Jack lingered for a moment, shifting through some thoughts, before he vanished from his room.
He reappeared within Dylan Castle. A low pulse drifted along the walls, just beneath the senses. Jack let out a breath and stepped forward. The corridor before him stretched in half-light, swathed in the same ancient distortion that ran through the cathedral's walls.
The days ahead would be chaotic. That much was guaranteed. Between Halsey's commission and whatever mess Nivlek was planning in Vermonda, the horizon had no shortage of problems waiting to happen. And that was without counting whatever else was crawling through the cracks. Jack had no illusions about how long his quiet margin would last. So, he intended to use it.
He turned down the left corridor, one he hadn't explored before. There had been no time. Now, there was just enough.
The first door he opened groaned faintly on the hinges. Dust greeted him, thick rugs faded to red-gray, a row of polished mannequins clad in antique armor, old ledgers stacked neatly on open bookshelves. There were display cases with Fourth Epoch coins and a celestial globe that still turned when touched. A treasure for any historian. Jack gave it a passing glance, then stepped back and shut the door.
The next room bore much the same. A saber hung on the far wall above framed state documents bearing sigils of ancient courts. One wall was taken up by a massive map of Loen's early formations, with some faded marks.
He stepped out and paused in the corridor.
There was enough forgotten history behind those doors to fill a dozen lifetimes. All of it waiting quietly behind unlocked hinges and dusted floors.
Jack tilted his head faintly, smirking to himself. Later, when I get more time to go through them.
He turned toward the next space, and immediately noticed something different. There was no door, nothing to show a frame. Just a smooth wall, but Jack had spent enough time inside Dylan Castle to know what he was looking at.
Or rather, what was trying too hard not to be seen.
He placed his hand against the wall.
A ripple pulsed outward.
The corridor darkened and the air bended slightly. The stone warped inward as a silent groan echoed through the structure, and a distortion peeled away like fog retreating from glass.
A hidden door revealed itself, having been sealed deliberately.
Jack stepped forward and pressed it open. and entered the room.
The air in the vault remained still. Steady lantern light cast faint reflections on the glass cases. Jack stepped further into the room.
Seven pedestals, but only four were filled.
He stopped. His brow furrowed slightly, not from surprise, but irritation.
Of course there'd be artifacts. This place reeked of secrecy. But four? Four?!
He exhaled through his nose.
How pitiful. A place like this, filled in treasures, legacy, and secrecy, reduced to just four lonely artifacts… Utterly disgraceful
He gave a half-glance to the empty pedestals before returning his gaze to the ones that mattered.
Of course Zaratul would leave behind scraps. That withered fraud was probably too busy collecting mirrors and talking to the walls to remember the importance of real artifacts. The man had the audacity to build a cathedral with his name carved into its roots, and what did he leave? Dust and four artifacts. A proper lunatic with legacy syndrome.
Jack scoffed aloud this time, barely holding back the rest of the words that came to mind. Blasphemous old bastard. If Zaratul hadn't gone missing, I might have been tempted to break one of these cases just to spit in his face.
Still. He wasn't about to waste what was here.
Jack didn't waste a second. His fingers hovered over the brass pendant as he closed his eyes, as he prepared to divine what the artifact was truly about.
He exhaled slowly, opening his eyes just as the name settled into his mind.
Judicator's Emblem, an artifact corresponding to the Justiciar Pathway, Chaoshunter.
He tilted his head.
"Well," he muttered dryly, "you certainly sound important."
A flicker of amusement passed through him. The aura of authority the pendant gave off was unmistakable. It pressed subtly against the skin, like the gaze of someone used to being obeyed.
Useful, no doubt.
But Jack's eyes narrowed a fraction.
I already have projections that are more useful than what this artifact could offer and has no drawbacks.
He stepped past the glass with a dismissive shrug and moved on.
The bone-white locket came next. Smaller and colder, with a quiet presence, but unmistakably rooted in death. Jack extended his hand and divined it.
Last Breath Reliquary, an artifact corresponding to the Death Pathway, Undying.
He frowned faintly.
"Dramatic."
Its aura was heavier than the emblem's, lingering like the residue of an old soul still waiting to pass on.
To most, it would be a miracle. A second chance.
Jack blinked slowly, unimpressed.
"To me? Redundant."
Resurrection wasn't a novelty for him, it was a built-in feature. If he ever reached the point of death, things had already gone so catastrophically wrong that one more life in such a complicated manner than his own would never help
He left the reliquary untouched.
The blackened die was next. He held his palm just above it and closed his eyes again. The response was different this time, like something laughing softly just out of reach, fleeting and playful
Chance Encounter, an artifact corresponding to the Wheel of Fortune Pathway, Chaoswalker.
His brow raised.
"Well, that tracks."
The artifact practically buzzed with potential… and chaos. A single roll could shift an outcome, or backfire entirely. A lovely companion for someone addicted to gambling their life away.
Not exactly Jack's style. He stared at it a moment longer.
"Volatile little bastard."
And then, he smiled.
"But chaos makes excellent bait."
He reached out and grabbed the die, slipping it into his Traveler's Bag with practiced ease.
"As an artifact, you're underwhelming," he said under his breath, "but as a marionette…" A soft chuckle escaped him.
The final pedestal waited with the dark, light-drinking cloak stretched neatly across it. A subtle shimmer ran across its surface.. Jack's spirituality swept over it in a smooth current, divining the object.
Black Fold, an artifact corresponding to the Door Pathway, Secrets Sorcerer.
He nodded to himself.
The concealment, the Exile, the ease of movement. Yes, this one was clever.
He even allowed himself the indulgence of running his fingers along the edge of the glass.
"Useful," he murmured. "But not unique."
As before, he could also summon projections of the same sequence, making this artifact also redundant to him.
He stepped back.
Still. It would sell well.
He turned in place, gaze sweeping across the chamber. Four artifacts and none of them are good for him.
He exhaled once, deeply.
"Not that I expected Zaratul to leave me a handwritten invitation."
The air in the room shifted slightly, as if it too recognized the underwhelming harvest.
Jack narrowed his eyes at the remaining pedestals.
"Not a total loss."
His tone was casual again, almost amused.
"They're not useful for me."
He straightened himself with a smirk,
"But someone out there will pay handsomely to get them in their grasp."
Jack stepped back from the sealed vault, the faint hum of the concealed artifacts fading behind him. He moved through the quiet corridors of Dylan Castle, with light footsteps, his eyes sweeping across every arch and worn mural.
The next hall turned sharply, opening to a small, square chamber. The door was normal, like the first rooms he found.
He stepped through.
At the center of the room stood a pedestal. Upon it, resting like a crown atop a corpse, was a mask.
A dark-golden mask rested upon it, radiating an eerie bizarre feeling from it the more one looked at it.
Jack's eyes widened at once. He crossed the floor quickly, not even bothering to mask his reaction. His hand closed around it with instinctive force, lifting it for a closer look.
Jackpot
The word escaped like a curse.
"This should be Celestial Worthy's Mask." He sneered faintly. "And here I was, thinking I'd taken care of everything."
He turned the object in his hand, the faint golden shimmer reflecting faintly from the torches overhead. The mask didn't vibrate or stir.
"Right… Loki was supposed to find this," Jack muttered, half to himself. "Of course the damn door wasn't even locked. Would've been obvious."
He held the mask a beat longer, then exhaled through his nose, cold and sharp.
"Keeping you on me would be a masterclass in suicidal optimism."
He turned, placed it back onto the pedestal with a steady hand.
Then he raised his right arm.
From the walls came a ripple of warped shadows, converging toward the room's center. Reality bent inward, folding like parchment touched by wet ink. The mask dimmed, its outline dulled beneath layers of spatial distortion and concealment.
"Let's make sure Loki doesn't find it this time."
He stood a moment longer in silence, watching the last darkness seal the mask.
Then a grin pulled at his lips. "The 'previous target' isn't quite ready. But someone else… someone with the right touch of madness."
He chuckled, sharp and deliberate.
"He'll do nicely."
With that, he turned on his heel and left, the door vanishing behind him as if it had never been there. Back in the corridor, he slowed, nodded once to himself.
"That's enough for today."
He raised a hand, prickling his fingers as a projection took shape.
A man, less than forty, wearing a black bonnet and classic robes. His slightly curled brown hair held an odd, unyielding weight. And his eyes—his eyes glinted with illusions layered upon illusions, as if he viewed the world through the shifting gears of a thousand clocks.
This was Botis, one of the former five Saints of the Aurora Order!
Jack didn't hesitate. He reached towards the projection's Spirit Body threads, quickly making it into a marionette in instants.
Jack's hand moved again, and a second projection materialized beside him.
Short, barely over five feet. Shoulders squared with dignity beyond her age. Her messy blond hair was tousled by the echo of sunlight, and her malt-colored skin bore the evidence of years spent under open skies. Even so, her expression held calm pressure, with a quiet, commanding force.
Xio Derecha, one of the Major Arcana of the Tarot Club!
Then again, Jack quickly took control of her Spirit Body Threads, getting another marionette.
Jack smiled faintly, hands sliding behind his back.
Jack held an extensive knowledge of this world, having observed the adventures of a particular mighty existence. Hence, he was capable of summoning many artifacts and existences and the Tarot Club as amongst them.
Due to an Angel's status and peculiarity, they could sense whenever their projection was summoned and with that, they could bring serious problems. As he didn't have yet a friendly relationship with the Tarot Club, he could not summon the projections of Audrey Hall and Fors Wall.
But for the rest of the Major Arcana?
It was fine. They were only Saints and without the proper status, none of them could sense their projections being summoned, giving Jack the opportunity to use their projections as he pleased.
He then grabbed both marionette's shoulders, as Botis used Traveler's Door, vanishing from Dylan Castle, leaving it in silence once more.
…
Toscarter Harbor reeked of brine, tar, and piss.
Inside a crooked tavern wedged between two warehouses, Bran Torrin threw back his fourth mug of beer with a guttural laugh that rattled the windows. The worn floorboards trembled beneath his boots as he slammed the empty tankard down hard enough to make nearby patrons flinch.
He grinned, showing crooked teeth stained yellow by years of rotgut and worse. "What? Never seen a man enjoy his drink?" he bellowed, spraying spittle across the nearest table. His eyes flicked wildly across the room, daring anyone to hold his gaze for longer than a breath. Yet, no one did.
He leaned back with a loud grunt, resting one boot on a chair he didn't pay for. Women who passed his line of sight got an eyeing like they were meat on a hook. He catcalled the braver ones and leered at the rest.
A handful of regulars muttered under their breath. Others simply ignored him. A man like Bran, loud, mean, and always one drink from starting a brawl, wasn't worth the bruises to silence. Not when he'd be gone with the tide soon enough.
Bran didn't care. He lived the way he drank, greedy, loud, and one spill from broken glass. So long as he did as he pleased and plundered as he pleased, the rest of the world could drown.
Eventually, with an exaggerated yawn, he scraped back his chair and pushed through the tavern door.
Sunlight hit his eyes like a punch. He cursed the sky, staggered down the salt-worn steps, and began his slow shuffle through the harbor streets. Lunch had been forgettable, but he was full, and the ship wouldn't wait forever. The Maiden's Howl was moored two piers down, and the captain had plans for a quick run south before the week ended.
Bran muttered to himself, scratching the side of his unshaven neck, when a sharp whistle cut across the noise of seagulls and creaking sails.
He paused.
It came from a narrow alley to his right, half-shaded and tucked between a rickety fish stall and a stacked pallet of rotting crates.
Bran squinted. "You better have a reason, asshole," he growled. "I'm not in the mood."
Another whistle. Then a voice, smooth and biting, exclaimed. "Didn't think pigs could walk upright. Funny sight."
Bran's lip curled. "Say that again, coward."
"Come closer."
He snarled and took a step into the alley, fist clenched. "You'll regret—"
The words never finished.
The instant his boot crossed into the shadows, something cold and unspeakable surged through him, seeping into his bones, freezing his limbs, and anchoring his breath in the middle of his throat. A weight, vast yet formless, coiled behind his neck like a leash, and the alley dimmed as if the light itself recoiled. His thoughts cracked, splintering beneath a pressure he couldn't name.
Yet, no scream echoed throughout the alley or the streets.
By the time the sun slid further west and a few sailors wandered past the alley again, it stood empty.
Bran Torrin was gone.
Somewhere deep within an unknown forest, Bran collapsed. One moment, he was cursing shadows in an alley in Toscarter Harbor. The next, he was sprawled in the mud of nowhere, his limbs twitching uncontrollably.
What the fuck was that?
His thoughts spiraled. Was this it? Is this my time? Had I finally pissed off the wrong person? But that made no sense, I'm just a gutter pirate, a glorified thug with no bounty, no name, no worth above two pints and a cheap knife.
He clawed at the ground, but his fingers slipped in the wet soil. The forest was deathly silent, as if even the insects refused to make noise.
Then came measured footsteps from his right.
Bran twisted his head and saw a man approaching, neatly dressed in a fine black suit with polished shoes that somehow avoided the grime. He carried himself like a noble, but his smile was all wrong, crooked, amused, and completely cruel.
"Quite the display earlier," the man drawled. "Snarling at women, howling over beer, threatening anyone who looked at you sideways..."
Bran's throat tightened.
"A true menace to society," the man went on, tilting his head. "Or at least, that's what you like. Truth is, you're filth, Bran Torrin. A boil on the ass of a dockside latrine."
Bran wanted to curse at him, lunge at him, anything, but he couldn't. His voice wouldn't come. His limbs didn't move. His mind was smothered by dread.
The man raised his hand, revealing a blackened die that shimmered unnaturally in the forest light. Then, without a word, he clenched it in his palm. A crack rang out like bone under pressure. Sparks burst from his fingers, vivid and chaotic, before collapsing inward, shaping into a perfect sphere of mercury hue, etched with moving silver symbols that pulsed like veins.
Bran's eyes went wide. He had no idea what it was, but every part of him screamed to run.
The man stepped closer, but Bran stayed frozen.
With one smooth motion, the man seized him by the collar and yanked him to his feet, leaning in close. "Time to become useful for once."
Then, with a forceful shove, he rammed the orb down Bran's throat.
Bran gagged and choked, but the sphere was already sliding down. He fell to the ground with a sickening thud, convulsing violently.
His body twisted, bones cracking and flesh stretching unnaturally. Silver scales erupted across his limbs in grotesque patches. His arms ballooned and split, forming clawed serpentine limbs, while his spine arched and thickened into a tapering tail. His face elongated, teeth spilling from misshapen jaws, eyes stretching sideways until one was human and the other slitted and reptilian. His skin blistered and tore, replaced in parts by mercury sheen, as symbols began to crawl across the scales like tattoos inked by mad hands.
What rose was a monstrosity, half-man, half-snake, towering nearly four meters, gleaming with molten silver and madness. Around it, the ground began to crack under invisible pressure, stones split, weeds withered, and the air hummed with tension.
Jack watched it happen from a few steps away, a light grin playing on his lips. Even half-formed, it was already pulling at the nearby strands of chaos and fate, becoming an accidental anchor of disruption. "Hmph. You're new, but you're acting fast."
From his right, a figure emerged, Xio Derecha's projection. Her eyes sparked with sharp arcs of lightning.
Psychic Piercing!
The blast struck the creature's mind like a lance. The serpent-thing howled, writhing in agony. But it didn't fall, lunging towards her at once.
From the left, Botis raised a single hand. A massive Invisible Hand manifested, clamping down on the beast with supernatural force. Its limbs spasmed, then stilled under the pressure.
Then came Erynos, stepping silently from the shadows. His lips moved in a harsh, deep tongue, a language from somewhere ancient, blathering something. The monster's movements slowed, dulled by unseen weight to a standstill.
Now Jack moved, swiftly controlling the monster's threads. The thing that had once been Bran Torrin twitched violently, mouth stretched open in silent agony as the control took hold.
However it could barely move as its movements slowed even more sluggishly and his thoughts brought to a halt.
A minute passed, then the creature stopped.
Its eyes blinked, then turned to Jack. It stepped forward, morphing its appearance to that of a common man, too featureless to attract any attention as it bowed low, hands resting like a servant waiting for orders.
Jack's smile widened. "Charlie," he said after a moment, tasting the name. "You'll do nicely."
With a flick of his sleeve, he vanished from the forest altogether.
They reappeared inside his private room in Conant City.
Botis and Xio stood beside him. Jack glanced toward them, and with a sway, both projections dissolved into nothing
He looked back at Charlie, his new silver-scaled marionette, and Erynos beside him.
"Much better," he said aloud, adjusting his collar. "This should be enough for the storm that's coming."
He didn't sound worried, only amused.