Alphard stared at the scene, stunned, unable to process how the heavy slab of the tomb had come open. He advanced cautiously, measuring every inch to avoid getting closer than necessary; still, peering inside, he found the sarcophagus completely empty.
There were no remains, no dust, not the faintest trace of grime or age. It was a pristine, inexplicable void.
Suddenly, the room's darkness broke apart. Tiny orbs of multicolored light sprang from the air like mystical fireflies, floating silently as they traced a path leading into a rocky fissure.
It was a narrow, oppressive passage, cut straight into the living rock. Alphard moved with total stealth, letting the glow of the lights guide his steps through the shadows.
As he covered ground, the narrow threshold began to expand drastically, opening into a monumental space.
Before his eyes unfolded a hidden grotto filled with clear, still waters, lit from below by a pale blue glow that stained the whole chamber in celestial hues.
Alphard scanned the surroundings with meticulous attention, but the beauty of the landscape revealed no presence at first glance.
There's nothing here... he thought, disappointed.
Still, far from giving up, he began working his way along the shore, studying the rock more closely. In the darkness of a low crevice, nearly invisible unless he pushed all the way to the far edge of the chamber, he spotted a note lying on the ground. He rushed to pick it up and examine it in the cave's glow.
"It's in Japanese..." he murmured, recognizing the script immediately.
Fixing his eyes on the paper, he translated the message written across it:
Whoever reads this, take heed. This is the path I've walked. But I've discovered something horrifying that can't be explained in words alone — it has to be seen. Victoria holds the answers; its capital is a nest. Here you'll find what you're looking for — the Key 2 relic of the Clown. Its name is Paint.
Could this be the same person? Alphard wondered, a jolt of disbelief striking his chest.
Before he could dig any deeper into the thought, a violent tremor shook the cavern's foundations. The stone floor split with a deafening crack, and the surface of the water began churning in frenzied, uncontrolled ripples.
BOOM!
A tremendous blast tore through the silence. A monumental dragon of oriental design surged up from the water's depths, ramming straight through the rocky ceiling.
Its serpentine body bore thin, hard scales of an iridescent pale blue, while at the tip of its tail burned a flame of unquenchable white fire. The creature thrashed through the air, tearing apart the chamber's structure with the sheer force of its body, before charging toward the main corridor.
Damn it, I need to get out of here! Alphard told himself.
He spun around and broke into a full sprint through the gallery. Behind him, the roar was deafening: the dragon plowed through columns and walls, burying the tomb forever beneath tons of rubble.
Alphard cleared the exit onto the main floor just in time, gasping in the night air, as the colossal creature coiled its way into the sky, beating the air with majesty until it vanished into the vastness of the heavens.
Though he managed to avoid being buried alive, Alphard didn't escape the collapse unscathed: a chunk of rock struck him hard against the temple, opening a wound that began trickling a warm thread of blood down his face. Still, the pain took a backseat to the urgency of the moment.
Before the structure could collapse for good, he hastily gathered several stone blocks covered in ancient writing and hieroglyphs, carrying them until his arms could bear no more weight.
He summoned the spiritual mist to transfer himself into the dimensional circus. Materializing on the astral plane, he confirmed not only that he'd successfully transported the physical matter of the steles into that space, but that the clown makeup on his face persisted, interacting with the earthly plane as well.
In practice... I've turned myself into a living version of the Mirror of the Reverse River, Alphard thought, letting out a choked laugh at the irony of it.
He arranged the heavy stones in a corner of the transparent platform, keeping them within easy sight.
Lifting a hand to his head, he found that the gash and the bleeding on his temple had vanished without a trace in this projection.
I suppose the spiritual body follows its own set of rules and doesn't carry over wounds from the physical plane, he concluded, with cold composure.
Alphard pulled the manuscript from his pocket and pored over the writing again and again, reading it over and over beneath the astral plane's glow. Rubbing his forehead to ease the mental fatigue, he tried to weave a connection between this new find and the note recovered back at the cathedral.
If this is the same person, why be so blunt about it? Did they somehow foresee their own transmigration, or someone else's? It feels too explicit to be a simple coincidence. Then again, maybe it isn't a personal message at all — maybe it's a beacon left on purpose, for any interdimensional traveler like me who might come across it.
His thoughts drifted back to the colossal serpentine dragon. He knew the pale-blue dragon belonged to the lineage of mystical beasts, but he had no idea whether it was guarding the Key 2 relic of the Clown, or if the name Paint simply served as a direct hint at its own nature.
Layered atop that riddle sat an even more dangerous void: he had absolutely no knowledge of the exact nature of the sacrifice the cosmic order would demand of him for his next ascension.
With the task in the astral plane complete, Alphard's consciousness snapped abruptly back into his earthly body. He woke lying flat on his back, feeling the rough texture of the ground pressing against the fabric on his back.
It can't be... again? he muttered to himself, faintly frustrated.
He pushed himself up quickly and brushed the dust off his coat and hair to erase any trace of his absence.
Once composed, he moved forward with careful, quiet steps, careful not to break the silence around him. But just as he was about to leave the place, a furtive click echoed behind him.
Almost at the same instant, a warm, strangely comforting scent — home-cooked stew and burning firewood — filled his nostrils, dulling his judgment for a few seconds.
Turning his face toward the darkness, his eyes landed on an impossible sight: in the distance, bathed in a golden, homely glow, he made out his family gathered around a table, sharing a meal amid laughter and calm.
And there among them, smiling, free of any burden, sat his own reflection.
Forgetting, for a moment, all caution and reason, Alphard hurried toward the mirage. He stretched out his hand, longing to touch the warmth of that family table, the comfort he believed he'd lost forever. But before he could cross into the memory, his fingers struck an invisible surface, rigid and cold as glass.
The muffled impact echoed through his chest.
"No... it can't be," he murmured, his voice choked with disbelief, watching the smiling figures of his loved ones begin to ripple like fresh paint caught in the rain.
The scene warped into blurred streaks, and in the blink of an eye, the golden light of home extinguished without a trace. The warmth of the stew slipped back into oblivion, replaced abruptly by the ruins' damp gloom and icy air. Alphard stood frozen, hand still suspended in the empty air, his pulse racing out of control.
"I see you're not from around here. You look exactly like him..." a voice suddenly rang out from the shadows.
It carried a feminine tone, measured and refined with aristocratic elegance, yet infused with a natural arrogance that seemed to survey the world from some unreachable height.
Alphard took a step back, clenching his fists as he strained his eyes into the darkness.
"Who are you?" he demanded, his stomach twisting with suspicion.
Out of the darkness emerged a figure of impeccable bearing, her footsteps producing not the faintest sound against the damp stone.
"I'm the owner of Penrose & Co. Maritime Trade," the woman answered with ceremonious ease, tilting her head slightly. "Have you truly never heard of us?"
"Did you do this?" Alphard cut in, the rage over the illusion played against his own memory threatening to crack his voice. "Did you show me that?"
The woman halted her approach and studied him from the shadows with a cold, haughty gaze, the way one might regard an impertinent commoner.
"Don't be rude, child. I asked you a question," she reprimanded, her calm icy, her tone slicing cleanly through the air. "Did they not teach you manners, wherever it is you come from?"
Despite the fury burning through him, Alphard forced a slow breath to steady himself, unwilling to make a fatal mistake.
Still, the mere presence of that woman radiated a weight so overwhelming that it crushed any trace of his anger, replacing it instead with a consuming feeling: desire.
It wasn't earthly lust, nor a human longing, nor even reverent devotion toward some deity. It was an existential, abstract fascination; the irrational urge to seek the meaning of the entire cosmos through her figure alone, as though she embodied the gravitational axis of all creation itself.
Clenching his jaw until it ached, and closing his fists until his nails bit into his palms, Alphard fought viciously against that mental tide. The most terrifying part wasn't the influence itself, but the cold certainty that she wasn't even casting a spell, or channeling any power at all.
This was the pure, passive, unchanging manifestation of an Authority.