The Mandrake of the Windlands
Windbane Grass.A herb from the fertile lands, known among scholars by another, more infamous name—Mandrake.But truth be told, the two share nothing but their reputation.
Mandrake, the hallucinogenic root once used by native tribes as an anesthetic, is now a cheap narcotic, one of many poisons flooding the slums below the city.Windbane Grass, however, is a different creation entirely—cultivated with great care by local mystics.They call it the medium, believing that inhaling its smoke builds a fragile bridge between the living and the unseen.A bridge to the dead.
The world has long since drowned itself in the age of steam and iron, where spirits and gods were cast aside as ancient superstition.Yet a few still linger—old souls who refuse to forget.
Lloyd was one of them.He had stumbled upon the herb's true nature in the brittle pages of an old tome.With Beryl's help, he procured some from a few smugglers—half out of curiosity, half out of quiet desperation.And after countless investigations, he learned one thing:the plant worked.
What he saw wasn't mere hallucination.Some of it… was real.And that sliver of reality was all Lloyd needed.
The lamps dimmed, one by one.Darkness seeped into the room, the air thick with moisture.Lloyd could smell saltwater again—the scent of a drowned world.Raindrops pattered endlessly upon a deck that should not exist.He was back on that ship.
In the blackness, corpses began to stir.Slowly, unnaturally—until they moved.
The glow of his cigarette ember was faint, yet it painted every grotesque detail clearly.Lloyd simply watched.
Viscera contracted, the stomach and intestines shriveling into narrow cords.Bones twisted and stretched, threatening to tear through paper-thin flesh.Veins pulsed beneath the surface—dark, swollen, crimson.
From a collapsed throat came a rasping cry, the sound of agony remembered from the moment of death.It was horrifying.And yet, Lloyd felt no fear.Fear was something he had long forgotten.
The cigarette burned halfway down.
Windbane Grass had tethered him to the other side.For as long as the smoke lasted, he would walk among the dead.
But it wasn't enough.Not yet.
Then it came again—that feeling.The sense of being watched.Familiar, suffocating—like back in the carriage, when something unseen had followed him through the dark.He spun around.
The corpse hit him before he could react.The stench of blood flooded the air.
It was Worr.Or what was left of him.
The body slammed Lloyd to the floor, pressing him down with the weight of decay.Claws dug into his skull.The ribs spread open like the jaws of a predator, slick with dried blood, locking him in place.
Look at me!
The voice was a whisper—inside his head, or maybe beyond it.He met its eyes.
The face before him was twisted in torment, its pupils black and clouded.But in that darkness, a faint green light flickered to life.
Pain lanced through his body, yet he did not look away.He stared into that dying glow—and in its reflection, amidst the darkness, he saw it.
A lighthouse.Burning with ghostly green fire.
The cigarette finally burned out.Light returned to the world.
Lloyd awoke as if from hibernation—stiff, disoriented.The butt slipped from his fingers.He sat there for a long time, blank-eyed, letting the silence fill him.
It was always the same—the price of the herb.After every session, his mind would falter, his thoughts blur, as though he'd been hollowed out.
Worr's corpse had not moved.He had not been thrown to the floor.Everything was still exactly as before.So why had the pain felt real?
A hallucination, yes.But also truth.
The lighthouse was proof of that.
He wasn't yet sure what role it played in the case—but at least now, he had a direction.The grotesque body.The lighthouse.The link between them.
He rose slowly, muscles still stiff.Perhaps another side effect of the Windbane Grass.At first, the stupor lasted only minutes.Now, after so many uses, it lingered like frost in his veins.
Maybe he should visit that poor Director Buscarlow for a check-up.Being a director had to be good for something, right?
Just as he reached for his coat, the sound of a gun cocking broke the silence.
"Hands up!"
Eve's voice—sharp, trembling.The barrel of her revolver gleamed in the dim light.
Her instincts had always been keen, even since childhood.And this time was no exception.She'd sensed movement in the mist, the presence of someone lurking.Now she'd found him.
"Detective… what's going on here?"
Lloyd turned slowly, his expression a masterful blend of panic and composure—the face of a good man caught in the wrong place.
He'd spent years among con artists, priests, and nobles alike.In Old Dunling, survival required a little of every art.
"What are you doing here?"
Eve's voice wavered.It was her first time pointing a gun at someone.And looking at Lloyd's bewildered face, she almost believed him.
"This is my nephew," he said quietly. "He was murdered this morning. I… I couldn't bear it."
He covered his face, shoulders trembling.
Eve stepped closer, cautious but unsure.Her eyes flicked to the corpse—and froze.
"Your nephew… was a Viking?"
The body was barely recognizable, but the heavy braids—the kind only Vikings wore—still hung from its skull.
Lloyd's sobs faltered.Eve's gaze shifted to the iron cabinet.Her case file was pinned right there.
All sympathy vanished.
"Sir, I'm afraid you'll have to come with me."
The silence that followed was painfully awkward.
Lloyd had once infiltrated the Royal Academy of Arts, pretending to be a wandering student.To perfect his disguises, he'd enrolled in the acting department—staying there for over a year.At first, they thought he was just a curious tourist.Then a listener.Then a student.Eventually, even the professors knew him by name—Lloyd Holmers, the prodigy.They'd invited him to perform at the Royal Opera House.
And then, one day, he simply vanished.When they searched the records, there was no trace of any Lloyd Holmers ever existing.Attendance sheets, enrollment lists—all blank.As if the man himself had been nothing but a ghost.
A brilliant ghost.
And yet, no amount of acting could erase physical evidence.Lloyd smiled awkwardly.
Eve's stern face barely hid her delight.Her instincts had been right—there was something off about this corpse, and now she had proof.
"Turn around," she ordered, voice steady now.
He obeyed, slowly, almost lazily.As she holstered her gun to reach for the cuffs—
Lloyd moved.
The wide, knee-length black trench coat whipped through the air, filling most of Eve's vision.She gripped her pistol in one hand, the freshly drawn handcuffs in the other. The young detective was clearly flustered—her finger tightened on the trigger, but her slender wrist couldn't handle the recoil. The shot went wide.
A gaping hole tore through the black coat, and from beneath its folds, a dark muzzle emerged.
"Detective," a voice said calmly, "don't move."
Lloyd leveled his Winchester, his hand steady on the cold steel lever as he chambered a round.In an instant, the tables had turned. Eve could only stare, frozen in disbelief.
For a rookie like her, this was too much to process—her very first case had dropped her into a deadly standoff with a man infamous in Old Dunling's underworld. It was as if a lamb had been locked in a cage with a starving wolf.
"This is a morgue," Lloyd said, his tone quiet but deadly. "No one comes here. Even if I kill you now, no one would ever know. You understand?"
Eve nodded quickly. Even if she fired first, she'd never be faster than him. And in terms of stopping power—his weapon made hers look like a toy.
But then, something clicked in her mind."You… you killed him, didn't you?"
The shotgun might have been exquisitely crafted, but it was still a shotgun. The same weapon that had blown Walter apart. Combine that with this man's suspicious presence in the morgue, and the picture was clear.
She cursed herself for coming alone. She should've brought Press. Though, in this situation, even Press wouldn't have made much difference.
"Careful with your accusations, detective," Lloyd replied with a crooked grin. "I'm a legitimate citizen of Inlveig."
He wasn't lying. The papers were real—Berlaw had arranged them for him. As long as you paid the man enough, he could get you any identity you wanted. Not forged—officially recognized.
While his mouth spat out nonsense, Lloyd's mind was racing. Calculating.Eve, too, was thinking fast—she wasn't ready for her first case to also be her last.
Then, something strange happened. A thin, translucent yellow liquid trickled past Lloyd's boot, oozing in from the doorway. The smell hit first—sharp, chemical.
"Detective," Lloyd murmured, eyes lowered. "What do you think this is?"
"Oil," she said cautiously.
"I think… you're right."
Before the words had fully left his lips, a wave of fire roared through the doorway.It burst into the room like a demon from hell, devouring everything in sight. The morgue's icy chill vanished in an instant, replaced by suffocating heat.
There was only one exit—the door. Now sealed behind a wall of flame. And the fire was spreading fast.
"What the—"
Lloyd yanked Eve back just as the inferno swept across the entrance. A second later, the spot she'd been standing was swallowed whole.
"It's a clue," Lloyd said, a sick excitement curling his voice.
The firelight painted his face a fierce orange, and in his eyes burned something wilder still.Of course—Walter's death had drawn attention. Someone didn't want the secrets in his corpse uncovered. So they'd chosen the simplest method: burn everything.
"Detective, if you want to live," Lloyd barked, kicking open a row of steel lockers, "then make yourself useful."
Eve blinked, baffled. The fire was almost on top of them, yet this lunatic was wrestling with corpses?
"What are you doing!?"
"Surviving," Lloyd shot back. "Unless you'd rather roast with them?"
He grinned darkly. "You pile one, I pile another—death makes us all equal, doesn't it?"