Carl came to, his brown eyes reflecting the flashing lights of the ambulance. The night wind howled, carrying the wail of sirens and the blare of horns, rustling the plane trees lining the street. It was a cold evening, the road surface still slick with damp.
Before him lay the scene of a traffic accident. The pulsating red and blue lights of several police cars and ambulances cast shifting, mottled patterns onto the wet tarmac.
Clark stood by the roadside, staring vacantly at the person being lifted onto a stretcher. His suit jacket, he realized, had somehow fallen to the ground, now smeared with mud.
In that instant, Carl's vision snapped into sharp focus.
Across a distance of a dozen meters or so, he saw clearly the person on the stretcher – Clark's wife, Elizabeth.
She was covered in blood, eyes quietly closed, her pallid wrist hanging limply over the edge of the stretcher.
Clark was no longer the young man Carl remembered.
His hair, though not bald, had thinned, and his face was etched with weariness.
His once erect posture was now slightly stooped, and he stood utterly distraught.
Streetlight filtered through the gaps in the leaves, casting fragmented shadows upon the ground around him.
Tears streamed silently down his face, his lips trembling, as if he wanted to speak, but no sound would come.
A gust of wind, laden with dust, swept past, and Carl instinctively closed his eyes.
The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and rainwater.
When he opened them again, the scene had shifted – on the stretcher lay his wife, Margaret, and by the roadside stood his younger self.
That day, he too had watched Margaret being lifted onto a stretcher, lost to him forever. The sensation of rain lashing against his face, a memory from that day, felt as real now as then.
A searing pain erupted in the left side of his chest, and Carl collapsed to his knees. His knees struck the wet ground with a heavy thud, mud seeping through his trousers. Tears streamed uncontrollably, and in this lucid anguish, he broke down in racking sobs.
The distant wail of sirens faded further and further away, and his consciousness gradually sank into darkness.
"Death truly is a beastly business."
The sentence reverberated through the cavernous hall, sound waves crashing against the ancient stone walls, eliciting a faint, ethereal hum. Carl looked up, following the sound, his pupils contracting sharply—flames were spreading like a tide through the darkness.
The first torch ignited silently, orange-red tongues of fire licking at the wall. Then the second, the third… the flames lit up in succession at fixed intervals, as if the entire hall was breathing with some unseen pulsation.
In the firelight, the hall's contours were etched into being, stroke by stroke, as if by a painter's brush. Runes on the walls writhed and twisted in the flickering light, like ancient serpents disturbed from slumber, every stroke whispering silent, cryptic messages understood only by the faithful. Shadows flowed across the stone walls, at times coalescing, at others dispersing, as if engaged in an invisible, silent struggle.
Twenty-four figures in black robes knelt upon the flagstones, their garments pooling like ink across the floor, gleaming with an eerie sheen in the firelight, resembling a dark tide poised to swallow the light. They held perfectly identical postures, like meticulously placed chess pieces. Carl noticed that each person's cuff was embroidered with a barely discernible silver thread, catching a faint metallic glint in the torchlight.
A colossal tiered stone altar dominated the center of the hall, its eight steps rising progressively, each slightly narrower than the last, like a stairway ascending to some unknown dimension. Carl's gaze swept over the steps, the meticulously carved patterns seemingly narrating an ancient prophecy: a colossal tiger born from chaos, separating light from darkness, only to return to nothingness on a destined day.
On the topmost step, a tall, slender black-robed figure stood proudly. His outline, at times sharp and at others blurred in the firelight, resembled a spirit traversing the boundary between reality and illusion, both belonging to this world and seemingly capable of dissolving into shadow at any moment. The firelight cast his shadow upon the mural behind him, perfectly aligning with the head of the colossal tiger depicted there, its eyes looking down upon everything below with an unsettling, indescribable power.
The air suddenly congealed, as if unseen pressure squeezed in from all directions, making everyone's breathing difficult, a crushing weight upon their chests. Dust motes hung suspended in the firelight; even time itself seemed to halt in that moment. The figure slowly raised his hands, and his hood slipped back, revealing a face of sharp angles. He wore thick-rimmed black spectacles, but the eyes behind the lenses were an unnatural silvery-white, like two cold full moons. Carl couldn't help but think of two men: Thomas and Commissioner Kevin; this person was like a fusion of the two.
"In tenebris tigris vigilat," he intoned, his voice low and magnetic, each syllable echoing as if from ancient times.
The kneeling congregation uniformly raised their heads, lifting their hands in unison. Their voices merged into a single, breathtaking roar: "In tenebris tigris vigilat." The echo lingered in the hall, making it impossible to discern if it was the voice of twenty-four or two million four hundred thousand.
"Per umbras veritas."
With this incantation, the black-robed figures rose one by one, their movements unnaturally fluid, like puppets manipulated by invisible strings. Their hoods fell back, revealing their true faces. Carl's gaze roamed among the figures, then suddenly fixed on a familiar face – Clark.
Clark's gaze was vacant and distant, as if his soul had been sucked out, or perhaps something even more terrifying had been injected into him. Carl's heart skipped a beat, and cold sweat trickled down his neck.
In that moment, he finally realized what he had stumbled into – the Tiger Shadow Society, engaged in an ancient ritual. And he, unwittingly, had become a part of it.
The scent of sandalwood and torch smoke intertwined in the air, mingling with the ancient, musty scent of the stone walls, creating a unique, mystical aroma. Carl noticed that the torches burned with an unusually soft hiss, as if even the flames were deliberately keeping their voices low.
"Agnus dei," the old man's voice reverberated through the hall, his silvery-white eyes particularly luminous in the firelight. The cold stone flagstones permeated the kneeling figures' robes and knees, but no one wavered from the chill.
He surveyed the congregation, a faint, elusive smile playing on his lips. "Per aspera ad astra. The Tiger has shown us the true meaning of strength, what true order is."
"Vis veritas est," the congregation murmured in response. Some bowed their heads, others lifted their faces, gazing hungrily at the altar. A young man's voice trembled slightly, while a middle-aged man beside him radiated a kind of fervent conviction.
"When the world slumbered under that eternal order," the old man's voice grew louder, the torchlight swaying gently with his words, "the Tiger chose to stand. When all was bound by rules, the Tiger tore through the shackles. This is not rebellion; this is revelation."
"Tigris dux noster." Amidst the unified chorus, some clenched their fists, while others trembled slightly. Clark squeezed his eyes shut, fine beads of sweat appearing on his forehead, as if bearing some invisible, immense pressure.
The heat from the torches rose into the air, creating a subtle interplay of temperatures with the cold stone walls. Candlelight cast dancing shadows on the black robes, making the kneeling congregation appear like a rising and falling black ocean.
"Let us pray," the old man's voice deepened, "not for mercy, for the Tiger teaches us that mercy is weakness. Not for peace, for the Tiger reveals that peace belongs to the strong. We pray for strength – pure, unshakeable strength."
Suppressed sobs emerged from the congregation, but were quickly drowned out by the prayers of others. Some traced strange symbols on their chests, while others clasped their hands tightly until their knuckles turned white. A palpable tension permeated the air.
"In umbra, in lucem," the prayers rose and fell, some hoarse, some clear, all carrying the same fervent devotion.
"Fortis fortuna adiuvat," the old man continued, "This is the Tiger's teaching; this is the truth we shall forever remember."
As the last syllable faded into the air, all the torches suddenly flickered violently, as if stirred by some unseen force. Carl felt a nameless dread creep from his feet to his head, not from the cold stone walls, but from the almost insane piety before him.
"The Tiger," the old man's eyes gleamed with undisguised reverence, "the supreme being, the embodiment of truth and power." The firelight danced madly in his silvery-white eyes, reflecting a fanatic glow. "My brothers, we have sung the story of the Tiger thousands, tens of thousands of times. But tonight," his words echoed through the stone walls, "tonight is different."
He slowly surveyed the kneeling congregation, his tone growing more solemn: "We have always believed He is the guiding light illuminating the future. And we, His loyal followers, lurk in the shadows like His very reflection, awaiting the moment to awaken the slumbering lambs. The Tiger's power will eventually dispel the haze and usher in a new epoch."
"Gloria Tigris!" the congregation responded in unison, their voices spreading continuously under the vaulted ceiling of the hall.
The old man slowly raised his hand, his black robe sleeve slipping back to reveal a pallid wrist. In the candlelight, his expression suddenly became solemn. "My brothers," he intoned, "the omens in the sky have manifested."
The congregation collectively held their breath. Some leaned slightly forward, others clasped their hands tightly, all sensing the extraordinary nature of the moment.
"The light of Outyoas is so dazzling it almost seared the eyes," a flicker of suppressed excitement crossed the old man's gaze, "and Microee and Uosasys are also speaking to us in their own ways." He paused, his gaze sweeping over everyone present. "This is the moment we have long awaited."
The scent of sandalwood lingered in the air, and the torchlight cast dancing shadows on the walls. His voice grew even deeper: "The heavens are revealing truth to us."
He waved a hand gently, motioning for silence. In that instant, even the flickering of the torch flames was distinctly audible.
"My brothers, the glory of the Tiger is with us." His hand trembled slightly. "The emissary is about to descend, bringing with him the Tiger's decree, to lead us in forging a new future. He is the embodiment of truth, destined to guide the lost lambs back to the light."
Suddenly, he stopped. His silvery-white eyes narrowed slightly, and a faint, elusive smile appeared on his lips. "But tell me, those of you present, have you ever considered why now? Why us?"
Firelight cast deep shadows on his face. "Because we are all lost sheep returning to the fold," his voice held an unsettling gentleness, "we admit our weakness and ignorance. It is this recognition, this awakening to truth, that has led the Tiger to choose us."
He slowly raised both hands: "Think, when the great Tiger faced WhitBlock, it represented more than just defiance. It represented a truth – that even the most powerful being can have weaknesses. That even eternal order can have fissures."
Carl noticed Clark's pupils suddenly contracting, as if he had heard something profound.
"And now, my dear brothers," the old man's voice suddenly sharpened, "let me tell you the true message the emissary brings: WhitBlock's power is waning. A fissure has appeared in that unseen world, and this fissure…"
His voice dropped to an almost inaudible whisper: "It is here, in Lansnat."
The moment the old man's words faded, the torch flames suddenly swayed violently.
The temperature in the air dropped at an unnatural speed, as if some unseen presence was devouring all warmth.
The kneeling faithful shivered in unison, heads bowed, as if awaiting something.
A pallid, milky mist seeped from the stone cracks, flowing across the floor like spectral tendrils, extinguishing the torchlight one by one in its wake.
The old man's figure, and those of the surrounding faithful, gradually faded into this eerie darkness.
Carl felt as if he had been flung into the deep sea, or perhaps into the void of space.
The concepts of up, down, left, and right vanished entirely in that moment; everything around him seemed to dissolve into nothingness.
He couldn't even distinguish if he was ascending or falling, moving forwards or backwards; he was utterly submerged in a boundless darkness.
Stray motes of light in the air suddenly coalesced into a single column of light, striking Clark directly from above.
He stood with his eyes closed, fingers interlaced, his pious figure starkly clear in this beam of light, like a silent statue, the surrounding darkness making the light seem even brighter.
Clink, clink, clink—
Faint metallic clinking echoed in the darkness.
A figure emerged from the interplay of light and shadow, dressed in a coarse linen robe, the typical garb of a penitent, yet it made him appear even more otherworldly. He was barefoot, and the iron shackles on his wrists and ankles jingled with his movements.
His was a face that was impossible to forget. He had a stunning mane of luminous silver hair, and his delicate features blurred the lines of gender. But what was most striking were his eyes – silvery-white sclera framing a pair of golden pupils, their gaze both distant and intimate, as if piercing the very fabric of time and space.
When his gaze swept over Carl, the latter felt a shiver of inexplicable terror run through him. The gaze was weightless, yet it seemed to touch his very soul. Carl's heart pounded erratically in that moment, his body trembled uncontrollably, and an irresistible urge to surrender welled up from deep within him.
A faint, elusive smile played on the person's lips, and his every gesture carried a graceful yet aloof quality. His very presence was like an elaborate enigma, drawing one in to decipher it, yet instinctively instilling fear.
He slowly bent down, leaning close to the still-kneeling Clark. His lips moved, seemingly speaking, but Carl heard no sound. Then, the figure produced two items from his voluminous sleeve.
The trembling Clark opened his hands, palms up.
An ancient tome and a finely crafted pocket watch were gently placed in his hands.
In an instant, an image struck Carl's brain like a bullet: a silvery-grey tabby cat and a gigantic tiger glowing with silvery-white light facing off in a desolate expanse bathed in twilight, numerous sheep kneeling around them.
"Detective? Detective, are you alright?"
Someone was patting his shoulder. Carl turned to see Clark looking at him anxiously. Not far from them, Elizabeth lay on the only large bed in the bedroom, holding her afternoon tea cup aloft.
Carl didn't respond to Clark's call. He began to move around the room, his gaze sweeping over every detail. The black-and-white photograph on the wall still perfectly froze that moment in time: the dancer's light skirt, an eternal pirouette. He reached out to touch the frame. A cold sensation emanated from his fingertips, so real, yet so false.
Clark nervously called his name from behind him, while Elizabeth's hand, holding the teacup, remained suspended in mid-air, her expression like a meticulously rendered oil painting, false and stiff.
Carl picked up the vase from the bedside table, letting it fall. The crisp sound of shattering glass broke the room's uncanny stillness.
Elizabeth let out a muffled shriek, as if her volume had been abruptly muted.
He continued his destruction. Tea sets, ornaments, photo frames. Each item landed with a distinct crack, fragments bouncing across the floor. Clark angrily rushed forward, attempting to halt this frenzied behavior.
"Are you mad?!" Clark's hand had barely touched Carl's shoulder when a heavy punch landed on his face. He staggered back, falling to the floor, covering his cheek in disbelief.
Carl turned to the wall, summoning all his strength to throw a punch. The sickening rip of flesh, blood streaming down his knuckles, yet the pain felt distant, as if viewed through frosted glass.
"Just as I thought. No matter how convincing, an illusion remained just that – an illusion."
The laughter from behind him was at first a faint hum, then slowly escalated into a grating shriek, like nails scraping against glass. Carl turned, meeting Clark's gaze. On that familiar face, his features were twisting in impossible ways.
"Detective Carl," Clark said, "you didn't truly believe any of this was just an illusion, did you?"
He pulled an ancient tome from his inner jacket pocket, his finger tracing its cracked leather cover. "These pages hold the secret to escaping death. My heart should have stopped three years ago, but these concoctions… they gave me new life."
Clark then produced a brass pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket. He began to swing it, and Carl's gaze followed its pendulum, his thoughts growing sluggish.
"Look at it, Detective. This little thing is special," Clark whispered. "It can make people forget… it allows me to pilfer time from others, their memories… everything will vanish."
He looked at Elizabeth on the bed. "My poor wife, she doesn't even remember how much time she gave me. Now our lives are intertwined."
"But all of this is only temporary," Clark's voice suddenly became feverish, "the book says only by awaiting the coming of God can my ailment truly be cured. And God needs sacrifices, pure, sinful souls."
His voice quickened: "I found them. I watched that couple in Le Petit Café, watched them drown in desire, watched them descend into utter depravity."
"They were perfect sacrifices. When I slit their throats, I knew God would soon descend."
"So you killed them," Carl's voice was quiet, but his right hand had unconsciously clenched into a fist.
Clark tilted his head, an almost artless smile appearing on his face: "Isn't it perfect? Their souls were already tainted by desire, and I used their deaths to barter for divine favor. Isn't that a form of salvation?"
"Detective," Clark's voice suddenly turned cold, "your time is up."
He gently raised his hand. Carl's feet suddenly left the ground, and an immense, crushing force clamped tightly around his throat. A real sense of suffocation flooded him, and he struggled futilely, his hands clawing at the air, grasping at nothing.
The world twisted, shattered, and reassembled before his eyes –
In the darkness, two points of spectral green light, like will-o'-the-wisps from the very depths of hell, drew nearer. Thomas's snarling face was starkly illuminated in the cold light, the pressure on his throat intensified, oxygen burned away in his veins. His brain screamed from lack of oxygen, blackness began to creep into the edges of his vision, and the chill of death spread from his limbs to his heart.
Don't kill me.
Please…
The sound wasn't a guttural gasp, but rather an echo from the depths of his consciousness. Tears streamed uncontrollably, warm liquid tracing paths down his cheeks. He felt a wetness in his groin – he had soiled himself.