? You want to scare me with it?”

  Javon snorted.

  A hand pressed down on Mr. E’s head. Cold. Stillness. Deathlike quiet spread in an instant.

  “I only need you as divination material.”

  A moment later, in the alley, a skin-crawling sound of chewing rose softly.

  “Feeding him to Roberts’s Arcane Insect Box is perfect.”

  Javon, possessing William, spoke without emotion. “Let him experience—personally—what it means to become ‘food.’”

  The puppet-like William walked out of the alley, step by step…