The Stonemason felt his heart suddenly cease to beat. His strength rapidly drained as his whole body, staggering, toppled onto the shelves.
His vision darkened continuously. In his unconsciously dilated pupils, the image of a heart soaked in a formalin solution was reflected.
Is this... an abnormal organ...
Caught in a deep illusion, the Stonemason seemed to see a middle-aged white man with pale, bushy sideburns and a beard, emerging with ease from a luxurious carriage stopped on the side of a dense forest.
The man wore a shirt, vest, and coat—the standard attire of a 19th-century upper-class gentleman. He leaned on a wooden cane, exuding an air of superiority.
He stepped down from the carriage, glanced at the workers busily felling twisted trees, and with a cryptic smile, said softly to the butler behind him, "Tell the workers not to discard those bent black trees. Use them to construct houses."
The butler calmly nodded. "Yes, Lord Williams."
