Noir pushed the door to Alder's room shut, the soft click echoing in the sudden quiet. He stood for a moment, the ordinary sound a stark contrast to the day's bewildering events. The fortune teller, her sharp gaze, and the unsettling cards still rattled him. He'd brushed her off, but the feeling of being truly seen by a stranger was profoundly unsettling.
He walked to the desk, its dark wood a silent promise of answers. This was Alder's space, full of his life and knowledge. Noir sat down, the chair's familiar creak a small comfort in the vast strangeness. His eyes fell on the scattered papers, the tall stacks of books, and the old, carved parchment about a "luck increasing ritual." This was his starting point. To survive and play the part of Alder Wilson, he had to understand this new world. Alder's fragmented memories were his only map.
He began to read, picking up documents and scanning book indexes. He absorbed maps, histories, and surveys, trying to make Alder's broken memories fit with the printed words. His mind, trained in his past life to sort through information, worked intensely despite his inner chaos.
"So, the Era of Machinery," he mumbled to himself, tracing a diagram of a steam engine. "Not so different from my time, but clearly a new path." He learned this world had four main powers: the Croele Kingdom, the Sylvan Kingdom, the Habsburg Kingdom, and the Aural Kingdom. He was in Croele, a detail that matched Alder's vague memories of his home city.
His eyes narrowed as he read about the calendar. "Years, months, days… all the same. But the days of the week…" He paused, noticing a pattern. "They're named after… gods?"
He read the list: "The God of Knowledge and Wisdom, Eternal Blazing Sun, Mother Earth, Lord of Storms, God of Advancements, God of Combat, and the Goddess of Fortune." A pantheon. A religious system built into their week. The last god, Fortune, brought back an unsettling echo of his recent encounter.
He turned another page, digging into world politics. The Croele Kingdom, where he was, was clearly the industrial heart. "Controls technology, huh?" he muttered, a faint curl to his lips. "The rise of machines, indeed." He noted the ruler, King Louis VIII, a name that stirred another vague memory from Alder's past, perhaps from a history lesson or a royal order.
Then he moved to the Sylvan Kingdom. "Ah, the Sylvan Kingdom," he read, "home to the Church of Earth Mother." He pictured lush forests. Yet, Alder's memory added a detail: cherishes nature, but still quite advanced. This world didn't reject progress; it simply found different ways to use it. The image formed in his mind: steam power alongside reverence for old natural forces, a strange mix.
Noir also pieced together details about schooling. Most major institutes were run by churches. Alder himself was in the University of the Church of God of Knowledge, which taught history. This fit with Alder's love for old books. Grace, two years older, was a final-year student at the university run by the Church of Advancements. That church taught about machinery and the science behind this world's technology. Both churches and their schools were in the Croele Kingdom.
He recalled the date: November 5th, Year 825 of the Era of Machinery, the day he had unwillingly arrived. A fresh wave of confusion hit him as he looked at the calendar. University classes were only two days a week: Wednesday and Saturday. Today was Friday, the day of the Goddess of Fortune – the day he'd transmigrated. His mind raced. That meant tomorrow.
A knot formed in his stomach. Tomorrow, Saturday, he would have to go to Alder Wilson's classes. He, Noir Kagenou, with only broken memories and a stolen identity, would have to walk into a university lecture hall. How could he fake knowledge he didn't have? How long could he keep up this act?
The dim light of the gas lamp on the desk cast long shadows across the room. Outside, the city sounds faded into the quiet of the night. Noir didn't notice, lost in the complex details of this new world. He felt its vastness, the endless mysteries beyond Alder's familiar room. It was a complexity far greater than anything from his old life. As he read, a chilling understanding grew: this was a world not just of steam and cities, but of something deeper, something touched by the very gods whose names marked the days of the week. And he, the Fool, had just stepped onto its stage, with a university class waiting for him in the morning.
Noir's mind reeled with the revelation of the ritual. The Fool that doesn't belong to this era. The realm of absurdness. The Castle's mists. Every phrase in the inscription echoed the impossible events of his transmigration. Had Alder, this historian, been trying to contact that entity? Had he, Noir, merely stepped into a pre-existing summons? The questions swirled, but a strange, almost absurd compulsion took hold. If this ritual was the key, if it truly led to that 'Castle of Fabrications,' then he had to try.
He closed his eyes, focusing on the words, reciting the prayer silently in his mind, his fingers tightening around the ancient parchment. He poured all his confusion, his frustration, his desperate need for answers into the invocation. The dim glow of the gas lamp seemed to flicker.
Then, everything blacked out again.
He reappeared not in Alder's room, but in the familiar, unsettling expanse of the grey mists. This time, however, he wasn't alone. Standing a few feet away, also shrouded in the swirling haze, were two other people.
...
Miles away, onboard a ship battling the gentle swell of the sea, a young man in his early thirties stood on the deck. His dull blue hair, reaching a few inches below his shoulders, swayed slightly in the sea breeze. Clad in a black shirt and trousers with a long coat that billowed around him, he clutched an artifact. It was the compass of destiny, a relic whispered to take its possessor to their desired destination. As he held it, the compass began to glow with an insistent, unearthly light, humming with a low vibration. In the next instant, the glow enveloped him, and he, too, was summoned away into the grey mists.
...
Simultaneously, within the opulent confines of a noble palace, a young woman in her early twenties sat before a grand, silver-framed mirror. This wasn't just any mirror; it was an artifact rumored to have once belonged to the enigmatic Shadow Emperor himself – the Mirror of Desires. Legends claimed it could project the deepest desires of its wielder, and if a long connection had been forged, even manifest them. As she gazed into its depths, lost in a fleeting thought, the mirror began to shine with an intense, blinding brilliance. With a soft hum, the girl, too, was brought into the grey mists.
...
The man with dull blue hair and the noble girl stood in the swirling grey, utterly confused, their eyes wide with disbelief. Their gazes fell upon Noir, who, despite his own internal turmoil, seemed to be processing the impossible with an unnerving calm.
"What… what is happening?" the man finally stammered, his voice raw with shock.
The girl nodded vehemently, her hand instinctively reaching for the mirror, which was no longer there. "Yes! Where are we? Who are you?"
Noir, though his mind screamed for answers as loudly as theirs, quickly calculated his next move. He had two choices: act completely dumb and as bewildered as them, or seize control of the situation. He recalled the Host's words, the game, and his assigned role: the Fool. If this was a stage, then he might as well play the lead.
He chose to play along. "This," Noir began, his voice resonating with an authority that surprised even himself, "was an attempt." As he spoke, his mind raced, trying to reconcile the mist with the 'Castle of Fabrications' he had encountered before. Why wasn't it here?
As if in response to his silent query, the grey mists swirled violently, coalescing and solidifying around them. Pillars rose, impossibly tall, supporting an unseen ceiling, and the colossal crimson moon pulsed into existence at the far end. The grand, rectangular table materialized, leading to a singular, imposing chair. The Castle of Fabrications had manifested, vast and mystical.
At the same moment, a thought flashed through Noir's mind: A mighty lord needs a proper attire. In an instant, his linen shirt and trousers vanished, replaced by a fantastic dark grey suit with a long coat that cascaded dramatically below his knees. The familiar sensation of fine fabric, far grander than his previous clothes, settled upon him.
He walked with newfound confidence to the head of the rectangular table, where the Host had sat during their last encounter. This time, the other end of the table was conspicuously lacking a seat, reinforcing his new, singular position. He settled into the ornate chair, its carved wood perfectly molding to his form, and gestured grandly to the two bewildered newcomers.
"Welcome," Noir said, his voice now deep and captivating, filled with an unearned but utterly convincing gravitas. "Welcome! to my lair, my castle. The place where absurdness remains." He leaned forward slightly, a theatrical glint in his black eyes. "This is where wishes are granted. Where fate is determined." He didn't mean a single word of it; he was simply babbling, pulling phrases from the ritual and his own cynical observation of the world, but the words held an undeniable power in this strange realm.
The girl gasped, her eyes wide with a sudden, excited realization. "My wish! My wish has been fulfilled!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling with barely contained joy. "I had always wished for an adventure!" She looked at Noir, her gaze filled with awe, and then she executed a low, graceful bow, as if greeting a deity. "It is an honor, my Lord."
Noir, now clad in the magnificent dark grey suit, settled into the Host's grand chair at the head of the table. He gestured to the two bewildered newcomers, offering them seats, then fell completely silent, his face subtly obscured by the lingering mist, deliberately cultivating an air of enigmatic authority. He wanted to be perceived as mysterious, a powerful entity.
The man, with his dull blue hair, shifted uncomfortably in his newly manifested seat. "Since we are here," he began, his voice hesitant, "perhaps we should discuss something."
The girl, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and eager curiosity, turned towards Noir. "My Lord," she started, her voice barely above a whisper, "how does one… become an Ascendant?"
Noir remained silent, letting the question hang in the air, allowing his obscured face to remain unreadable. The man, seemingly accustomed to answering such questions or perhaps impatient with Noir's silence, stepped in. "If you wish to become an Ascendant, your simplest path is to join a Church," he explained, his tone practical.
The girl immediately recoiled, a frown creasing her brow. "A Church? Oh, I don't like the sound of that at all. I want freedom, not… doctrine."
"Then there is another way," the man continued, undeterred, "through potions." He leaned forward, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "I possess the recipes for two Sequence-9 potions. The Sailor Potion, which grants unparalleled balance – a person can stand firm even in a storming sea, enhanced lungs capacity and mild control over air currents. And the Harbinger Potion, which grants the ability to perceive early signs of future events, sense immediate danger and experience glimpses of future."
The girl's eyes lit up, clearly drawn to the latter. "The Harbinger! Can I… can I acquire that recipe?" she asked, her voice laced with excitement.
The man smiled, a glint in his eye. "Indeed. For an exchange of equal value, of course. For the Observer recipe, I would require a Single Tear of a Weeping Willow: A drop of sap-like tear from an ancient willow tree, renowned for its ability to draw moisture from the air, enhancing local humidity."
The girl's face registered surprise, then determination. "A Single Tear of a Weeping Willow. Very well. I agree to this." Her eyes, however, narrowed slightly as she looked from the man to the ethereal space around them. "But how are we going to ensure this deal is fulfilled? What guarantees it?"
The man chuckled. "An excellent question. We could take..." He paused, then slapped his thigh with a slight annoyance. "My bad, I even forgot to ask for your name, good sir." He gestured respectfully towards Noir.
"You may address me as... The Fool," Noir replied, his voice resonating with an almost supernatural calm. The title felt fitting, mocking even, yet powerfully authoritative in this absurd realm. "Since we are forming a pact in this place of new beginnings, perhaps we should also take names from the tarot." He looked at the man. "I will go by The Hanged Man," the man declared, his gaze steady.
The girl clapped her hands together, a spark of delight in her eyes. "Then I will choose Justice!" she proclaimed, a bright smile on her face.
The Hanged Man turned back to Noir. "Mr. Fool," he said, his voice respectful, "would you consent to be the witness for this deal? To see it through to its conclusion?"
Noir, now fully immersed in his role, leaned back in his grand chair, a subtle smile playing on his lips, though the mist kept his expression ambiguous. "I shall ensure the deal is completely fulfilled," he stated, his voice dropping to a low, captivating register that brooked no argument. "Otherwise, the person who fails to uphold their end will face severe consequences. Consequences they cannot possibly imagine."
The Hanged Man and Justice exchanged glances, a shared understanding passing between them. "We agree to your terms, Mr. Fool," The Hanged Man said, a flicker of something new—perhaps caution, perhaps respect—in his eyes. "I will convey the delivery location in our next meeting. And then, the recipe will be yours, Justice."
They both turned towards Noir again, a more pressing question on their minds. "Mr. Fool," Justice asked, her excitement tempered by concern, "will we be able to return here? To this place?"
Noir met her gaze, a profound knowing settling into his black eyes, though only he could see the shimmering, almost invisible threads connecting them to him, to the very heart of the Castle. "As long as you are tied with the thread of fate connecting you to the Castle, you will receive the invitation of The Fool," he affirmed, his words ringing with unshakeable certainty.
The Hanged Man and Justice both nodded, a visible relief washing over them. "Very well then, Mr. Fool," The Hanged Man said. "May we now leave?"
Noir simply inclined his head. "Very well then." With a silent command, he cut the threads, severing their connection to the ethereal space and to him. The two visitors vanished instantly, their forms dissolving into the mist as the Castle of Fabrications began to recede, leaving Noir alone once more in the profound silence.
Noir's vision swam as the threads of fate snapped, disconnecting him from the Castle and its brief occupants. The familiar forms of The Hanged Man and Justice dissolved, leaving him standing alone in the swirling, endless grey mists. The profound silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the faint, almost imperceptible hum of the ethereal space itself. He was still clad in the dark grey suit, a strange comfort in this unsettling void.
He was still pondering the sheer absurdity of it all, the terrifying implications of Alder's "luck increasing ritual" and his impromptu role as 'The Fool,' when a faint, ethereal sound began to prick at the edges of his hearing. It was a whisper, formless and indistinct, similar to the one he had heard during his first bewildering transit. He strained his ears, but the words were just beyond comprehension, a cacophony of incomprehensible whispers that seemed to coil around him, growing louder, more insistent.
His heart hammered against his ribs. This wasn't right. He hadn't performed the ritual again. Why were they returning?
Then, the very air around him grew heavy, oppressive. The swirling mist began to churn with a new, dark energy. A metallic tang, like ozone mixed with something ancient and cold, filled the non-existent air. The grey began to deepen, to solidify, forming unseen structures around him.
A sudden, violent shift in the mist occurred, coalescing and taking shape. In an instant, the haze parted, no longer formless, but revealing the grand, daunting interior of the Castle of Fabrications.
The towering, ornate pillars solidified around him, reaching into the formless grey above. The long, rectangular table, stretching into the eerie distance, shimmered into view. And there, at the lead chair, bathed in the sinister glow of the crimson moon that now hung impossibly in the castle's sky, sat the mysterious person. The Host.
He was draped in his dark grey suit and long coat, his long, black hair cascading around him, his form utterly still. From this distance, Noir could only discern the terrifying black voids where his eyes should have been, lifeless and ancient.
A shiver colder than any physical chill ran down Noir's spine, lodging itself deep within his bones. He was back. But this time, it was different. This time, he was alone with the one who called himself the Host, the master of this absurd game. The true game, he realized with dawning horror, had only just begun.
...
"We meet again Mr. Kagenou!"