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The following moment, an external influence suddenly halted his overwhelming disorientation. Morris experienced his consciousness being tugged back into reality by an inconceivably mighty force. During this abrupt return to consciousness, he witnessed numerous lights, akin to an array, emerging within the dense miasma, the largest among them casting a red glow.

This spectacle appeared to be a fleeting gaze from the God of Wisdom, Lahem. Yet, just a second later, these luminescent figures vanished swiftly, transforming into colossal waves that crashed toward him. The waves then morphed into a cloud of dust which imploded before his very eyes. The delicate, pale ashes, reminiscent of holy saints, showered down upon him.

Subsequently, the pale dust ignited mid-descent, morphing into a rain of fire, from which countless intense and red flames coalesced, bearing down on him with the intent to incinerate his very being.

Yet, just as the red flames were about to engulf him, Morris noticed the fire’s hue shift to an eerie green. The previously explosive inferno transformed into a calm, gentle flame, settling around him. A solitary flame made contact with his shoulder, the impact mimicking a forceful slap. In the following second, he jerkily opened his eyes, realizing he had been returned to his corporeal form.

The enforced procedures of isolating his consciousness and solidifying his mind abruptly concluded, catapulting him back from the precipice of insanity into reality once more.

As his consciousness regained its normal state, Morris rapidly closed the black leather-bound book, battling the urge to delve in once more.

His action was swift but not swift enough to prevent the book from flipping through several pages before it was fully shut. Out of the corner of his eye, a phrase was etched powerfully into his sight—they were words imbued with a fervent obsession akin to a dying person’s final wish: “We will eventually return to that pure and holy origin.”

The black, leather-bound book was now securely shut. The residual image of the last words he had glimpsed lingered in Morris’s mind as he sucked in ragged breaths.

Immediately picking up on the abnormal situation, Vanna quickly moved towards Morris in just a few strides, concern etched on her face. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Just a scholar’s routine,” Morris replied, attempting to steady his uneven breaths. “Tackling lethal knowledge and emerging on the other side.” He extended a hand towards Vanna, reassuring her, “I’m fine, I’m still me. Help me get up.”

As he steadied himself on his feet, he queried, “How much time has passed?”

“Just a few seconds,” Vanna responded, nodding to reinforce her statement. “You had just opened the book, taken a few glances, and then you abruptly closed it. Simultaneously, your spiritual turbulence was intense and unrelenting. Unidentified shadows began to take form amidst the surrounding fog.”

“Only a few seconds…” Morris murmured, corners of his lips twitching upward as he recalled the bizarre visions that had flooded his consciousness before he was pulled back from the brink of loss of control.

The very next moment, a deep and grave voice reverberated within his mind: “Morris, what happened on your end?”

Caught off guard, Morris quickly composed his features and responded mentally: “I was engrossed in a blasphemous book we had confiscated from an Annihilator cultist and inadvertently got contaminated. Captain, was it you who yanked me back to reality at the last minute?”

“Yes,” came Duncan’s response. “I felt a sudden surge in mental distress from you, so I inspected the situation via the ‘mark’ I had left on you. Did you say something about a blasphemous book? Could you elaborate on what happened? Are you still with Vanna? Where is your current location?”

“Vanna is with me,” Morris quickly replied. “We are still conducting operations in the upper city. We discovered that the Annihilators are utilizing the fog as a cover to infiltrate the real world and are manipulating ‘counterfeits’ to attack the city-state. We’ve just managed to neutralize one of these puppeteers.” He took a moment to gather his thoughts before continuing, “The circumstances are unusual. The corpse of the cultist exhibited signs of fusion with primal matter post-mortem, resembling an extreme ‘modification’ outcome. He was in possession of a black, unmarked book. The contents of this book…”

Morris abruptly halted mid-sentence, his voice taking on a tone of heightened caution as he carefully manipulated his train of thought: “The contents of the book are deeply troubling. They are original accounts from those holy texts reproduced by ‘Crow.’ I only managed to get through a small portion before the contamination occurred. I apologize, but I can only report so much at the moment. The specifics elude me.”

Duncan’s voice fell silent for a brief two seconds before responding, “That’s alright, prioritize your safety. Do not attempt to recall the events further. Bring the book along and report to me directly at a later time.”

Morris exhaled a sigh of relief, responding, “Understood, Captain.”

At this stage, Vanna unexpectedly chimed in, her mental voice directed towards the captain, “Captain, what’s the situation on your end?”

“We are at the Second Waterway, Alice and I. It’s remarkably quiet here,” Duncan replied.

Located deep beneath the central city area, Duncan stood at a junction in the Second Waterway, gazing upward into the seemingly desolate corridor above him.

A thin veil of mist hovered within the tunnel, clinging to the shadowy ceiling above. The fog had materialized out of nowhere, gradually thickening over time. However, when compared to the city-state’s surface, which was entirely blanketed by a dense fog, the situation here seemed relatively mild.

“Waiting for the Fire Seed to get in place,” Duncan relayed his thoughts to Vanna through their shared “mark” connection.

“Fire Seed?” The confusion in Vanna’s voice was evident.

“The Annihilators’ nest is not in our reality—Mirror Frost is their primary stronghold,” Duncan explained in a steady tone. “Be it the Mist Fleet or the Frost Navy, including the city-state’s soldiers and the church’s protectors, their ‘invasions’ in our reality only serve to delay the emergence from the mirror. The real solution involves acting from within Mirror Frost itself. Agatha has already embarked on her journey with the Fire Seed—her mission is to locate the heretics’ nest, whereupon I will assist her in igniting it.”

Vanna’s reply came after a brief pause, her voice filled with uncertainty: “Then… what can we do to assist?”

“Persist with your hunt within the fog, eliminate all the counterfeits you encounter, track down the puppeteers controlling them, and kill as many as you can,” Duncan instructed, “Slowing the invasion has merit. You’re buying precious time for Agatha whilst simultaneously reducing the pressure she has to confront.”

Vanna promptly responded, “Yes, I understand!”

After a few more seconds of silence, she spoke again: “Also… it seems there may still be a counterfeit ‘Gatekeeper Agatha’ operating within the city-state, and the church does not seem to be taking any action, do you think…” Her voice trailed off, filled with hesitation.

However, Duncan was already aware of the situation involving the counterfeit, even more so than Vanna.

After all, he had established contact with the real Agatha.

“Do not worry about that ‘Agatha’,” he advised after a moment of contemplation, “and don’t pursue her—but should you encounter her, depending on the situation, feel free to offer assistance.”

There was a notable pause from Vanna’s end, and when she finally responded, her voice echoed surprise, “Offer assistance?! To that ‘counterfeit’?”

“Don’t forget, not all counterfeits are under the control of the Annihilators. The more advanced among them possess their own free will,” Duncan explained, his tone steady, “The gatekeeper isn’t the type to easily become a puppet of the heretics, but the specifics will require you to make a judgment in real-time.”

“Understood, Captain.”

Vanna’s reply this time carried an unusual degree of solemnity, as though her role as an inquisitor had, at this moment, found an unexpected resonance with that of the “gatekeeper.”

….

After concluding his connection with his subordinates, Duncan took a shallow breath, raising his hand and igniting a small flame at his fingertips.

He stared at the tiny blaze, and after a moment of quiet contemplation, he murmured: “Agatha, do you genuinely believe ‘she’ will act according to your expectations?”

From within the flame emerged a chilly, raspy voice: “Yes.”

“And why are you so sure?” Duncan questioned.

“Because I have faith in myself.”

“Even so, she’s merely your duplicate,” Duncan calmly retorted, “There will inevitably be minute discrepancies between you two, which could lead her to make different decisions from yours.”

“Yet you didn’t instruct your subordinates to eliminate that ‘threat’,” Agatha countered, “You too have faith in my judgment.”

Duncan remained silent for a few seconds before heaving a soft sigh.

“A man named Scott Brown once demonstrated his humanity to me—a humanity that applies even to the ‘counterfeit’. Thus, this time, I’m willing to believe once more.”

“And if… let’s hypothetically say my judgment is flawed? Your trust would have been misplaced…”

“That’s fine. It’s all trivial.”

“Trivial, huh…” Agatha stood within the cold, damp confines of the sewer corridor, her gaze lowered to the small flame still quietly flickering in her palm.

The faint warmth radiating from the flame seemed to be the only semblance of heat she could feel in this world—beyond the flickering firelight, the rest of the world felt as frigid as a grave.

The voice of the “Captain” resonated once more: “Agatha, what’s your status?”

“I’m still progressing, nearly there. I can feel it—it’s within reach,” Agatha responded.

“I meant your personal condition. Your voice… it doesn’t sound like before.”

Agatha paused in her steps.

Her gaze drifted downwards to her scarred body, to the wounds that had ceased bleeding.

“I’m alright,” she assured softly, her voice carrying a chill akin to a tomb’s, “it’s all trivial.”