In the pitch-dark fog, Sather's emotionless gaze fell upon the surreal vision within this dream—the woman with a severed leg, struggling in place.
What a pity.
If it weren't for the fact that they hadn't yet escaped danger, and if he hadn't prepared a suitable containment vessel, he absolutely would have taken this thing back to his lab. This creature—whether analyzed for its composition, studied for its physiological properties, used as experimental material, or even traded among black sorcerers—held considerable value.
Of course, that was assuming his laboratory still existed.
Before his hasty reincarnation, in order to prevent his research data, experimental materials, and scientific findings from becoming spoils of the Empire—or worse, from being used to hunt him down—Sather had detonated his entire lab using explosives crafted by the Black Worm Men. Every inch of that space had been obliterated into irretrievable dust, taking with it quite a few of the pursuing Hound troops.
If he could return to the Holy City with Jeanne, the first thing he would do was establish a new, well-hidden laboratory.
As for the inquisitor's opinion—did a black sorcerer need an inquisitor's permission to conduct experiments? Worst case, he'd just drag the woman down into the lower maze with him.
Then, tightening his grip on his sword hilt, he shook his head and turned to leave.
"I don't think the Hounds or Hood's priests are going to play nice with us once they enter this maze—especially since we might need them to tell us how to get out," Sather said as he walked. "Before things spiral out of control, I need to eliminate the master of this house, then use the materials here to begin my initial bodily transformation. Only then can I push open the doors that connect to the mazes in my memory."
"So I'm supposed to witness the origin story of a black sorcerer now? That's absolutely disgusting," Jeanne muttered, tapping her sword hilt against her palm, her expression dark. "I should have performed the purification ritual while you were still weak."
"Think of it as your first time," Sather turned his head slightly, narrowing his eyes. The smirk tugging at the corners of his lips was laced with mockery. "Everyone has a first, don't you agree?"
That comment seemed to thoroughly disgust Jeanne. Visible irritation surged onto her face.
"—Can I take that as you making a pass at me? Has your vulgarity become so blatant it's leaking out? Do I need to drag that one-legged woman over here to take care of your biological urges?"
She paused, flicking the edge of her blade lightly with her fingertips, as if regaining her composure.
"By the way, does your evil contract come with a return policy? Is it too late to back out now?"
"Nice roar, corpse-burner."
Sather raised an eyebrow. "As for the contract—its final authority lies with the ancient black sorcerer who created the spell, and its administrator is one of the incarnations of the Key of Doors. Neither of us has the right to tear it up. Want me to tell you the ritual for contacting that Outer God?"
"...No." Jeanne's face darkened further.
A muffled chewing sound came from afar.
Perhaps it was the strange atmosphere, or perhaps the lingering irritability from moving about in such a place in a weakened state—Sather expanded his spiritual vision several-fold and peered into the distance.
The low chewing sound was only the prelude. It was so faint that without the black sorcerer's perceptual magic, a normal person would never have heard the soft, fragmented echoes. Then, an overpowering stench crept in unnoticed, like a bloated corpse letting out a belch in their direction—its throat forced open by writhing maggots as it vomited out all the rotting filth in its belly. The stench clung to Sather's deep breath like poison gas, choking him and sweeping away the fresh, damp air of the marsh, nearly suffocating him.
Sather grabbed Jeanne's arm. "Don't move forward," he said in a hushed voice. "Stay quiet."
The inquisitor nearly drove her sword straight into him.
The blackened sky began to squirm, as though a layer of damp mold was spreading atop viscous jelly. The spectral night grew darker and more sinister, crawling with tightly packed, carpet-like bumps. As a gusty wind swept through, a damp stench mixed with the marsh's moisture spread through the air. The wind grew louder and louder, as if something were flapping its wings.
Then he saw it—a mass blacker than the dark canvas around them, a grotesque and surreal fog moving like a living thing. It resembled a black pond choked with waterweeds, extending and twisting of its own volition. Within the drifting mist, he saw incomprehensible dreamlike visions fall into it—and then, their outlines softened and melted away, dissolving as if into a vat of acid.
The black sorcerer recalled an ancient grimoire—one that should now be stored in the Empire's archives.
"By the Truth... the Creeping Mist…" Sather nearly choked. Who but those lunatic cultists would want to come into direct contact with these Outer Gods? Even just one of their avatars?
"—What is that?" Jeanne asked, holding her nose with one hand, her voice muffled.
"Doesn't matter what it is," Sather replied in a low tone. "I'm certain my concealment spells are useless against it, but it has nothing to do with us. It's just passing through."
As he said, the mist soon slithered away. It took its suffocating stench and withdrew into the distance, disappearing completely from sight.
"We should hurry," Sather said, letting go of Jeanne's arm. His grip had been so tight it left finger-shaped impressions—faint white lines etched into her skin. "Who knows what else might pass through here."
Jeanne shook her slightly sore arm. Though the inquisitor seemed ready to make a scathing comment—maybe even curse—she ultimately changed the subject. "What exactly is the Creeping Mist?"
"I once read a magic book written by a dark elf. According to the material, it's one of the avatars of the Thousand-Faced God," he said. "It's said to dwell in a maze somehow related to dreams, but to be honest, I never paid much attention to that maze's details. As for the Creeping Mist itself... all the book said was that it's a mass of foul, mobile fog. Nothing more."
They continued following the black cat's path, the dark canvas stretching endlessly ahead.
Beyond the marsh, on a flat plain like wooden planks, strange and twisted things were scattered everywhere—faceless hunters with limbs and heads mismatched, crawling on the ground with longbows strapped to their backs. Female priests with their facial features sewn shut lay on the ground chanting softly. A grotesquely obese man, his skin pulled up by hooked chains, had a stuffed rabbit's head embedded where his own should have been, and he was gnawing on piles of eyeballs—each one sprouting dozens of cockroach legs. The pair didn't pay them much attention and passed by without looking back.
Since these were all just white-outlined silhouettes, they weren't exactly nauseating.
At least, that was the black sorcerer's opinion. Jeanne's thoughts on the matter were less clear.
Then, beside a door that defied description—standing alone in the center of the plain, covered in bizarre graffiti—the cat came to a stop.
"This is it?"
"This is the door to the master's room, though I've never gone in," it replied.
"You stay here for now," Sather finally looked directly at it—or rather, her—and said, "Once I've dealt with things here, I'll fulfill your wish. I always honor a contract, no matter who it's between."
Dragging his sword, he walked toward the door, noting how a faint black mist continued to seep out from beneath it.