Audrey’s inn was located on the third floor. Walking there from “The Clinking Glasses” took approximately six to seven minutes.
However, the internal scale of the entire pavilion far exceeded Siles’s expectations. He had initially compared its layout to a commercial plaza on Earth, but under Quinton’s guidance, they wound through a labyrinth of paths that continuously opened up into hidden pockets of life. This made Siles realize that the House of Hales truly lived up to its reputation. As the largest outpost in the southeastern region of the Ashless Lands, it possessed a profound structural depth that matched its renown.
From eating breakfast to heading up to the third floor, Siles had remained exceptionally quiet. It was only when he abruptly grasped the sheer, staggering immensity of the pavilion’s interior space that he blinked, shaking himself free from his tangled web of thoughts.
Quinton chose that exact moment to speak up. “Have you reached any conclusions?”
Siles considered it for a moment. “Not quite a conclusion. However…” He paused by a cloth-draped railing, looking down at the circus tent pitched in the hollow center of the first floor. “I simply feel as though we might have misunderstood something.”
“Misunderstood what?”
“We have been trying to find the truth,” Siles said. “And the truth is always convoluted. But the reality is, what we need right now is to resolve this matter.”
Quinton weighed the phrasing. “The truth of the matter versus the resolution of the matter… Is there a difference?”
“I have been constantly agonizing over what the truth actually is—whether deities devour one another, whether believers are truly being deceived, what role the House of Hales plays in this grand scheme, and whether the ‘Non-existent City’ is real or a myth…”
Siles laid it out plainly. Naturally, these questions had plagued every single one of them over the past weeks.
“But now you feel…?” Quinton prompted.
“I feel that I cannot deduce the truth blindly,” Siles admitted helplessly. “Or rather, I can weave everything together according to my own interpretation, but I lack the absolute proof.”
Quinton nodded understandingly. “This business is indeed incredibly knotty.”
“It is,” Siles murmured. “Precipitously complex. So complex that…”
He fell into a sudden silence.
The disappearance of Professor Carbell and Assistant Mervyn, the correspondence of Madame Debris, the manuscripts of the Hoodoka cultists, the victims transformed into stone statues, the steadily mounting body count of explorers, the nocturnal terrors of the temple builders…
Isherwood’s obsession with the “Non-existent City,” the shadowy survivors from a decade ago, the ruins of a mysterious tribe possessing the concept of prophets and anachronistic fountain pen technology, the “secret” and the “mistake” mentioned by Alfonso and Emmanuel…
The Stardust veins and the mysteriously vanished miners, the unidentified identities of Joseph and Lila, the rumors surrounding the House of Hales, the terrifying possibility of fallen deities, the metaphors hidden within anonymous codices… the maps…
It was far too intricate. He realized that, up until now, he had failed to locate the singular, foundational thread capable of binding all these disparate clues together.
Quinton looked at him with an inquiring glance.
“We should temporarily abandon our pursuit of the abstract truth.” Siles exhaled a long, heavy breath. “We need to find the perpetrators, settle the score with them, and then wrench the truth directly from their mouths—the absolute, objective truth of what has transpired in this land over the past four centuries.”
Siles had no intention of remaining trapped inside this colossal, dizzying labyrinth. He refused to passively follow the breadcrumbs laid out by the perpetrators like a headless fly, unearthing minor, inconsequential clues while drifting further from the core. He wanted to dictate his own pace, investigate on his own terms, and resolve this nightmare.
In reality, his ultimate destination had been staring him in the face all along.
“This afternoon, we are going to pay a visit to the nearby Stardust vein,” Siles declared decisively. “There is no point in wasting any more time investigating within the House of Hales.”
Quinton looked at him in surprise, his emerald eyes glinting. “As you wish. However, Professor Noel—”
His tone carried a deep, meaningful cadence that made Siles turn to look at him, slightly bewildered.
Suddenly, Quinton leaned in close, his emerald eyes staring at Siles from mere inches away. “I find myself growing fonder of you by the second, Professor Noel.”
Siles remained silent.
“To display such decisive initiative at a juncture like this—honestly, I feel as though my heart beats solely for you right now,” Quinton chuckled softly. He took Siles’s hand, pressing it firmly against his own chest. “Can you feel my devotion?”
Against his palm, Siles truly did perceive the rhythmic thrumming of Quinton’s heartbeat.
The heart. The chest. The heartbeat.
Wait…! Siles’s mind suddenly jolted.
“What did you just say?” Siles demanded abruptly.
Quinton blinked, his expression shifting rapidly from playful to intensely focused, and finally settling into an amused resignation. He repeated dryly, “My heart beats solely for you.”
Siles plunged directly into deep thought, entirely forgetting that his palm was still resting against Quinton’s chest.
Finding himself left hanging, Quinton casually began to toy with Siles’s fingers. Siles let him be, his mind racing elsewhere as a sudden, brilliant spark of inspiration illuminated his thoughts.
The heart, the beating… the heart.
The anatomy of humans in this world was virtually identical to those on Earth—convergent evolution, as terrestrial biology would call it. Typically, the heart was situated on the left side of the human thoracic cavity. Yet when Quinton had taken his hand and placed it on his own chest, from Siles’s perspective, he was reaching toward the bottom right.
The bottom right… the southeast of the map. The heart.
On both Bonnet’s map and the version belonging to Quinton “Pseudo” Praia, in the southeastern region of the Ashless Lands—situated just below and slightly to the right of the House of Hales—there was a heart-shaped canyon known as…
Colonna.
The Colonna Canyon.
Alva’s grandfather Bonnet… and his grandmother Colonna.
Siles froze as the realization struck him. Could this truly be a mere coincidence?
It wasn’t impossible for the historical Bonnet to have named a heart-shaped canyon after his wife while surveying the land. But if…
“What crossed your mind?” Quinton finally asked, unable to contain himself. “Professor Noel, I am in the middle of professing my love to you. Could you perhaps refrain from spoiling the mood?”
Siles snapped out of his thoughts, spared Quinton a brief glance, and withdrew his hand. “Do not jest.”
“I am not jesting,” Quinton pressed. “And you know perfectly well that I—”
“We have arrived at the inn,” Siles interrupted.
“…Must you deflect the topic so aggressively!” Quinton said coldly. “I know you are occupied, but I hope you wouldn’t…”
“Do not address me with formal honorifics,” Siles corrected gently. “Furthermore, if you truly intend to confess, choose an appropriate setting, a fitting catalyst, and convey your thoughts with an earnest tone. Do not assume that testing me with a playful, half-serious demeanor will cause me to take your words to heart. You know very well, Quinton, that I am not swayed by such tactics.”
Quinton stood transfixed, staring intensely at Siles.
Siles hesitated for a fraction of a second. The corridor was practically deserted; the explorers were not yet in a hurry to venture out so early in the morning.
Ultimately, Siles added, “I am a traditional person by the standards of this era. At the very least, I hold that view when it comes to romance.”
He gave Quinton a calm look, then turned and walked away. Audrey’s inn was a mere three paces ahead.
Quinton instantly snapped out of his daze and caught up to Siles. “My apologies! I am sorry… I… I merely…” He swallowed. “Siles, I simply feel as though we belong to two entirely different worlds.”
Siles was unexpectedly amused by the irony of those words.
Quinton opened his mouth to say more, but the sudden, faint trace of amusement in Siles’s eyes made him pause. He asked in confusion, “What are you laughing at?”
Siles thought to himself: Because we literally do belong to two different worlds. At least in an objective sense, Quinton was entirely correct.
Choosing not to answer the question directly, Siles simply said, “Enough, let us focus on the task at hand.” His tone grew serious. “In a moment, I have another matter to ask Alva. Are you familiar with Colonna Canyon?”
Quinton gave him a slightly disgruntled look before answering, “Of course I am. That heart-shaped canyon surrounded by miraculous legends.”
“Miraculous legends?”
“You are aware of the myths claiming that certain deities share… romantic entanglements? Spousal relationships? That sort of dynamic,” Quinton explained. “And that heart-shaped canyon is simply far too perfectly formed. Some people suspect it was a deity’s method of confessing to their beloved.”
Siles fell silent for a moment, before remarking in a highly complex tone, “That sounds remarkably romantic.”
Quinton blinked in surprise. “Do you favor that style of confession?”
Siles cast a strange look at him, caught between amusement and dismay. “No. That is not what I meant. What I mean is…” He paused. “I suspect that canyon is the ‘mistake on the map’.”
Quinton’s eyes narrowed, grasping Siles’s implication instantly. After a brief pause, a look of profound disbelief crossed his features. “That is… extraordinary.”
“Merely a hypothesis,” Siles replied neutrally, stepping across the threshold into Audrey’s inn.
_
Behind the counter stood the proprietress, looking thoroughly drowsy. Upon noticing guests entering, the woman—who appeared to be in her mid-thirties and still retained a distinct, lingering charm—shook off her fatigue and offered a polite smile. “Good morning, gentlemen. May I help you…?”
“Are you acquainted with Alfonso Carlyle and Emmanuel?” Siles asked directly.
The proprietress’s expression instantly shifted. She shot Siles a wary glance before a look of recognition dawned on her face. “Are you Mr. Siles Noel?”
Siles realized that, compared to the tavern owner Andy, this proprietress was significantly closer to Alfonso and Emmanuel. At the very least, Andy hadn’t even known Siles’s name.
Siles nodded, cutting straight to the chase. “I am Siles Noel. Where did they go?”
“I cannot tell you directly,” the proprietress said, her expression darkening with sorrow. “He didn’t even take me along…”
Siles paused, enduring a brief moment of awkward silence before continuing smoothly, “Could you perhaps provide us with a clue?”
Managing to steady her emotions, the proprietress stood up and drew the heavy cloth curtain over the inn’s entrance. The room, which should have plunged into darkness, gradually filled with a faint, ambiguous light. Siles was certain the illumination was emitting directly from the fabric itself.
However, neither the proprietress nor Quinton seemed surprised by it; it appeared this was standard utility within the pavilions.
Under her guidance, they arrived at a quiet reception room. The proprietress served three glasses of plain water, placing one before each of them. She struck Siles as a capable, rational individual; aside from that single emotional outburst earlier, she maintained a remarkably composed demeanor.
She sat down, and after a moment of deliberation, delivered a shocking statement:
“They have gone to a certain place to march to their deaths.”
“To their deaths?” Siles failed to grasp her meaning for a second. After a brief pause, he asked, “Do you mean the location they went to is exceptionally perilous?”
“No. I mean their actions are entirely futile,” the proprietress shook her head. “You must be aware that they arrived here in early October, subsequently searching everywhere for clues regarding Isherwood and Fredman.”
Hearing those two names aloud from her lips confirmed to Siles that this woman, Audrey, was thoroughly privy to Alfonso and Emmanuel’s designs. He listened patiently. Quinton sat beside him, remaining quiet while evaluating Audrey with a thoughtful gaze.
“I do not know the exact details of what they discussed with that survivor or the explorer Karl,” Audrey continued. “I must make this clear to you, Mr. Noel. I merely know that they successfully located those two individuals.”
Siles nodded, his voice dropping an octave. “I understand. I suspect they weren’t particularly keen on involving me in this matter.”
“Perhaps so,” Audrey sighed slowly. “They always maintained it was a burden meant for their shoulders alone. That is why they are willing to throw their lives away now. But…” She fell into a tense silence.
Siles picked up the thread. “But we have already been drawn into it regardless.”
Audrey nodded, and then her composure seemed to abruptly fracture. She closed her eyes tightly before snapping them open again, her voice shaking. “A decade ago, one of the explorers who perished was my biological younger brother! We relied on each other to survive in the Ashless Lands, and they led him to his doom! They returned, but my brother never did! That is what happened, and now, they still intend to shut me out!”
Siles was slightly stunned. He suddenly understood the true identity of the innkeeper before him.
Her brother had been a companion to Alfonso and Emmanuel ten years ago. Following Isherwood’s disappearance, a stubborn Emmanuel had set out to find his older brother, and his companions had chosen to follow him. In the end, they did discover a tribal ruin, but the rest of the crew perished, leaving only Emmanuel and Alfonso alive. Furthermore, they never managed to find Isherwood.
And casualties… casualties are ultimately reduced to mere numbers.
A heavy weight pressed down on Siles’s chest. He leaned back against the cold backrest of his chair. Quinton turned to look at him, reaching over to lace his fingers through Siles’s cold hand. Siles squeezed back, and Quinton shifted uncomfortably in his seat, adjusting his posture.
Gradually regaining his calm, Siles said, “Madam Audrey, we will do everything within our power.”
Audrey closed her eyes. Tears traced a path down her cheeks before she wiped them away. When she looked up again, her clinical coldness had returned.
“The singular piece of information I can offer is that they located the survivor within the circus.”
Siles blinked. “The circus?”
“Yes,” Audrey said. “Over the past ten years, that man apparently drifted around inside the circus tents, wallowing in self-despair. That was until Alfonso and Emman found him. The three of them appear to have departed together.”
Siles frowned, sensing a complication. “Madam Audrey, the issue is—the leader of the circus, Miki, was found dead this morning.”
A look of sheer terror instantly surfaced on Audrey’s face. The expression was so exaggerated that it led Siles to believe Miki’s demise held far darker implications than a standard murder.
Siles paused, then asked, “Are you familiar with the circus leader?”
Audrey hesitated before whispering, “The circus… is unique.”
“In what way?”
“If the circus… ceases to operate,” Audrey said haltingly, “the House of Hales will descend into chaos. Those unhinged explorers… they all rely on… they depend on the circus.”
Siles finally understood the root of Audrey’s terror. Evidently, with the circus compromised, the explorers residing within the House of Hales would be plunged into a state of extreme volatility.
Although the circus engaged in illicit, less-than-respectable operations, it had—to a certain degree—absorbed the collective darkness of the House of Hales. It functioned as a containment vessel for vices. Like a waste bin; now that the bin had been overturned, the foul, putrid refuse was bound to spill out across the outpost.
So, Siles mused, how did Miki actually die?
If the mastermind behind the “statue transformations” was linked to the House of Hales, why would the circus—which shared an implicit connection with the outpost—suffer a casualty? This bore the hallmarks of a strange “loss of control.”
The trajectory of events was outpacing the mastermind’s design. Or perhaps, was it unfolding precisely toward the chaotic climax they desired?
Siles’s train of thought took a sudden turn. What if the mastermind required such a volatile environment? The overturned waste bin would reek of filth. And Hoodoka happened to symbolize that exact brand of corruption.
Siles frowned deeply. “It appears we need to investigate the circus matter as swiftly as possible.”
Audrey nodded silently. “I wish you luck.”
“I hope everything proceeds smoothly,” Siles said. “I have two companions—a doctor and a young man. If any emergencies arise, I will have them come notify you.”
“Understood. Rest assured,” Audrey replied.
This constituted a silent pact of safekeeping. Compared to Mary, the guide arranged by Lanmere, Siles trusted this innkeeper to a greater degree. After all, Audrey shared deep historical ties with Alfonso and Emmanuel, whereas they knew very little about Mary’s true allegiances.
_
After bidding farewell to Audrey, Siles and Quinton made their way downstairs together.
“Any new insights?” Quinton asked.
“What about you?”
Quinton pondered for a moment before answering, “It seems the House of Hales resembles the stage they have selected for their performance.”
“Yes,” Siles murmured. “Or rather, an altar.”
Quinton flashed a mocking smile. “These old god loyalists truly wish to orchestrate something grand. Four centuries have passed since the Silence Era, yet they still nurse delusions of reverting to that archaic age.”
“Whether within the civilized cities or the Ashless Lands, such individuals are hardly a rarity,” Siles noted. “At times, I find it somewhat baffling.”
“Baffling how?”
“Why the absolute obsession with returning to the era of deities?” Siles paused, then clarified, “I hold that humanity does not necessarily require the patronage of gods to exist.”
“Deities are merely their vessels of displacement,” Quinton said. “Even in the absence of gods, they would simply unearth some other concept to rationalize their conduct, forging this stubborn brand of lunacy.”
Siles nodded thoughtfully. “An anchor of ‘rectitude’.”
Quinton shot an unexpected look at Siles before laughing. “Precisely. Deities constitute their ultimate rectitude.” He couldn’t help but add, “Siles, your grasp on the relationship between gods and their adherents is far deeper than I anticipated.”
Siles replied, “I do study the literature of the Silence Era, after all. Literature invariably mirrors the underlying reality.”
“True enough,” Quinton agreed. “You managed to deduce from literature alone that the vagrant poets of Kansas were actually disciples of Ligadia.”
Siles decided to correct Quinton’s assumption. “No, it wasn’t strictly from a literary analytical perspective. I believe it was glaringly obvious; Ligadia’s divine domain is inherently distinct. If anything, I am perplexed as to why nobody noticed the religious inclination of those vagrant poets over all these centuries.”
Quinton tilted his head to look at Siles, letting out an ambiguous chuckle. “Perhaps it is simply because you are exceptionally brilliant, Professor Noel.”
Siles clicked his tongue softly. “Seriously, Quinton, why must you persist with formal honorifics?”
It wasn’t that Quinton’s use of the formal “you” signaled emotional distance; Siles occasionally utilized it himself when speaking with colleagues to denote gravity. However, whenever Quinton employed it, it carried an unidentifiable undertone—as if it were a deliberate, performative choice. Sometimes it served a teasing purpose, but at other times, it felt like an implicit hint. Moreover, Siles had brought this up multiple times, yet Quinton remained utterly unrepentant. This was uncharacteristic of him; in Siles’s presence, Quinton could generally be described as… obedient.
Thus, Quinton’s persistent defiance on this front caused Siles a touch of curiosity.
Quinton suddenly halted his steps. They had reached the first floor. The circus tent stood a stone’s throw away, surrounded by a crowd of onlookers who had gathered either to spectate or verify the rumors. Every face bore a bizarre cocktail of eager excitement and detached cruelty.
Nobody paid any heed to Siles and Quinton standing in the shadow of the corner.
Quinton turned to Siles, his voice dropping. “I mentioned previously that we should find an opportunity to discuss my past.”
Siles nodded in affirmation.
“Therefore…” Quinton exhibited an unprecedented display of hesitation, his expression deeply conflicted. “Regardless of the outcome… I hope you can understand… Professor Noel.”
He had reverted to the honorific yet again.
Siles regarded him steadily, his dark pupils maintaining their characteristic, unflappable calm.
Quinton subconsciously exhaled a breath of relief. “My usage of the honorific is grounded in a specific reason. Though, whether it qualifies as a conventional ‘reason’ is debatable. It is simply because… I am aware of certain matters. At times, I cannot suppress the internal… inclination to utilize it.”
“Inclination?” Siles seized upon the phrasing. “…Etiquette. Your usage of the honorific stems from an underlying etiquette.”
A flash of absolute astonishment rippled through Quinton’s emerald eyes, culminating in a strained, self-deprecating smile. “You are terrifyingly perceptive…”
“But you are restricted from disclosing the source of this etiquette,” Siles observed calmly. “And it pertains to your history, the nature of your upbringing… and it intersects with certain attributes I possess.”
Quinton maintained a rigid silence.
Siles hesitated for a fraction of a second before probing, “Is it due to the power of ‘evaluation’ you witnessed me wield?”
Quinton immediately countered the assertion. “No. That is not the case. I have stated before that everyone in this world harbors their own hidden cards. I recognize that as your intrinsic power…”
“Akamara?” Siles asked directly.
Aside from his dice-rolling evaluations, the only other anomaly worth scrutinizing was the deep-sea dreamscape. Granted, voicing this carried an inherent risk. Quinton was already privy to a portion of his supernatural abilities, and aside from Grenfiled, no other living soul knew of Siles’s connection to Akamara’s influence. Yet Siles had spoken the deity’s name without a second thought.
The moment the word left his lips, he realized he hadn’t hesitated in the slightest. Beyond his curiosity regarding Quinton’s past and his suspicion that Quinton was already informed, it underscored his absolute trust in the youth.
Quinton stared at him, entirely tongue-tied. After a prolonged pause, he stammered, “Are you… are you… Siles, do you not feel even a shred of surprise?”
Why can he perceive the influence of a deity? Why did he receive that specific brand of upbringing? Why did he instinctively employ that etiquette?
Siles felt a knot of confusion unravel within his mind. With an unruffled composure, he resumed his stride toward the circus tent, nodding abstractedly. “It is within acceptable parameters.”
Quinton looked as though he wanted to ask more.
“I am aware that your past is shrouded in secrets, Quinton,” Siles said as they walked. “You pursue the matter of fallen deities while treating the fabled treasures of the Ashless Lands with complete indifference. In more ways than one, you are entirely unique.”
Quinton seemed at a loss for words, merely casting a cautious, searching gaze at Siles.
“I could dissect your past behavior, conduct a logical deduction, or unearth clues from your previous statements,” Siles pivoted smoothly. “However, I choose not to. I am content to wait for your unprompted candor.”
With that, Siles closed the topic. “Come along, the circus tent awaits—this investigation has already faced sufficient delays.”
Quinton followed in his shadow. After a brief interval, he tentatively reached out to grasp the edge of Siles’s sleeve. Siles looked at him, caught between amusement and exasperation, before shifting his hand to firmly interlace their fingers.
“Didn’t you claim to be traditional?” Quinton mumbled under his breath.
The explorers loitering around the perimeter of the circus tent gradually took notice of the two men walking hand-in-hand. They threw curious, startled, or explicitly hostile glances their way.
Siles remained entirely unbothered, replying smoothly, “Does holding hands cross the threshold of ‘untrammeled behavior’ from your perspective?” He offered Quinton a half-smile. “Should you not be anticipating significantly more?”
Quinton froze visibly, his gaze darting away in sheer embarrassment. Had his complexion been lighter, Siles would have undoubtedly witnessed his ears turning a vivid crimson.
Ultimately, Siles reflected, the definition of “traditional” on Earth versus this era was separated by a vast chasm. After a moment’s thought, he reined in his amusement; he was an inherently reserved individual, after all.
Inside the circus tent, Mary, Dr. Chester, and Alva stood assembled. They cut thoroughly disappointed figures.
“Did you unearth anything?” Siles inquired.
“Nothing,” Chester reported grimly. “The premises are entirely barren… Not to say the tent is empty, but there is an absolute absence of anything pointing to the cause of the circus leader’s demise.”
Siles surveyed the interior.
Structurally, the circus still comprised one large and one small tent. They currently occupied the larger main tent. As for the contents of the smaller enclosure, they all harbored their own grim hypotheses. However, the main tent housed only the standard accoutrements of a typical performance troupe: props, costumes, stage ornaments, and caged beasts—including a lion that was currently glaring at the intruders with wary, hostile eyes. The sheer volume of cluttered items left them with no clear starting point.
“Are there any other circus staff present?” Siles asked.
Mary answered, “Miles escorted all of them away.”
Siles found this detail rather peculiar. Given that Miles was fully aware they intended to investigate the scene, it was logical to preserve the eyewitnesses for questioning. Instead, he had left Siles with nothing but an empty, echoing tent.
The recurring question surfaced in Siles’s mind yet again: To what extent was Miles aware of the masterminds’ conspiracy? Was he consciously or unconsciously facilitating their agenda? The clown’s earlier cryptic hints had provided Siles with an unprecedented line of reasoning.
He pondered the thought for a moment before snapping back to reality. “Have any of you located a ledger or accounting book?”
The circus had operated within the House of Hales for years; logistically, a ledger tracking their historical revenue should exist. Siles sought this item primarily to verify the identity of the mysterious survivor, as well as to expose any hidden financial transactions linking the circus to the administration of the House of Hales.
Chester shook his head in the negative.
Siles creased his brow, sighing internally at the predictable setback. He shifted his focus. “Where is the deceased’s personal quarters?”
“At the absolute rear of the tent,” Alva responded, grimacing slightly. “It’s rather repulsive—cluttered with garbage, industrial scrap, and miscellaneous detritus. We performed a preliminary sweep, but discovered nothing of utility. Though, strangely enough, there were a handful of House of Hales souvenirs and local specialties of the Ashless Lands. I suppose it isn’t entirely aberrant for a performer to collect such trinkets?”
Siles was intrigued by the mention of souvenirs. Would permanent residents of the Ashless Lands actively purchase such items? It remained possible they were tokens gifted by travelers.
However, Alva’s statement reminded Siles of his earlier anatomical epiphany. He asked, “On that note, Alva, are you familiar with the Colonna Canyon depicted on Bonnet’s map of the Ashless Lands?”
“Uh…” An unnatural, embarrassed look flashed across Alva’s youthful face before he quickly attempted to mask it.
Yet his relative youth betrayed him; the sudden wave of discomfort immediately drew the attention of everyone in the room. Faced with the collective, piercing stares of his companions, Alva finally crumbled. “Fine… fine! I have merely heard rumors regarding it… Regardless… Professor, the fact that you managed to unearth that specific error is honestly incredible!”
The word “error” caused the pupils of everyone present to contract slightly, with Mary exhibiting the most pronounced reaction.
“What manner of error?” Chester inquired, thoroughly perplexed.
“Well… even though I agree that my ancestor Bonnet went a bit overboard, it is what it is… textually speaking, he is still my forebear,” Alva mumbled sheepishly. “To cut a long story short… Grandmother Colonna was utterly furious with Grandfather Bonnet at the time and intended to leave him. It was only then that Grandfather Bonnet abruptly realized he had severely neglected his family over the decades. Consequently, he… he utilized the map he was drawing at the time to appease her.”
Siles noted grimly, “And that was the genesis of Colonna Canyon.”
“Exactly,” Alva confirmed. “Grandfather presumably intended to utilize that method to profess his devotion and salvage his marriage. Unfortunately, by then, it was a case of too little, too late.”
The atmosphere in the tent instantly turned stagnant.
Mary stood practically wide-eyed, her voice trembling. “That… that is the error on the map?! That is the legendary mistake?!”
Alva looked confused. “Pardon? Ah, if you are referring to the nature of the error… haha, it was actually common knowledge among a circle of contemporaries back then, because Grandfather did it deliberately. Grandmother routinely recounted the anecdote to her descendants and close acquaintances as a piece of family trivia. A heart-shaped canyon… how could a perfectly heart-shaped canyon exist naturally? It was drawn solely for Grandmother’s amusement. Naming a canyon after one’s wife is equal parts romantic and archaic, but it was entirely in character for him…”
His voice gradually trailed off into a whisper, eventually dying out completely under the terrifying, predatory glare Mary was directing at him.
Thoroughly bewildered, Alva squeaked out, “What is going on?”
Siles turned his gaze to Quinton. “When exactly did the physical heart-shaped canyon manifest?”
Quinton knit his brows. “Let me recall.”
Mary’s face had drained of all color. “So that is the ‘mistake on the map.’ That is the error! It was never… it was never…”
“A canyon that didn’t exist!” Alva chimed in helpfully. “Yes, but—”
“Are you familiar with the legend of the ‘Non-existent City’?” Siles interrupted, addressing the descendant of the cartographer.
The descendant of Bonnet. The error on Bonnet’s map—a singular “mistake.”
“What?” Alva blinked in confusion. “What do you mean, ‘doesn’t exist’… Ah! I remember now, you mentioned this matter previously.”
“No, that is not the core of the issue…” Mary stammered, her composure completely shattered, as if a foundational, deeply ingrained belief had been violently uprooted.
Chester stepped forward, his calm, clinical voice acting as a steadying anchor. “Alva, listen to me closely.”
Sensing the gravity of the situation, a bewildered Alva focused entirely on the doctor.
Chester maintained his reassuring, measured cadence. “The ‘Non-existent City’ is an ancient legend that has circulated within the Ashless Lands for centuries. According to the myth, the cartographer committed a critical oversight on the foundational map of the region, failing to chart a specific city. Because this error occurred at the absolute dawn of exploration, and given that the fog of the Ashless Lands shifts unpredictably, the mistake became impossible to verify over time. It simply manifested implicitly on every subsequent map. Consequently, generations of explorers believed a hidden city existed outside the charted grid—a city teeming with boundless treasure and cosmic secrets. For centuries, lives were thrown away in pursuit of this geographical ‘mistake,’ culminating in untold tragedies.”
And this grand, historical myth… was merely born because a cartographer wanted to flatter his estranged wife, doodling a heart onto an official document?
Alva’s mouth fell open, his expression a mask of pure disbelief. “I… I had no idea… I never thought… I assumed everyone was privy to the context. I thought everyone knew the anecdote behind Bonnet’s map…”
Indeed, practically every explorer was well-versed in Bonnet’s tragic narrative—how his obsession with unraveling the mysteries of the Ashless Lands had alienated his family, leaving him entirely alone. It served as a universal, cautionary tale.
Yet, nobody knew the true nature of the error. Nobody knew what Bonnet had actually done. Whether it was a freak cosmic irony or a deliberate conspiracy orchestrated by a hidden hand, that singular “error” had remained anchored to the charts, acting as the catalyst for centuries of bloodshed.
Alva looked completely overwhelmed.
“Calm yourself, Alva. This is not your burden to bear,” Siles reassured him. “The true anomaly lies elsewhere: why did a physical heart-shaped canyon actually manifest in reality?”
Quinton spoke up, his eyes narrowing. “There was a prolonged period where that specific sector was entirely swallowed by the dense fog. By the time the fog naturally receded, a physical heart-shaped canyon had manifested on the terrain. Consequently, the feature has been preserved on modern maps to this day.”
A collective, unnerved silence descended upon the group.
Turning fiction into reality? The canyon simply materialized out of thin air?
“Wait,” Siles intervened, his analytical mind seizing upon a detail. “Swallowed by the fog?”
“Yes,” Quinton nodded. “Madam Mary, you should be aware of this historical event as well, correct?”
Mary, who had been completely lost in her thoughts, snapped back to attention. She offered a rigid, intensely focused nod. “Yes. For an extended duration, that territory was completely inaccessible due to the shifting fog. As a result, nobody possessed the means to verify or rectify the error.”
Siles frowned. The fog? The localized fog surrounding the House of Hales?
The error had been introduced four centuries ago, during the absolute infancy of the region’s exploration. At that juncture, several contemporaries were fully aware that Bonnet’s heart-shaped canyon was a sentimental fabrication. Logically, the error should have been corrected in subsequent revisions. Yet it endured.
This implied that shortly after Bonnet left that fictional mark, the fog had perfectly descended upon that exact sector, rendering any immediate correction redundant. Cartographers simply needed to blanket the region with the symbol for active fog on the charts. By the time the fog finally dissolved centuries later to reveal a literal heart-shaped canyon, the original eyewitnesses had long since turned to dust.
As for the Gellini family, they retained knowledge of the error, but centuries of isolation and their strict policy of shielding their youth from the Ashless Lands had dulled their curiosity. The descendants likely assumed that Grandfather Bonnet hadn’t fabricated the terrain out of whole cloth after all.
It was only now, four hundred years later, with the arrival of an anomaly like Alva in the Ashless Lands, that the truth was laid bare: a multi-century geographical obsession was merely the desperate gesture of an irresponsible husband trying to salvage his marriage.
But the core mystery remains unsolved: how did the canyon actually manifest?
_
Amid Siles’s deep contemplation, a sudden, sharp hiss sliced through the air, followed by the muffled tearing of fabric. A violent gust of wind whipped past his ear, accompanied by Quinton’s sharp, low gasp of pain.
“Mr. Quinton!” someone shouted in panic.
Siles spun around instantly, the metallic tang of blood hitting his nostrils. He focused his gaze and saw Quinton’s hand clamped tightly over his own ear; a long, jagged laceration ran across the back of his hand. Crimson blood was already spilling rapidly through his fingers, dripping onto Siles’s shoulder.
Quinton was staring directly at Siles, his emerald eyes a turbulent mix of intense anxiety, protective concern, and a roaring fury directed at the unseen assailant.
Siles looked down, spotting a heavily rusted pocketknife resting on the dirt floor.
In that fraction of a second, he seized Quinton’s injured hand without a thought. His voice caught in his throat for a brief moment before he managed to whisper, “Does it hurt?”
“I am unhurt,” Quinton insisted softly. “As long as you are safe.”
Siles’s brow furrowed into a tight knot of anger. Quinton reached out with his uninjured hand, gently tracing the crease between Siles’s brows. “Do not worry, Professor Noel. I am perfectly fine.”
Alva roared in shock and fury, “What just happened?! Who did this?!” Seeking an escape from the weight of the previous revelations, the youth bolted out of the tent.
Mary reacted instantly, shouting, “I’ll follow him!”
Dr. Chester stepped forward, his medical instincts taking over. “Let me evaluate the wound…” He broke off abruptly, his voice freezing in sheer horror. “What is the meaning of this?!”
Siles and Quinton simultaneously directed their gaze toward the laceration.
The bleeding had completely ceased. A dull, calcified ash-white substance was steadily creeping across the margins of the wound—resembling the texture of a stone statue.
Quinton’s expression shifted, his eyes clouding as his brows knit together.
Siles’s voice remained calm, but his cadence dropped into a chillingly low register. “It appears we are not dealing with a conventional weapon.” He paused, locking eyes with Quinton. “How do you feel?”
Quinton didn’t offer an immediate response. He remained fixated on the calcifying wound, his entire aura turning strangely detached. After a tense silence, he attempted a flippant tone. “It could be worse.”
Siles’s frown only deepened; he knew Quinton was downplaying the severity. He could physically feel the hand he was holding growing progressively rigid and cold to the touch.
“I will secure assistance from the perimeter… We must apprehend that wretched assailant!” Chester declared, his medical ethics replaced by a cold fury as he strode out of the enclosure.
The main tent was left entirely to Siles and Quinton.
“An entirely unforeseen complication,” Siles murmured. He looked up, locking eyes with the youth. “Do you trust me, Quinton?”
“Without reservation… Professor Noel,” Quinton replied, his voice barely a whisper. “My trust in you is absolute…”
Siles remained silent for a beat. He retrieved a small vial of potion from his coat pocket, swallowed a measured draught, and focused his vision on Quinton. As always, the youth was enveloped in that dense, brilliant aura of deep blue light.
Siles spoke aloud, his voice low but perfectly audible within the quiet tent:
“Evaluate the Willpower attribute of Quinton Praia.”
He chose not to chant the command internally. Though his voice was soft, it was clear enough for Quinton to hear. The youth, who had been leaning slightly against Siles’s shoulder, raised his head, his emerald eyes reflecting a mixture of confusion and intense curiosity.
Within the recesses of Siles’s consciousness, the distinct, crisp rattling of dice echoed with absolute clarity.
[Keeper Notice: Quinton Praia (Old God Bloodline) is undergoing a Willpower evaluation.]
[Willpower: 99 / ...]
In a flash, an infinite cascade of selectable numbers blurred across Siles’s vision.
Siles stood entirely paralyzed by the prompt. A Willpower attribute of 99? Is that not absurdly high…
Wait… Old God Bloodline?
