In the house, Redbait came to the courtyard again.

  His steps were light and cautious, trying not to make too much noise, as if wary of what lay within the courtyard.

  He had always felt that this dwelling was like a living creature—it was ever-changing, with no discernible pattern. A corridor he had just passed through might turn into a blank wall with no doors or windows if he tried to retrace his steps.

  Despite its complexity, the residents never got lost. When one wished to explore, they could walk endlessly in one direction without reaching an end. But when they grew tired and sought their rooms, they would always find a corridor adorned with paintings bearing their likeness, leading back home.

  At least, that was how it was for Redbait. The others likely felt the same, though they could access more "rooms" than just their own.

  But now, Redbait had unwittingly gained access to a new location—the courtyard.

  Ever since the doctor had guided him to bring the madman who volunteered to be food here, he could always find this place. White tiles, white walls, cold metal handrails—layer upon layer, like the interior of an ascending tower.

  Everything in the house changed, except for this courtyard. Only the cocoon woven from white cloth and translucent tubes hanging in its center seemed different. Enormous eyeballs sprouted from the tubes on its surface, resembling a sparse string of gems. The eyes were usually motionless, as if asleep, though occasionally one or two would shift to gaze at Redbait with terrifying, emotionless intelligence.

  Redbait had seen photos of fire tornadoes brought back by companions from the New World—vertical vortices of flame rising into the sky like fiery serpents connecting heaven and earth, terrifying yet mesmerizing.

  This colossal cocoon was the same, even more awe-inspiring than the fire tornado. After the initial fear and trembling came fascination.

  Perhaps it shattered prejudice and ignorance. A rigid mind, once broken, was reshaped into something else. Fear was fleeting, but truth endured.

  Such thoughts led him to return here often.

  "You're here again..." The snake-man hissed a laugh. "I foresaw this. I always knew you'd become as obsessed as us one day. It’s just that the doctor and the maid were too impatient, trying to hasten the process."

  Redbait said nothing. Not long ago, he might have offered some defense, spouting lies even he didn’t believe to disguise why he had come here.

  Such was the law of the house: if one did not desire something, they would never find the path there.

  "I can feel something great gestating inside. Those eyes... I stared at them for so long, and my vision grew clearer. I became like a cup, trying to hold the knowledge they leaked to me. The process made my head ache, but the pain intoxicated me—like falling ill, or celebrating a sacred wedding..."

  The snake-man murmured to himself. Though Redbait never responded, he felt the same.

  His old self was like thin parchment, easily torn and pierced—especially before such immense power.

  He no longer feared it. Instead, he relished the process, knowing he would be dismantled and remade for a grand purpose.

  ...

  At dawn, Yvette awoke to a blinding white outside her window. The pale morning light reminded her of fragments from her dreams—of a white abyss, sometimes empty, sometimes echoing with voices that seemed to chant for her or discuss among themselves.

  But her vision in the dream was strange, as if she could see in all directions at once.

  And perhaps beyond the dream; lately, she felt herself changing, especially last night. Why had she uttered those words?

  Puzzled, she spent the day locked in her room, organizing the clues she'd found. When the evening bell tolled, she slipped alone into the church to inspect the ledger.

  Martha knocked several times, but Yvette refused her entry.

  After dinner, Yvette excused herself for a walk and returned to the church. She retrieved the chained ledger from beneath the pulpit, reading its handwritten notes.

  At first glance, it was mundane—routine records of baptisms and weddings, listing dates and names. But closer inspection revealed anomalies.

  Baptized children were recorded with only their mothers, never fathers, contrary to customs outside. Yvette even found Martha’s name—she and Valérie were sisters born of the same mother?!

  Searching further, she saw Martha had borne children in recent years.

  But over time, the script of Martha’s name transformed into something resembling ancient runes, exuding an eerie air.

  Yvette traced the change to a specific "baptism," after which certain names—all young girls—emerged in this angular script. Every newborn’s mother shared this trait.

  Struggling to make sense of it, Yvette arrived at a bizarre conclusion: the village had a special baptism that granted eternal youth. Either only these girls could bear children, or the village forbade others from doing so. Every child’s mother was one of them.

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  Recalling the young boy’s gelded appearance in the barn, she suspected the latter.

  As she paged through, another pattern emerged: the preservation of numbers.

  Every birth followed a death within a year. Once, after an epidemic claimed seven lives, seven newborns appeared the next year—as though the village replenished its numbers by design.

  “A quota? What if more children were born?” Edwin asked in the lakeside woods.

  “It happened once. I was a child—one vacancy, and a ‘Drone’ next door bore twins... originally.”

  “‘Originally’?”

  When Edwin pressed, Selena spoke as if recalling a nightmare: “On the birth day, I hid in her empty barn. Amid the crying, I saw the midwife bury something. After she left, I dug it up... A monstrous infant: lidless almond eyes, black as grapes, covering half its face... shriveled arms like biscuit sticks, hugging its chest like boiled shrimp legs...”

  She shuddered, teeth chattering. “Like a human-insect hybrid. I nearly screamed, but Silla silenced me. She said she’d seen it... in dreams.”

  Edwin pushed: “What else?”

  “Too long ago... But she said, ‘People’ are fixed in number. Surplus ones get no souls.”

  “‘No souls’...” Edwin mused, piecing nothing together.

  “The next day, the family announced a boy—omitting what we’d seen. The elders must’ve known; some kids said one was summoned there.”

  Edwin scoffed: “And you still want to be a ‘Drone’? Risk birthing monsters?”

  “Anything for youth! I’d just avoid childbirth.”

  “Then this ‘baptism’ is key? You said a ‘Worker’ escaped, bore normal kids, was executed. Her offspring didn’t count. Only ‘Drones’ bear true villagers. What’s the ‘Golden Mead’ that changes them?”

  “The love-potion mead is spit and herbs mixed in their mouths. The Golden Mead is holy—perhaps related, but none know.”

  Selena’s deepest desire had always been to receive the golden sacramental mead directly from the divine in the highest of rituals, transforming her fragile mortal form into an ageless queen bee—like the hive’s matriarch, untouched by time for decades. So long as the seed from her one and only mating remained, she would defy decay.

  Yet no matter how she excelled, the honor never fell to her. In desperation, she turned to an outsider.

  Meanwhile, Edwin’s mind churned like stormy seas as she divulged more.

  A fixed number of "people." The grotesque spawn born beyond it. The maidens twisted by dark rites...

  What horrors lay buried in this village?

  Not even the all-knowing Benevolent Father could pierce this mystery—let alone Edwin. The Ancient Ones and their ilk existed beyond mortal comprehension. The Doomsday Clock theorized this place harbored a barbaric faith, perhaps tied to a powerful Descendant or a being tainted by their bloodline.

  Unlike the Church’s practice of purging anomalies, the Clock treated such discoveries like nurturing a sapling that might bear golden fruit. They observed. Documented. If needed, they veiled the truth to avoid wider panic. Like patient farmers, they gleaned arcane secrets from its growth—reaping only when ripe.

  This macabre cultivation spanned decades. Inevitably, tragedies bloomed—commonfolk seized by entities beyond their world, families torn apart by madness or worse. The Clock watched coldly. At most, they staged plausible ends for the victims, hiding the truth from Church hunters.

  Only when the anomaly matured into a worthy specimen did they strike, sealing it away for study. Sometimes, a local ghost story lingered. Often, no trace remained.

  To Edwin and his brethren, this was no crime. The pursuit of transcendence demanded sacrifice, and the ignorant masses were but tools. Their gifts set them apart—made others, even kin, seem like mere passing shadows in the same prison.

  Thus, the Clock remained a cabal of elites—no affiliates, few in number, scattered globally. They worked alone unless absolutely necessary.

  So Edwin had come solo. Avoiding coaches, he’d ridden here alone, navigating by map. Now camped deep in the woods, he waited after briefing Selena.

  Initially, the plan seemed foolproof. The Clock had supplied "Herod’s Water"—a dread elixir brewed from a saint’s bones by their finest alchemist. Even formidable Descendants would fall to its corruption.

  Yet now, doubts gnawed at him. Selena’s prior betrayal left gaps in their intel. If her childhood account of monstrous births held truth, this anomaly’s roots ran deeper than imagined.

  Descendants began as ephemeral entities, warping only minds. Physical influence meant they’d decoded this world’s fabric. Worse, some served as vessels for the Ancient Ones’ brood—or were themselves scattered seeds of those gods. If this village birthed aberrations, he might face not a mere Descendant, but a nascent Child of the Ancient Ones!

  The thought left even Edwin’s throat parched.

  The Benevolent Father’s centuries-long reign hinged not just on genius, but on the corpse of a full-fledged Child he’d claimed. That divine carcass, steeped in eldritch blood, bore power beyond reason—the foundation of his might.

  While his rival "Fate" moldered in some grave, the Father endured. The godling’s flesh had not only negated the toll of his power but granted true immortality—free of the Ancient Ones’ yoke.

  In this world-as-cage, it was the sole path to freedom.

  Yet perfection eluded him. The Father’s flesh sprouted vile black cysts, bursting with agony and reek. He often hid, lest his screams unsettle his followers. These were not the Child’s flaws, but scars from the weapon that slew it—a wound the Father inherited.

  And those lingering torments were mere echoes of the original blow—a force no mortal could wield, not even via "Herod’s Water." The Father called it "the world’s own laws," forever beyond human grasp.

  He’d likened it to London crows dropping nuts for carts to crack. If mortals couldn’t kill a godling, they could still trick cosmic forces into doing so.

  If this was that rare chance, their plan was woefully inadequate. The Clock treated potential godlings with extreme caution—better safe than sorry.

  Edwin couldn’t risk bungling this. If the Church intervened, their priceless prey might be lost forever. In wielding the world’s laws, the Church outpaced the Clock. The Father’s own body was snatched from their grasp—their previous "Fate" had died thwarting a crisis, only to enable his rise.

  But haste had marred that triumph. This time, Edwin would tread carefully.

  Briefly, he’d entertained keeping the prize for himself—but the thought shamed him. He trusted the Father would share power with the worthy. The old man longed for equals in this bleak world.

  First, confirmation.

  "Can’t you copy those church records?" Edwin pressed.

  Selena exploded. "You ask the impossible while offering nothing! That last meeting—under an hour—and I returned to find my home rifled! A twig I left by my bedroom door was snapped. Had they found proof, I’d be dead! They suspect me, and you—my ‘ally’—just bleed me dry? No!"

  Edwin saw hysteria in her eyes—the break-in had shattered her nerves. Arguing was pointless. He’d proceed alone.

  The Father’s warning echoed: Stay clear of the village until all is ready. Danger lurks within.

  But dangers bring opportunities, Edwin thought. The stakes dwarf caution. You understand.

  Steeling himself, he stepped forward.

  "That church... best time to enter? Safest path?"

  "Madness! They’ll spot a stranger instantly!"

  "I’ll help share your risks. As your partner, wouldn’t that be fair?" Edwin masked his impatience with feigned warmth.

  Grudgingly, Selena took his knife, scarring a tree trunk with crude directions.