At the end of the red-lit corridor, the small group held their breath. They watched as a fla flickered to life at the tip of the crouching Candle Mr's finger. He was trying to use his enchanted fla to relight the candle he had just blown out, but the wick refused to catch.
"This must be it," he mused. "I believe we need to relight the candles using our own thods. Only then will the 'key' reveal itself."
He explained to his companions. The woman, who had yet to reveal her na or title, was the first to speak.
"Simple enough," she declared. "I've encountered sothing like this before, in the ruins of an ancient demon-worshipping cult. Allow ."
With that, she bit the tip of her tongue, spattering blood onto one of the wicks. Then, she whispered:
"The blood of passion lights the way forward."
With a soft flicker, an orange fla danced to life. It was the first color other than red they had seen since entering the Mysterious Realm, and a look of relief washed over every face.
"It's an ancient ritual, often used for seals or bindings," the woman explained. "The original version was supposedly so kind of strange hexahedral seal... Anyway, it operates on a peculiar 'principle of the overlooked.' Simply put, you must use sothing you always possess but rarely notice—an object, an emotion, even an ability."
Having offered her explanation, the woman stepped back, gesturing for the others to proceed. The old Gravedigger, grasping her aning completely, stepped forward. He stooped, gathered a pinch of dust on his fingertip, and blew gently. The particles drifted through the air and touched a wick, instantly igniting a black fla.
"The dust of decay foretells the future."
The Gravedigger murmured the words, though the ritual itself required no incantation.
"Then I suppose it's my turn. This should be quite simple."
The follower of the Righteous God, the Unlit Moon—the Nightwatchman—said this, doing nothing more than extending his hands toward an unlit candle in a gentle, offering gesture.
"A light without a source to guide all beings."
A silver luminescence flared to life, its fla both beautiful and elegant.
As the Nightwatchman retreated, Mr. White Cat approached the inverted pentagram. With a cough, he fished so shredded scraps from his pocket. They looked as though they had been there for ages, surviving countless washes, for they were hopelessly mixed with lint and frayed threads from the pocket's lining.
"mories of yesterday seal away the filth."
A dull gray fla ignited. Mr. White Cat exhaled slowly and glanced at Jenkins, signaling that it was now his turn. Only two minutes remained of their ten-minute window; he needed to hurry.
"Sothing I always possess but rarely notice..."
His mind spun, an idea quickly taking shape. He faced the final candle and declared:
"I am an honest man... The fla of honesty is the very soul of civilization."
If the statent was a lie, it ant he was typically dishonest—yet he always considered himself honest. Thus, the thing he possessed but never noticed was "deceit," a perfect match for his connection to the Lie Godhood.
If the statent was true, it ant he was genuinely honest. Yet, as a being connected to the God of Lies, his greatest power stemd from falsehood. In that case, this declaration of honesty was a self-deception that was, paradoxically, not a deception at all. It, too, perfectly fit the divine domain of lies and the ritual's condition.
The logic proved sound. A golden fla sprang to life, its light joining the black, gray, orange, and silver. The lines forming the inverted pentagram on the floor filled with the five colors. As the symbol blazed, a fearso sphere of red light ascended from its center. They could dimly perceive that this sphere was the sole source of illumination in this world—and suspended within it was a silver key.
"That's it!"
Jenkins exclaid in delight, reaching for the sphere of light before instinctively recoiling.
"Wait, sothing's not right."
He was right. At the exact mont Jenkins had reached out, another hand—a rotting, human hand—had descended from the corridor's ceiling, plunged into the red sphere, and plucked out the key.
Everyone's gaze shot upward. A ghoul clung to the ceiling, swallowing the key whole. Its bulging, fish-like eyes stared down at them.
"Thank you for the directions," it rasped. "Without you, I never would have found the ultimate 'grand prize' of this Mysterious Realm—the one and only key that will lead my kind through the gate of the Silver Spoon."
It chuckled, backing away toward the iron door that had no keyhole. But the door was gone, replaced by a portal of endless white light.
"Oh, humans," it gloated, "this plan was flawless from the start. If the followers of the Righteous Gods had failed to find this realm, we would have simply continued to ferry more of our kin into your world. But since you so kindly found both the realm and its exit, I get to claim the long-lost C-03-0921, the Silver Spoon! With this, I can open the true Gate of the Silver Key—one of the few portals that directly connects to the material world, one of the few... legitimate... routes."
"Don't even think about leaving!"
The Gravedigger and the Nightwatchman lunged simultaneously, trying to grab the cackling ghoul, but their hands passed through it as if it were a re shadow.
Mr. White Cat flung a handful of shimring powder into the air, and with a sharp tug, pulled the incorporeal ghoul down from above. The woman imdiately seized its forearm and executed a flawless shoulder throw, her form reminiscent of the military combat arts of the Cheslan Kingdom.
"I rember her now," Jenkins thought. "From the train. So she didn't die from Mr. Prankster's ticket after all..."
As the thought crossed his mind, he unleashed a plu of fire at the ghoul. The creature shrieked as the enchanted flas washed over it, but it remained unhard. It lunged, grabbing Jenkins's arm. Its claws dug deep into his flesh, and venom surged into his veins.
"You go first! The ten minutes are almost up! I'll handle this!"
Jenkins yelled to his companions. The ever-trusting Mr. White Cat and the ever-distrusting spy—as Jenkins now thought of her—imdiately leaped through the portal of light. But the two Enchanters from the Orthodox Church remained.
"Go, hurry!" Jenkins urged, grappling with the ghoul. "If we're still here when the next cycle starts, this was all for nothing! The next wave could bring even more of them into the city."
"But if you fail," the Nightwatchman countered, "and that ghoul escapes with the key, the catastrophe will be far worse than a fifth cycle of this realm. We are not leaving. Ti is short. Let's fight."
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