"Truth is a mirror; the more clearly you gaze, the less you see yourself."
The morning came reluctant, dragging gray light across Backlund's skyline.
Mist wove between rooftops like something alive, refusing to lift even as the streets awakened.
Elias sat by the window, coat buttoned against the chill, watching carriages rattle through the narrow lane. His thoughts moved slower than the fog outside.
He'd written three pages in the dead man's journal overnight, every word an anchor against slipping sanity.
Name: Elias Hartmann (formerly?).
Body: Adrian Hartmann, age estimated twenty-four.
Condition: Recovered from fever yesterday, per servant's account.
Hypothesis: Original consciousness deceased. My arrival followed through the "Boundary of Thought."
Secondary Hypothesis: This is the world of Lord of the Mysteries—Fourth Epoch, early Backlund era.
He paused. The phrase looked absurd on the page, but the city beyond the glass made it real. Steam trams, gaslights, brass machinery, the faint tolling of the Evernight Church bell—it was all too familiar, like stepping into a book one once loved too much.
He rubbed his temples, the memory of last night's whispers still lingering at the edge of hearing. The letter's warning echoed in his mind: Speak nothing of the fog.
A knock.
The door opened before he could answer.
The same elderly maid entered, bearing tea and folded newspapers.
"Good morning, Master Hartmann. The constables left this—said you should read today's Chronicle."
Elias accepted the bundle with a polite nod. "Thank you, Mrs. Blanche."
When she left, he unfolded the Tingen City Chronicle.
The headline read:
"MYSTERIOUS ACADEMIC FOUND DEAD IN LOCKED ROOM — REVIVED?"
Backlund, 1348 of the Fourth Epoch — Local historian Adrian Hartmann, previously declared deceased by the authorities, was reportedly found alive early this morning. The cause of his prior collapse remains unknown. Witnesses claim his body showed no signs of decay despite two days of apparent death.
Elias's fingers tightened around the page.
Two days.
That meant when he awoke, this body had already been declared a corpse.
A chill ran down his spine. His reflection in the tea's surface looked too calm for what that implied.
He turned to the next article—trivial politics, coal trade, then one smaller headline:
"Evernight Church to Appoint New Nightwatcher in the North Borough."
A familiar weight settled in his chest. Nightwatchers. The secret division under the Church dealing with the supernatural—where Klein Moretti's journey had begun.
He folded the newspaper slowly.
It wasn't just a hunch anymore.
He was in that world.
But how far before Klein's timeline? Or—had something changed entirely?
He decided to gather information.
The house's study was lined with maps and books—Adrian Hartmann had clearly been a scholar of theology, particularly the metaphysical systems surrounding divinity and knowledge. Some pages were filled with circular sigils and cryptic notes:
"The Whisperer speaks between dreams. A Seer who listens too deeply becomes one."
"The Fog is thought given weight."
"If one dreams of their own death, remember: not all awakenings are ascensions."
Elias stared at the handwriting for a long time. The phrasing mirrored the arcane metaphors from Lord of the Mysteries. Whoever Adrian Hartmann had been, he'd touched something forbidden—perhaps the same phenomenon that drew Elias through the Boundary of Thought.
He turned another page. A list of names appeared—crossed out, rewritten, and then underlined thrice:
Abraham Family... Augustus... Medici... Trunsoest...
The sequence of names made his heart skip.
They weren't random; they were the ancient families of Beyonder pathways.
A sudden creak cut through the quiet.
Elias looked up. The candle on the desk flickered though the air was still.
His gaze shifted toward the far wall, where a faint silvery glow-like moonlight that had lost its source--outlined his silhouette.
Except—
It moved a heartbeat after he did.
His body froze.
He lifted a hand. The shadow followed—but with a hesitation, as if reluctant. Its edges were too thick, too alive.
For a moment, its head turned independently.
The world tilted. The whispering returned, threading through his thoughts like static.
"He died in your name."
"You breathe what is borrowed."
Elias stumbled back, eyes locked on the shadow.
"Show yourself," he said, voice steady but low.
The shadow rippled, then collapsed flat against the floor, losing form entirely.
The room fell silent. Only the tick of the clock remained.
After a long minute, Elias let out a controlled breath and reached for his notebook again, writing quickly:
Phenomenon observed: autonomous movement of shadow under candlelight. Possible spiritual residue from original host (Adrian Hartmann). Entity displayed awareness and minor independence.
Hypothesis: Death and revival linked to Beyonder influence. Risk of mental contamination high.
He paused, pen hovering. Then, with a faint smirk that didn't reach his eyes, he added:
I may have inherited more than his body.
Outside, Backlund continued its mechanical rhythm—steam whistles, church bells, and the muffled voices of a city unaware of the things that watched from behind the fog.
Elias closed his notebook, staring at the reflection of his flickering candlelight in the windowpane. For a moment, the glass shimmered—and in it, he thought he saw not his own face, but another.
A young man in a black trench coat, with calm brown eyes and a faint, knowing smile.
It was gone in the blink of an eye.
He whispered softly, more to himself than anyone else:
"Klein Moretti… you're here too, aren't you?"