Professor Armitage's voice, though firm, seemed to recede, becoming a distant hum against the frantic drum of Noir's own thoughts. The unsettling portrait of the Black Emperor's final act lingered, a stark, indelible image. A self-inflicted apotheosis? What did that even mean beyond the professor's careful words? Noir's mind strained, trying to reconcile the academic tone of the lecture with the bizarre, almost theatrical suicide that defied all logic he knew.
He wanted to become a legend... to erase the boundary between self and symbol. The Black Emperor's chilling pronouncements from the obscure fragments of history twined with the Host's cryptic words from the Castle of Fabrications. Was there a connection? Was the "realm of absurdness" not just a distant, ephemeral place, but a fundamental principle woven into the very fabric of this world's reality?
He glanced around. The other students, oblivious to his inner turmoil, scribbled notes with a diligent earnestness. Their expressions, a mixture of scholarly interest and a hint of morbid fascination, seemed so terribly mundane. Noir, however, felt a deeper, more profound unease. This wasn't just history to him; it felt like a distorted reflection of the strangeness he had already encountered, a twisted mirror showing fragments of his own predicament.
A different soul possessing a body... a public suicide as a ritual... laws that subtly warp perception. These were not the tales of his old world, of logical cause and effect. This Croele Kingdom, this entire continent, felt steeped in something ancient, unknowable, and subtly terrifying, hidden beneath the veneer of its industrial revolution.
Professor Armitage moved on, his voice a steady drone, detailing the political fallout of the Black Emperor's actions, the treaties signed, the borders redrawn. But Noir's mind remained fixated on that one, horrifying figure. The image of the Black Emperor, piercing his own heart on the castle spire, lingered like a phantom ache. It felt like a key, a terrible, blood-soaked key, but to what door?
The Fool, who lies to itself... The Host's words echoed, colder now. Was the Black Emperor's staged death a grand lie he told to the world, to himself? And if so, what truth did it conceal? What power could possibly be gained from such an act?
A sudden, chilling thought struck him. The "luck increasing ritual" on Alder's desk. It had called upon "The Fool, who lies to itself" and mentioned a "world of fabrications" and a "Castle's mists." Could Alder have been researching this Black Emperor, this era of strange occurrences, all along? Was his own transmigration, his forced entry into this life, somehow inextricably linked to these dark historical mysteries?
The lecture continued, a dull, academic hum in the background, detailing treaties and shifting alliances, but Noir's focus had narrowed, sharpened by a burgeoning fear. The Black Emperor's story wasn't just a historical anecdote; it felt like a breadcrumb, a terrifyingly direct clue in the bewildering puzzle of his new existence.
There's more to this. Much more. He glanced down at Alder's textbook, the title Chronicles of the Three Kings now seeming to hold a hidden, ominous weight. He needed to understand this history, not just to pass a class, but to understand the very nature of the world he now inhabited, and perhaps, his own horrifying fate.
As the lecture drew to a close, the scraping of chairs and the rustling of papers filled the hall, a noisy return to the mundane. Professor Armitage gathered his scrolls with a crisp snap, his gaze sweeping over the students one last time before he exited through a side door.
Noir felt a small, almost desperate wave of relief wash over him. He had managed to sit through the entire lecture without being called upon, a minor victory in this overwhelming situation. He hadn't understood everything, but he had picked up enough to know this world's history was not merely complex, but profoundly, terrifyingly different.
He stood up with the other students, the movements feeling slightly clumsy, foreign in Alder's body. He slung the satchel over his shoulder, the weight of the textbooks a familiar burden, a small, tangible anchor in this swirling uncertainty.
Just need to get through today. That was his immediate goal. Survive the university, try to act like Alder, and avoid any unwanted attention. The strange history lesson, the bizarre tale of the Black Emperor – those could wait. Right now, blending in was paramount.
He followed the flow of students out of the lecture hall and into the bustling corridor. The air was thick with chatter, the rhythmic thud of distant machinery, and the crisp scent of coal smoke. He recalled Grace mentioning an essay for Professor Thompson. So there were two professors for history: Armitage for Saturdays and Thompson for Wednesdays. If Armitage was now heading to his next class, that meant Alder's history commitment for the day was likely over.
A small, unexpected sense of freedom flickered within him. He didn't have to immediately navigate another unfamiliar lecture. Now, the task was to simply leave the university without drawing attention and perhaps try to piece together more about Alder's life outside of classes.
He moved with the departing crowd, heading towards what he assumed was the main exit. The flow of students began to thin as they branched off into different corridors, their chatter fading into the background hum of the building. Noir kept his head down, trying to maintain an air of someone who knew exactly where they were going, even though he didn't.
"Alder! Hey, Alder!"
The call, slightly too loud in the emptying corridor, made Noir freeze. Someone knew Alder. He hesitated, then turned, his expression a carefully neutral mask.
A young man with a mop of unruly brown hair and a friendly, slightly goofy smile was hurrying towards him, weaving through the few remaining students. He clapped Noir on the shoulder, a little too enthusiastically, a genuine warmth in his gaze.
"Man, that lecture was something, huh? The Black Emperor… crazy stuff." The young man grinned. "Didn't see you in the usual spot. You alright?"
Noir's mind raced, a frantic script playing out. Act natural. What would Alder say? Keep it brief. He managed a weak, almost stiff smile. "Hey, uh… yeah. Just… thinking." He tried to project a vague air of scholarly contemplation.
The young man didn't seem to notice anything amiss, his own youthful energy overflowing. "Thinking? About what? That theory Armitage was hinting at? About the Black Emperor's 'apotheosis'?" He chuckled, a genuine, unburdened sound. "You always get all philosophical after those lectures, Alder. You're quiet when you're thinking."
Noir seized on this, a glimmer of relief. "Right, right. Just… processing it all. A lot to unpack." He tried to sound like he was deep in profound thought, rather than sheer confusion. "You heading to the library?" he asked, hoping to steer the conversation away from himself, away from any further probing questions.
"Nah, got some errands to run in the city," the young man replied, seemingly satisfied by Noir's vague answer. "You?"
"Uh… heading back for a bit," Noir said, hoping that sounded plausible, a typical end to a Saturday morning for Alder.
"Alright, man. Catch you on Wednesday, yeah?" The young man clapped him on the shoulder again, a casual gesture of camaraderie. "Don't get lost in those thoughts!" He grinned, a final, easy smile, and then headed off in the opposite direction, whistling a tuneless tune.
Noir let out a silent breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He had just encountered someone who knew Alder, and he hadn't completely blown his cover. Yet. The pressure, however, was immense. This proved that there were people who knew Alder, people who might notice if he acted too differently, too not-Alder. The facade had to be maintained, flawlessly.
He offered a polite, somewhat vacant nod to the now-departing friend and then continued walking towards the main exit, his pace deliberately unhurried, blending into the last trickle of students. Just act like this is normal. Like Alder always zones out after lectures.
He finally reached the grand entrance hall, the morning sunlight streaming through the massive arched doorways, illuminating dancing dust motes. Students were milling about, some heading out into the city, others lingering to chat by the heavy wooden doors. Noir kept to the edges, his gaze sweeping over the crowd, trying to get a sense of the university's layout and the general ebb and flow of its populace.
He spotted a quieter side exit, less crowded, and made his way towards it, wanting to escape the imposing presence of the university and find some space, some quiet, to truly think.
Once outside, the sounds of the city felt less overwhelming than within the stone walls, but more tangible. The rhythmic clang of distant metal, the rumble of horse-drawn carts on cobblestones, the murmur of conversations, all painted a vibrant, living backdrop. He found himself on a tree-lined street, the air carrying the faint, earthy scent of damp soil mixed with the pervasive smell of coal smoke from the ubiquitous steam engines, and something floral, sweet, from blooming window boxes.
He walked aimlessly for a few minutes, his eyes taking in the unfamiliar architecture – tall, narrow buildings with ornate ironwork balconies, shop windows displaying mechanical contraptions and curious goods, the occasional street vendor hawking hot pastries. The people he passed were dressed in practical, yet elegant, clothing, their faces carrying a sense of purpose, of lives lived within this strange framework. He noticed the steam rising from grates in the pavement, a visible breath of the city's power. Everything was different, subtly or overtly.
The Black Emperor... the altered ruler... the staged suicide. The lecture kept replaying in his mind, the pieces of the historical narrative clicking uncomfortably with his own situation. It felt significant, undeniably connected to the strangeness he had stumbled into, the Host, the Castle, his own impossible arrival. But right now, adrift in a city that was simultaneously familiar and utterly alien, he lacked the context, the understanding, to connect the horrifying dots.
His immediate need was to learn more about Alder Wilson. What were his routines? His real interests beyond the esoteric? His friends, his enemies? The brief encounter with Alder's friend had been a stark reminder that he was living someone else's life, and he knew almost nothing about its intricate patterns. He was a Fool, navigating a complex game with no rulebook.
As he wandered, his gaze fell on a street sign he recognized, a mental map of Alder's neighborhood clicking into place. He was not far from home. A fragmented image then flickered vividly in his mind – a worn, leather-bound book tucked away on Alder's desk. His diary. The memory was no longer hazy, but sharp, a sudden beacon in the fog of his confusion.
A surge of hope, mixed with a touch of a trespasser's guilt, washed over him. A diary. That could hold the key to understanding Alder's daily life, his thoughts, his relationships, his habits. It could provide the concrete, mundane information Noir desperately needed to maintain his guise, to blend in, to survive.
He changed direction, his aim now clear, purpose returning to his stride. He needed to go back to Alder's room, to find that diary.
The walk back felt more purposeful now. The city streets, which had moments ago seemed overwhelming in their strangeness, now held the promise of answers, however unsettling. He pictured the scene in Alder's study: the ancient parchment with the ritual, the heavy tomes on history… and tucked beneath a pile of essays, a dark leather book with a simple clasp. Yes, that was it. The memory was precise.
He quickened his pace, the urgency growing with each step. Finding that diary felt crucial, a lifeline in this sea of the unknown.
Noir hurried back to Alder's room, a renewed sense of purpose driving him. He pushed the door open and stepped inside, the familiar quiet a stark contrast to the bustling university and the vibrant city streets he had just navigated. His gaze immediately went to the grand desk, a haven of papers and forgotten thoughts.
Amidst the stacks of books and scattered papers, just as his memory had recalled, lay a worn, leather-bound diary. Its dark cover was smooth to the touch, secured by a simple brass clasp. He picked it up, a strange sense of intimacy washing over him – the peculiar sensation of holding another man's innermost thoughts, his secrets, his life. He was about to delve into the private soul of the person whose very existence he now inhabited.
He sat down at the desk, the heavy wooden chair creaking softly beneath him, and carefully unclasped the diary. The pages within were filled with Alder's neat, precise handwriting, each line a window into his former life. He flipped to the most recent entries, his eyes scanning the dates, the weight of the book increasing with each passing moment.
November 1:
Elias and I spent the entire day poring over "Whispers from the Fourth Epoch." The cipher is complex, almost sentient in its resistance, but we're making headway.
November 2:
Success! After weeks of relentless work, Elias and I finally cracked the core cipher of the "Whispers from the Fourth Epoch." The text opened up, not just in meaning, but almost… dimensionally. We followed the instructions for the 'preliminary observation ritual' it outlined, curious to see what it would reveal.
What we saw… what we heard…
What are these weird things?
November 4:
It's worse than I thought. The whispers are clearer now, they're inside my head. The connection is drawing something… and it's not just me they want. Elias… he's gone. I saw what happened. It's coming for everyone connected. The ritual on the 2nd… it opened a door to the unknown, and I just kept pushing. We're all doomed. I'm doomed.
...
The final words were scrawled, the handwriting erratic, as if Alder had been trembling, or in a frantic hurry. The entry simply stopped there, a chilling, abrupt end to Alder Wilson's existence.
Noir slowly closed the diary, the leather cover now feeling cold and heavy in his hands. Elias was "gone." Alder "saw what happened." And then, a final, desperate plea: "We're all doomed. I'm doomed." It wasn't a suicide; it was a consequence. A horrifying realization of a terrible price.
Elias gone. Alder dead. Me, here. The pieces clicked into place, forming a picture of terrifying clarity. The "luck increasing ritual" on the 4th, the one Alder performed alone, hadn't been a random act. It was Alder's desperate, perhaps final, attempt to escape or understand something unleashed on November 2nd. And it had brought Noir here, into this nightmare.
The world suddenly felt far more dangerous, the shadows far deeper. He was living in a dead man's shoes, and that dead man had stumbled into something far beyond comprehension. The Fool's journey into the unknown had just become terrifyingly literal.