Noir, now clad in the magnificent dark grey suit, settled deeper into the Host's grand chair at the head of the table. He had successfully cultivated an air of enigmatic authority, his face subtly obscured by the lingering mist, his silence deliberate. He wanted to be perceived as mysterious, a powerful entity, and judging by the girl's reaction, his gambit was working.
The man, with his dull blue hair, shifted uncomfortably in his newly manifested seat. He seemed more pragmatic, less prone to immediate awe. "Since we are here," he began, his voice hesitant but firm, "perhaps we should discuss something." He looked around the vast, mist-shrouded hall, clearly trying to make sense of their situation, though his gaze kept returning to Noir.
The girl, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and eager curiosity, turned towards Noir. "My Lord," she started, her voice barely above a whisper, full of newfound respect, "how does one… become an Ascendant?" The question hung in the air, a silent challenge to Noir's cultivated mystique.
Noir remained silent, letting the question hang in the air, allowing his obscured face to remain unreadable, his expression hidden by the swirling mist. He had no idea what an "Ascendant" was, but he couldn't break character. The man, seemingly accustomed to answering such questions or perhaps simply impatient with Noir's prolonged silence, stepped in. "If you wish to become an Ascendant, your simplest path is to join a Church," he explained, his tone practical, cutting straight to the point. "They offer a structured path, teachings, and, eventually, a means to advance."
The girl immediately recoiled, a frown creasing her brow, her initial excitement dimming slightly. "A Church? Oh, I don't like the sound of that at all. I want freedom, not… doctrine. I want to forge my own path, to discover, not to be bound by ancient rules."
"Then there is another way," the man continued, undeterred, his voice dropping conspiratorially, as if sharing a secret. "Through potions." He leaned forward, his eyes glinting. "I possess the recipes for two Sequence-9 potions, the lowest level of ascension. The Sailor Potion, which grants unparalleled balance – a person can stand firm even in a storming sea, enhanced lung capacity, and mild control over air currents. And the Harbinger Potion, which grants the ability to perceive early signs of future events, sense immediate danger, and experience glimpses of future."
The girl's eyes lit up, clearly drawn to the latter, the lure of foresight proving irresistible. "The Harbinger! Can I… can I acquire that recipe?" she asked, her voice laced with fervent excitement, her posture leaning forward in anticipation.
The man smiled, a glint in his eye, clearly aware of the value of his knowledge. "Indeed. For an exchange of equal value, of course. For the Harbinger recipe, which I will call the Observer recipe in this setting, I would require a Single Tear of a Weeping Willow: A drop of sap-like tear from an ancient willow tree, renowned for its ability to draw moisture from the air, enhancing local humidity. It's a rare and potent ingredient, often used in rituals of calming or focus."
The girl's face registered surprise at the unusual request, then a look of resolute determination. "A Single Tear of a Weeping Willow. Very well. I agree to this." Her eyes, however, narrowed slightly as she looked from the man to the ethereal space around them, a practical streak emerging. "But how are we going to ensure this deal is fulfilled? What guarantees it? This place… it doesn't feel like a normal market."
The man chuckled, a sound of amusement. "An excellent question. We could take..." He paused, then slapped his thigh with a slight annoyance, as if only just remembering something crucial. "My bad, I even forgot to ask for your name, good sir." He gestured respectfully towards Noir, an acknowledgment of Noir's assumed authority.
"You may address me as... The Fool," Noir replied, his voice resonating with an almost supernatural calm, the chosen title a mocking nod to his own absurd situation, yet powerfully authoritative in this strange realm. "Since we are forming a pact in this place of new beginnings, perhaps we should also take names from the tarot. It adds a certain mystique, wouldn't you agree?" He looked pointedly at the man, inviting him to play along.
"I will go by The Hanged Man," the man declared, his gaze steady, a hint of ancient wisdom in his dull blue eyes.
The girl clapped her hands together, a spark of pure delight in her eyes, embracing the theatricality of the situation. "Then I will choose Justice!" she proclaimed, a bright, confident smile on her face.
The Hanged Man turned back to Noir, a new flicker of curiosity and respect in his eyes. "Mr. Fool," he said, his voice respectful, "would you consent to be the witness for this deal? To see it through to its conclusion? Your authority here seems… considerable."
Noir, now fully immersed in his role, leaned back in his grand chair, a subtle smile playing on his lips, though the mist still kept his expression ambiguous. "I shall ensure the deal is completely fulfilled," he stated, his voice dropping to a low, captivating register that brooked no argument, a silent promise and a dire warning. "Otherwise, the person who fails to uphold their end will face severe consequences. Consequences they cannot possibly imagine. This Castle observes all."
The Hanged Man and Justice exchanged glances, a shared, silent understanding passing between them, a recognition of the implicit power Noir wielded. "We agree to your terms, Mr. Fool," The Hanged Man said, a flicker of something new—perhaps caution, perhaps genuine respect—in his eyes. "I will convey the delivery location in our next meeting. And then, the recipe will be yours, Justice."
They both turned towards Noir again, a more pressing question on their minds, their excitement now tempered by a practical concern for their return. "Mr. Fool," Justice asked, her excitement tinged with apprehension, "will we be able to return here? To this place? How do we find it again?"
Noir met her gaze, a profound knowing settling into his black eyes, though only he could see the shimmering, almost invisible threads connecting them to him, to the very heart of the Castle itself, threads he now knew he controlled. "As long as you are tied with the thread of fate connecting you to the Castle, you will receive the invitation of The Fool," he affirmed, his words ringing with unshakeable certainty, a magical truth that resonated through the misty hall.
The Hanged Man and Justice both nodded, a visible relief washing over them, dissolving some of the tension. "Very well then, Mr. Fool," The Hanged Man said, a final note of acceptance in his voice. "May we now leave?"
Noir simply inclined his head, a silent, imperious gesture. "Very well then." With a silent, deliberate command that reverberated through the ethereal space, he cut the threads, severing their connection to the Castle and to him. The two visitors vanished instantly, their forms dissolving into the mist as the Castle of Fabrications began to recede, fading like a dream. Noir was left alone once more, cloaked in the profound silence that descended upon the grey mists.
Noir's vision swam as the threads of fate snapped, disconnecting him from the Castle and its brief occupants. The familiar forms of The Hanged Man and Justice dissolved, leaving him standing alone in the swirling, endless grey mists. The profound silence that followed was heavy, almost suffocating, broken only by the faint, almost imperceptible hum of the ethereal space itself, a sound that seemed to be the very breath of this realm. He was still clad in the fantastic dark grey suit, a strange comfort in this unsettling void, a tangible reminder of the surreal power he had just wielded.
He was still pondering the sheer absurdity of it all, the terrifying implications of Alder's "luck increasing ritual" and his impromptu, self-appointed role as 'The Fool,' when a faint, ethereal sound began to prick at the edges of his hearing. It was a whisper, formless and indistinct, yet chillingly familiar, similar to the one he had heard during his first bewildering transit into this realm. He strained his ears, but the words were just beyond comprehension, a cacophony of incomprehensible whispers that seemed to coil around him, growing louder, more insistent, like unseen entities closing in.
His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the oppressive silence. This wasn't right. He hadn't performed the ritual again. He hadn't summoned anyone. Why were they returning? Or, more terrifyingly, why was it returning?
Then, the very air around him grew heavy, oppressive, thick with an unseen pressure. The swirling mist began to churn with a new, dark energy, a malevolent presence. A metallic tang, like ozone mixed with something ancient and cold, filled the non-existent air, assaulting his senses. The grey began to deepen, to solidify, forming unseen structures around him, a grotesque architecture rising from the void.
A sudden, violent shift in the mist occurred, coalescing and taking shape with horrifying speed. In an instant, the haze parted, no longer formless, but revealing the grand, daunting interior of the Castle of Fabrications in all its terrifying glory.
The towering, ornate pillars solidified around him, reaching into the formless grey above, their carvings seeming to writhe in the crimson light. The long, rectangular table, stretching into the eerie distance, shimmered into view, its surface reflecting the unearthly glow. And there, at the lead chair, bathed in the sinister glow of the colossal crimson moon that now hung impossibly in the castle's sky, sat the mysterious person.
The Host.
He was draped in his dark grey suit and long coat, his long, black hair cascading around him, his form utterly still, an unmoving statue of dread. From this distance, Noir could only discern the terrifying black voids where his eyes should have been, lifeless, ancient, and utterly devoid of anything human.
A shiver colder than any physical chill ran down Noir's spine, lodging itself deep within his bones, a terror that transcended fear. He was back. But this time, it was different. This time, he was alone with the one who called himself the Host, the undisputed master of this absurd game. The true game, he realized with dawning horror, had only just begun. The whispers of the Host, now clear, echoed through the vast, silent hall, a chilling pronouncement that settled deep into Noir's very soul.
"We meet again Mr. Kagenou!"