Outside the cottage, Valérie was pacing anxiously. Nominally her daughter but actually her older sister, Martha had disappeared again. Valérie had a vague idea of what was on the mind of this moody woman lately. She had even gone out of her way to gather ingredients for mead not long ago, no doubt intending to use it on their guest, Mr. Jiménez.

  Valérie knocked on the attic door under some pretense, only to find that the occupant wasn’t there.

  Had Martha already used the family’s ancestral potion today and successfully ensnared the young man? She hoped everything had gone smoothly and that the village’s secret hadn’t been exposed.

  Valérie prayed silently in her heart. Even though they were born of the same mother, the difference in status between her and Martha was immense—like worker bees and the queen, both offspring of the same hive. Valérie bore the responsibility of caring for and protecting the female bees (Martha). If Martha were to encounter any danger, Valérie herself would not escape the consequences.

  Suddenly, she heard the sound of splashing water. Turning toward the nearby stream, she soon saw pale, writhing worms surge from the water, gathering and twisting together on the shore, their shape constantly shifting like boiling oatmeal frothing with white bubbles. Then, at last, the mass of worms coalesced into a naked humanoid figure, hunched over and shivering as it walked toward her in the night breeze.

  “Martha? Why would you—” Valérie was shocked. There was an outsider staying in the village now, and for Martha to so brazenly use the abilities granted by their deity—even if no outsider saw, if anyone from the village spotted her, it would provoke severe collective reprimand.

  “Leave me alone, it’s none of your concern!” Though Martha's tone was as haughty as ever, Valérie could faintly detect a tremor of weakness beneath that show of defiance.

  “Just now… was Mr. Jiménez with you?” As Valérie asked this, Martha’s body stiffened noticeably. But she didn’t answer—she only quickened her pace toward the cottage.

  A nightmare… This must be a nightmare!

  Martha’s steps grew increasingly hurried, as if she were trying to shake off something following closely behind her.

  Ever since the lake’s deity had granted her eternal youth, she had stopped celebrating birthdays and could hardly remember how old she truly was. She only knew that Valérie had been born after her, and since Valérie was already in her thirties, she must be even older.

  In all those long years—over three decades—she had occasionally suffered nightmares. There was the venomous snake that had almost bitten her once, which haunted her dreams multiple times. Once, she had dreamed of drawing water from a well when suddenly the rope in her hands turned into a serpent, rearing up to sink its fangs into her neck. That one had jolted her awake in terror multiple times. Then there were the falling dreams, the ones where beasts chased her, the drowning visions—all seeped into her like fear from another world. Only the clarity of daylight could make them fade, but in the depths of her memory, they lay like sediment. And tonight’s experience felt like dredging up that filth.

  Though she had escaped physically unharmed, Martha was still deeply shaken. The most primal instinct of any living creature was fear of death’s shadow, and Martha knew for certain that she had teetered on the brink just now. Yet her survival hadn’t been due to her abilities, her beauty, her luck, or even the protection of the village’s revered guardian deity.

  It had been pure, blind chance. That realization left her feeling utterly powerless.

  She desperately told herself that she was back in the village, safe now—that strange and terrifying creature wouldn’t dare return here to harm her. But no matter how much she tried to reassure herself, her heart continued to shudder uncontrollably.

  She had already sensed that this man carried some dark secret. And now, she couldn’t help but remember the village’s age-old rumors: that apart from the guardian deity, the world also held monsters, demons, and devils—enemies of the gods. Who could guarantee that this stranger who had inexplicably sought lodging in their village wasn’t one of them?

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  Now she might have stumbled into some kind of conspiracy. What if he came back? What if next time, she was alone, and fate didn’t tilt the scales in her favor?

  The more she thought about it, the more tangled her thoughts became. She felt a dampness on her neck, as if blood from when he had strangled her was still clinging there—but she had already dissolved and reformed in the water, swimming long enough to wash it all away.

  So why did the terror still linger?

  At the core of it, her subconscious no longer saw Yvette as a human being to reason with, but as a raving, cruel fiend—a beast. If a lion were to pounce on someone in the forest, terrifying them half to death, only to shake its tail and walk away as if disinterested, few would feel grateful for its “mercy.” Instead, they would only feel dread—endless, gnawing dread—until the threat was utterly extinguished.

  That was how Martha felt now.

  She lay in bed but couldn’t sleep. Finally, she sat up, dressed, and headed toward the village’s ancient well.

  The old well had no name, but it was a passageway to the true sanctuary. By twisting a hidden mechanism near a weed-choked statue of the Virgin Mary by the roadside, the water in the well would drain elsewhere—originally connected to the lake outside the village. Normally, the mechanism kept the passage open to the lake, but when twisted, it sealed that channel and opened a drainage tunnel instead, emptying the well. Then one could descend into the dry well and follow an upward-sloping staircase carved into the wall, leading to a cavern.

  This was the village’s true site for secret rituals.

  “Martha? What are you doing here?”

  Near the altar at the cavern’s end, two young girls idly played a dice game by lamplight. Beside them on the ground lay a wicker basket woven into a humanoid shape, where countless plump white larvae writhed and twisted, some already merging into a tangled mass like coarse twine. Soon enough, the deserter Silsha would take form within that basket, bound and helpless.

  Originally, the village had planned to sacrifice her to their god. But after the elder council of the Female Bees had prayed at the altar and received no response from their deity, they decided to interrogate the traitor first. If Silsha could prove her innocence, she would face only limited punishment. If not, her limbs would be broken, and she would be cast into the depths—wicker basket and all.

  “I have something urgent to confess… I admit I’ve made many mistakes in this. But if we don’t address it, I swear it will endanger the entire village.” As Martha spoke, she couldn’t help rubbing her neck, as if trying to wipe away some unseen stain.

  ……

  In the forest, Edwin moved like a man with night-eyes, striding swiftly through the densely overgrown underbrush.

  This village was far more than it appeared!

  He had already gathered far more information than Yvette—not to mention his deep knowledge of the occult world’s hidden histories and laws. And from what he had discerned, the unknown supernatural entity here had grown to a terrifying scale!

  In the Church, secrets were classified by danger. Some truths were deemed too harrowing for most—even among the Awakened, for despair could shatter minds. And so, the higher echelons carefully maintained an illusion for the masses: a safe world without magic or monsters. Even their own subordinates were often fed lies in place of forbidden knowledge.

  Among these well-guarded secrets was one concerning the nature of the world itself. Yet within the Doomsday Clock, this was no secret—in fact, the cabal had been founded by like-minded individuals seeking to oppose that very horror.

  Every member of the Doomsday Clock knew: this world was a tyranny ruled by a cold, merciless jailer. It was a vast prison, with the layers of the Tree of Life’s sephiroth serving as its walls—stacked like an onion’s rings, separating higher from lower beings, revealing the insurmountable gulf between man and god.

  As idealists striving for ascension, they saw this system as a shackle meant to suppress those like themselves. Thus, they scornfully called this world “the Prison,” or “the Creator’s Dark Cell”—unworthy of love. Even the Church’s secret enforcers and the unawakened masses? They were seen either as cruel wardens or deluded livestock, all part of the system’s oppressive machinery.

  This bleak worldview stemmed from a grim discovery years ago: that there was no heaven—only an abyss where souls, if they existed, would be devoured by a slumbering horror. Stripped of will and memory, they would be reborn into yet another life of suffering.

  If the greater world was an unbreakable ring of despair—a prison—then this village was a miniature fishbowl. Edwin suspected the reason the village’s population never changed was because it was a self-contained cycle—a tiny realm where its inhabitants were mere puppets trapped by some supernatural entity. They were born, died, and reappeared in different shells. And if their numbers ever exceeded a certain threshold, the excess would manifest as abominations—for there were only so many human souls to go around.

  This theory suggested the entity’s power touched the world’s very fabric—meaning it was either a scion of the Old Gods or a high-ranking servitor.

  Without a moment’s delay, Edwin hurried back through the woods, gathering his belongings to return to town and telegraph his organization. Just then, he heard hurried footsteps—someone was approaching in great distress.