Chapter 31: The Master of the Mist

The nights in town were always so still. Shops along the streets and alleys had long since shuttered their doors, leaving the asphalt roads devoid of any human presence, utterly silent save for the faintest whisper of the wind.

A mist began to rise.

An absolute silence prevailed.

Mrs. Simpson stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, her gaze sweeping over the ancient town from her elevated vantage point. Through her spectacles, a faint, unsettling redness could be discerned in her eyes.

As she fixated on the delicate mist, Mrs. Simpson wiped a trace of saliva from the corner of her mouth, a ravenous hunger clawing at her mind.

“Thump, thump.”

Mrs. Simpson gently tapped the windowpane. As if responding to an unseen summons, the mist outside began to stir, and one by one, flickering red points of light materialized within its swirling depths.

“Thump, thump.”

“Thump, thump.”

“Thump, thump.”

Each dull thud against the window echoed with startling clarity through the confines of the narrow room.

“Thump, thump.”

“Thump, thump.”

“Thump, thump.”

“Click.”

Mrs. Simpson turned her head.

“Click.”

The room was suddenly bathed in light as a cherry-haired girl stood in the doorway, a sweet smile gracing her lips. Lifting the hem of her skirt, she offered Mrs. Simpson a slight, polite curtsy.

“Good evening, Mrs. Simpson.”

Mrs. Simpson’s pupils dilated abruptly, her gaze fixed on the girl in utter astonishment.

‘How did she…’

“Hello, Ms. R.”

Yet, in an instant, the crimson glow in Mrs. Simpson’s eyes receded, replaced by a profound, inky blackness that reclaimed her pupils. Swiftly wiping the corners of her mouth, she gestured for the girl to enter.

Though a perplexing question lingered—how had the girl managed to enter the school?—Mrs. Simpson knew with chilling certainty that this was no ordinary individual, certainly not someone she could hope to contend with.

After offering a graceful thank you, the girl settled composedly onto the sofa. Her legs were neatly pressed together, hands clasped naturally in her lap, and the pale pink hem of her skirt modestly concealed her slender, fair legs, revealing only the delicate curve of her instep encased in white stockings.

A delicate floral fragrance permeated the room, instantly lightening the atmosphere.

“It has been a long time, Ms. R.”

Mrs. Simpson chuckled, taking a sip of the steaming, clear tea from the table. Through the veil of warm vapor, the girl observed the mist behind Mrs. Simpson growing progressively denser.

“Tell me, Ms. R,” Mrs. Simpson began, her gaze fixed on the girl’s exquisite features, “what brings you to me at such a late hour?” She swallowed, her throat suddenly parched.

Mrs. Simpson took another sip of her tea.

The tea’s aroma mingled with the floral scent, intertwining in the air.

“I apologize for disturbing you at such a late hour, Mrs. Simpson, but I have a matter of some urgency to discuss.”

The girl maintained her serene smile, patiently awaiting Mrs. Simpson’s reply. Her demeanor was impeccably polite, calm, and unhurried—a stark contrast to Mrs. Simpson, who beneath the table, was furiously jiggling her leg, saliva threatening to escape the corners of her mouth.

“Drip.”

A single ripple disturbed the surface of the tea. Mrs. Simpson’s gaze drifted upwards, where the ceiling had, imperceptibly, begun to shimmer with an aqueous glow.

Yet, the girl appeared utterly oblivious to these strange occurrences, remaining perfectly still and composed on the sofa, betraying not the slightest reaction.

Mrs. Simpson nodded, a profound curiosity stirring within her as to why the girl had specifically sought her out with these particular questions.

“Please, ask away.”

“You are aware of the dense fog that enveloped the town a month ago, are you not?” the girl inquired, her posture still elegant, her tone unhurried.

Mrs. Simpson’s eyes widened slightly as she noticed a pale pink petal resting in her teacup, seemingly having appeared from nowhere.

“Of course I am,” Mrs. Simpson affirmed, nodding. Outside, a torrential rain began to fall, accompanied by peals of thunder and blinding flashes of lightning, as the mist outside grew ever denser.

“That is good to hear,” the girl responded, a hint of satisfaction gracing her faint smile. She appeared utterly unconcerned by the tempest raging outside.

“Drip, drip.”

Two more droplets fell into the cup. Despite the tightly sealed doors and windows, a few tendrils of bone-chilling wind now permeated the room, causing Mrs. Simpson to involuntarily shiver.

She sensed a peculiar power.

It was a power of immense purity and strength, akin to a colossal, ancient tree offering sanctuary to all living things—gentle, yet profoundly tranquil.

The sheer, terrifying reservoir of magic caused Mrs. Simpson’s legs to buckle; had it not been for the support of her chair, she would have collapsed to her knees.

“Drip, drip.”

The girl remained serenely seated, undisturbed, even as the ceiling above her transmuted into a churning, pitch-black ocean. The entire world seemed to have inverted, consumed by colossal, turbulent waves. Within this abyssal sea, black currents surged, thick with viscous blood, while countless tentacles, seemingly adorned with suckers, writhed and swayed. Upon closer inspection, however, those were not suckers at all, but myriad pairs of inky black pupils and gaping mouths.

These countless eyes wept, shedding viscous, pitch-black tears that splattered onto the room’s floor. Pale arms, reaching out from the depths of the sea, flailed and writhed, advancing toward the thrashing tentacles amidst a chorus of distorted infant wails.

It was a scene of utter blasphemy, an affront to all divinity, as eerie whispers reverberated through the room. Any soul unfortunate enough to witness such a sight would surely find their sanity irrevocably eroded by madness.

“Rumble.”

Outside the window, thunder boomed, and the mist, as if imbued with a grotesque life of its own, began to writhe, churn, and howl.

“Then, Mrs. Simpson, tell me, if you would: who is your master?”

The girl remained completely unperturbed by the bizarre tableau unfolding around them. She faced Mrs. Simpson without a tremor, her eyes brimming with a gentle, unwavering smile.

Her expression was one of pure, benevolent tenderness, devoid of any aggression, creating a jarring dissonance with the surrounding madness.

“Master… what master?” Mrs. Simpson stammered, slumping further into her chair. Her voice quivered with terror as she stared at the girl. “I-I don’t understand what you’re saying, Ms. R.”

‘This power… it’s too immense.’

‘Even my master… even they cannot face this power.’

“It’s quite alright, you can tell me, Mrs. Simpson. I won’t blame you. I understand that all of this is the fault of the mist, and it has nothing to do with you or the people of this town.”

The girl’s voice was remarkably gentle, like a warm spring breeze, soothing and reassuring.

‘No, I absolutely cannot say anything.’

‘Simpson is merely a pawn of that entity, just one of its many dependents, a piece used to seek out sustenance for that great one.’

“Rest assured, Aldoran and the others are safe. This means you haven’t harmed anyone, and I will forgive you. So please, tell me: who is your master?”

‘No, no, I absolutely cannot tell. If I speak, my master will surely kill me. Surely.’

The girl persisted, earnestly attempting to soothe Mrs. Simpson.

“I understand. You’ve merely been used, and you were only recently assimilated, weren’t you? You haven’t provided it with any sustenance, have you?”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ms. R,” Mrs. Simpson stammered, a torrent of terror flooding her heart. She gazed at the girl with wide, horrified eyes, trembling too violently to speak.

An oppressive dread.

Within the room, colossal waves surged, and a massive curtain of water violently cleaved the space separating Mrs. Simpson and the girl. Viscous black liquid dripped incessantly from the ceiling, while on the floor, blood began to spread, from which muddy skeletons emerged, thrashing wildly and emitting sickening, grinding sounds.

Twisted laughter, originating from an unknown source, utterly consumed the room.

Thunder roared, and the ragged breathing of some unseen entity echoed from beyond the window.

“It’s quite alright. Please, tell me. I won’t blame you. I believe you’re a good child, aren’t you?”

Effortlessly, the girl passed through the black curtain of water, slowly approaching Mrs. Simpson. Though considerably younger than the trembling woman before her, she addressed her without hesitation as “child.”

“It’s fine. Please, trust me. I won’t hold it against you.”

The girl gently clasped Mrs. Simpson’s trembling hands. A wave of warmth radiated from her touch, permeating every inch of Mrs. Simpson’s skin and dispelling the room’s encroaching chill.

The world beyond the window had long since warped into an unrecognizable horror. Indescribable, twisted geometric forms now filled the view, bathed in a constant flicker of aberrant colors. The mist, as if imbued with a tangible presence, swirled, writhed, and emitted shrill, mournful wails. Even the very ground beneath the girl’s feet began to tremble.

The room itself had utterly transmuted into an impossible, non-Euclidean space. At some point, the positions of the girl and Mrs. Simpson had inverted; the girl now stood upside down amidst the roaring black seawater of the ceiling, while Mrs. Simpson sat upon a chair grotesquely adorned with eyes and tentacles, a bottomless chasm yawning beneath her feet.

“Rumble.”

The building began to shake violently, as if something immense were shifting just beyond the window.

Aberrant colors pulsed with light, piercing through the windows, as a deep, terrifying roar assaulted their ears. One after another, towering black figures materialized outside, dancing and contorting in sync with the eerie hues.

“Please, tell me, who is your master? If you do, this town can still be saved,” the girl implored, seemingly impervious to fear, completely unfazed by all the bizarre phenomena. She merely continued to soothe Mrs. Simpson.

“Tell me, and I will protect you.”

“No, no, don’t…” Mrs. Simpson recoiled, a crimson glow reigniting in her eyes as her hair bristled, transforming into a mass of writhing tentacles.

Under the girl’s unwavering gaze, Mrs. Simpson’s body began to swell, grotesquely expanding. From her mouth, the heads of bizarre, snake-like creatures, eyeless but gaping with mouths, continuously emerged.

Their tragic wails were utterly swallowed by piercing, shrill laughter, as the whispers of demons echoed throughout the room.

Her body slowly dissolved, turning into a viscous black liquid.

“…”

“Rumble.”

In the distance, a colossal silhouette slowly drifted, moving inch by agonizing inch under the girl’s watchful gaze.

The monster’s sheer size was enough to utterly crush the town.

“…”

The girl remained silent, observing the monster. The creature seemed to cower before the girl’s power, its massive body trembling slightly.

The girl understood that this monster was certainly not Mrs. Simpson’s master.

A far more formidable entity was responsible for the town’s corruption.

The girl sighed softly.

“Rest in peace, Mrs. Simpson.”

****

Meanwhile, in the eyes of Aldoran and Qing Yu, the town remained as peaceful and serene as ever that night.

“It’s so quiet tonight, Aldoran,” Qing Yu murmured, nestled in Aldoran’s embrace, inhaling the fragrant scent emanating from her skin.

“Indeed.”

“I feel the same way,” Liliya added, lying on a makeshift bed at the foot of Aldoran and Qing Yu’s bed.

Aldoran had decided to keep Liliya in their room for the night, a precaution against any adverse effects should the mysterious power enter her.

“Hmm, let’s get some sleep,” Aldoran said. Qing Yu closed his eyes, his breathing settling into a rhythmic cadence.

With a soft “Click,” the lamp was extinguished.