The lantern light in Charles's hand swept across the space hidden behind the wall, revealing a sealed underground chamber that had remained untouched for seven long years. The air felt unnervingly heavy—damp, with a faint rotten stench. Thick black mold clung to the ancient stone walls.
Several lengthy workbenches stood in the middle of the room, all of them ruined by time and moisture. Glass tubes lay shattered, and dust-coated beakers tinted like tea sat in disarray. A few still contained dried, foul-smelling residue in their bottoms.
What disturbed Charles most was the row of large glass cylinders along the walls. Most had shattered, leaving the fluids they once held dried to a dark brown crust. Strewn around them were remains of living creatures—now only husks.
He crouched to examine these remains more closely. Tiny skeletons lay scattered on the floor, each not far from a broken cylinder, as if after escaping their glass prisons, the creatures had only managed a few desperate steps before perishing. The sight reminded him of prisoners escaping dark cells only to die before reaching freedom.
Charles turned his attention to the documents piled on a workbench. Unlike those in the outer rooms, these papers showed no signs of fire damage. Though dampness and seven years of neglect had warped some pages, most remained surprisingly legible—far more so than the records outside.
He began reading through them page by page. Most were research notes on breeding and resurrecting extinct species, particularly plants and animals used as ingredients in special potions.
Then his hand stopped on a particular document. The text described a terrifying lifeform: a primordial parasite thought long extinct. Its remains had apparently been discovered on a fragment of rock believed to have fallen from the sky. They referred to it as the "Black Parasite."
Charles's hands trembled as he read detailed notes about how this parasite preyed upon living hosts. It infiltrated a victim's body, releasing a black fluid to seize control. Next, it generated a "replica body" of its host, which would mingle undetected among the victim's group. Once fully embedded, the replica would burst apart, spreading the black fluid and subjugating all nearby creatures into the parasite's thrall.
Visions of the previous night's banquet flashed through Charles's mind—Henry Blackwell striding toward Christopher Darcy, black fluid oozing from his eyes, his body contorting before being grotesquely ripped from within. It all matched this document's description with horrifying precision.
Charles's mind began rapidly analyzing the information, countless questions arising. Where had Michael really gone? Why had he sought help from the Master of the black market on Roland's advice, then vanished without a trace? How had this parasite ended up in Henry's body? Who was behind it all?
Even Roland's hiding seemed suspicious now. He claimed to be fleeing from the Script-Decipherers, but even after that organization was dismantled, he still hadn't reappeared... what was he really running from?
The more he considered, the more questions emerged. Could Michael still be alive? Could he have been the one who implanted the parasite in Henry? But for what purpose? Everything seemed too complex and confusing to resolve now.
Charles took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He shouldn't jump to conclusions; he needed to gather complete information first. Setting aside his speculations temporarily, he focused again on reading the remaining documents.
As he continued reading, Charles's eyes widened progressively. The Black Parasite was the key ingredient for the body-splitting potion. The other ingredients in the formula served to neutralize the parasite's lethal traits, preserving only the ability to generate a second body—and to control it.
When he finished reading, Charles's entire body trembled. Cold sweat beaded on his palms and forehead. The truth he had uncovered beneath this crumbling clinic was beyond horrifying.
The detailed experiment logs suggested there must have been human trials. Certain there had to be a testing facility somewhere, Charles raised his lantern and ventured deeper into the basement, following a corridor until he reached a heavy iron door.
When he pushed it open, the sight before him made his breath catch. Metal hospital beds lined the room, each supporting a skeletal figure chained at the wrists and ankles. The lantern's glow revealed rusty surgical tools scattered about—bone saws, knives of various sizes, and strange instruments he had never seen before.
Some beds had peculiar metal structures mounted above the head, with blades suspended over the skull. Others had devices designed to spread ribcages open like grotesque flowers. These tools indicated inhumane experiments—terrible violations of both body and mind.
Though time had reduced the victims to white skeletons, Charles could still sense the agony they must have endured. He could scarcely imagine the suffering inflicted upon them while alive. Ironically, the absence of flesh and organs made the scene more depressing than if it had been filled with gore.
He had never imagined humans could be so cruel to one another. The ambition to create a special potion had driven them to abandon all moral principles, transforming them into monsters who performed atrocious experiments on their fellow humans.
Struggling to maintain his composure and focus on his duty, the young detective carefully inspected the room. Each step echoed in the oppressive silence; his breathing became shallow as he tried to avoid inhaling the air too deeply. The very atmosphere felt contaminated by suffering and death.
After confirming there was nothing more to discover, he hurried out of the horrific laboratory. Once beyond the doorway, he drew a deep breath to dispel the heaviness in his chest as his mind processed the information.
It wasn't difficult to deduce where these test subjects had come from. This was a "clinic" after all. The victims were undoubtedly patients who had come seeking treatment.
Names of those involved scrolled through his mind: "Roland Bradford... Michael Berg... Humphrey Gray... Isaac Blackthorn who died with the clinic seven years ago... and Henry Blackwell." His voice was bitter with contempt as he muttered, "All of them—utterly vile."
After venting his anger, Charles's thoughts returned to the Black Parasite. If the document was accurate, the people splashed with black fluid at the banquet might not actually be dead. They could revive and be controlled to return to the parasite's original host.
If so... the Henry who exploded at the gathering might have been merely a replica, while the real Henry remained alive somewhere, waiting for his controlled victims to return.
Everything began to fit together in Charles's mind. The connections between Michael's disappearance, the Script-Decipherers' pursuit, the clinic fire seven years ago, and the horrific banquet incident—all threads in one monstrous plan.
There was no time to waste. He needed to report all his findings to the Department of Supernatural Suppression and Defense and share intelligence with Joseph's team immediately.
Charles gathered the important documents and left the underground chamber filled with torment and depravity. He climbed the stairs to the charred remains of the clinic's main floor. The day's last light streamed through broken windows, casting jagged shadows along the corridor.
Outside, the evening sky glowed orange tinged with purple, large clouds hanging low on the horizon. The atmosphere evoked ancient paintings filled with ill omens—much like the truths he had uncovered today.
...
Evening had settled over the city. Most residents had returned home to rest, leaving the streets deserted. Beneath the shade of a large tree in a secluded location, Roland stood waiting nervously. His stocky frame in an old leather coat trembled slightly, light brown hair streaked with gray fluttering in the breeze. His complexion was paler than usual.
The sun had long since disappeared below the horizon, leaving only a purple-orange glow at the edge of the sky. Tree shadows stretched across the ground, overlapping in strange patterns. Crows flew homeward, their shrill cries like omens of doom.
Roland glanced at the pocket watch in his shaking hand. The minute hand moved as if time had nearly stopped. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead and back. He wasn't sure whether he was shivering from the cold or from fear.
The evening breeze gusted, sending dry leaves swirling. The sound of branches rubbing against each other whispered through the air. Darkness gradually enveloped everything, with barely any light reaching from nearby houses.
He started at every unusual sound, his eyes darting around suspiciously.
Suddenly, footsteps sounded in the darkness. Roland spun around to look but saw nothing except shifting shadows. His heart pounded violently, almost bursting from his chest.
A figure in a pitch-black cloak emerged silently from the darkness, followed by another similarly cloaked attendant. Roland recoiled in alarm, his back striking the large tree trunk.
"Because you secretly took samples to test outside," a cold voice came from beneath the hood, "the Script-Decipherers learned of its existence. Everything spiraled out of control."
"I-I'm sorry," Roland stammered, his voice quavering. "I just wanted to prove my theory was correct... I never thought—"
"Never thought?" the voice interrupted, even icier than before. "Your decision exposed years of carefully hidden research. Do you realize how much effort it took to keep everything concealed, until you fools ruined it?"
"I'll make amends," Roland dropped to his knees, tears welling up. "I'll do anything..."
"I have two choices for you," the cloaked figure stepped closer. "One: you die alone." A pause. "Or two... I drag your family along with you."
Roland's hands pressed hard into the ground, fingernails digging into the soil. His entire body shook, paralyzed by fear and regret. He didn't want to die, but the thought of his family being killed was even worse.
"I hope you're wise enough to choose... Choose carefully, Roland."
Tears streamed down the middle-aged man's cheeks as he slowly nodded, accepting his fate.