Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There is a flash, a sensation of falling, and then unnatural stillness for all of a second before the gravity flips on its head. The Century Ark hovers in the air and rights itself, and I catch the dromas plush as it falls. Everything else is, thankfully, bolted in place… though the blood in my veins sloshes unpleasantly with the rapid shifts in orientation. Combat has seen me thrown across many battlefields, but none of them have tricked my inner ear quite like this before.

All that matters is that I’ve landed. Internal lights switch on, the monitor running diagnostics on the Ark’s current status. The engines unspool and discharge their heat along the steam vents on the vehicle’s underside, and the battery ticks down from one hundred to ninety-nine. I have that many more jumps remaining before the transport runs out of power. If I try to recharge it, I will need an entire year to restore one percent. That’s why it’s called the Century Ark.

I catch my breath and ensure that everything is in order. Now, I have to wait for the exterior sensors to scan my surroundings. Is it safe for me to exit the vehicle? Is the air breathable, and are there harmful pathogens floating about? The first check reveals that I’m outside the IPC’s designated range. That’s a blessing in disguise. Studying the worlds they and the Geniuses have already stuck their fingers into would be redundant.¹

The second check identifies an abundance of Nouspores in this world. I’m validated to see my childhood theory holding up outside of Amphoreus, but the data scrolling up the monitor is concerning. These Nouspores are behaving in unfamiliar ways more akin to memoria than ordinary energy. In other words, they look like they’re trying to hide from observation. Since they’re unable to enter the Century Ark’s fully sanitized environment, I lack the means to perform more rigorous testing. That will change soon.

Finally, diagnostics are complete. There are no airborne pathogens (though I’ll always wear a mask, just in case) or concerning levels of radiation, and atmospheric composition is shockingly similar to that of Amphoreus. I’ve seen in IPC files that habitable worlds follow trends,² so I’m not as surprised as I could be. Still, it’s good to verify.

With survival ensured, I switch the display to view the exterior cameras.

Grim. Overcast. Stagnant. I am a man who knows many words, but few would be as succinct at describing the city I find myself in. With sprawling and incomprehensible pathways between neglected residences leading in every direction with no signage in sight, only the visible horizon assures me I haven’t been dropped into a labyrinth deep beneath the earth. Not that the city seems tolerant of being crushed; long, spiked wrought iron fences and tile rooftops invariably point skyward as if trying to impale the heavens. I’m reminded of a Kremnoan lance formation and can almost hear the streets’ thunderous disapproval.³

High above this layer of the city I’m in, a great bridge spans the chasm between two areas I would call “congested” if I was being charitable. I’m not, so instead I call it “disorganized”. The mess is decorated with finery — statues, mostly — as if to hide the architects’ incompetence. Beneath the bridge, a humanoid carving dangles from uncountable limbs. Its shape is disturbing, and I almost swear it moves. At least I can take comfort in the lack of gold plating or gaudy, interpretive murals.

Despite the general absence of color, the resemblance between this city and Okhema remains stark.⁴ Built around the slopes of a mountain range, the city spirals inward toward a towering temple structure, just as every street in Okhema’s ascending metropolitan leads to the Titan Cliff’s peak. It’s almost uncanny how closely their layouts mirror each other, including the skyfaring pathways and overbearing sense of grandeur. I partly wonder if this place is an alternate version of the “holy city”, should that be how the multiverse works.

I won’t form any hasty conclusions. One example does not a pattern make.

The sky is dark, obscured by reddening clouds. Is it nightfall or sunrise? I can’t tell if the dreary atmosphere is because of the darkness or because this neighborhood is more than a little deteriorated.

Cobblestone roads with potholes see the carcasses of carriages and their horses tipped over (and I make special note of the horses’ presence). Stone statues lack limbs, faces, and more. Gargoyles’ wings have been clipped, and owls’ eyes plucked out. Fences intended to stop foolish pedestrians from tumbling to their deaths down the city’s sheer inclines have been yanked apart, the gaps between posts widened so that something could squeeze through. I see blood and fur stuck to a sharp corner created by the bent metal. What manner of beast could have left that behind?

The closer I look, the more signs of monstrous creatures I find. Claw marks scar everything in sight. Broken windows, shuttered doors, all marred by gouges which must have been made by claws the length of my forearm. I turn on the cameras’ microphones and hear, in the distance, a shriek so loud it echoes off the walls. It’s an inhuman sound, and that thought leads me to notice how empty the streets are.

It’s not just the city that appears to be dying. There are blood splatters everywhere, replicating Okhema’s classical facade with dark red interpretive artwork. A coffin chained closed leans against the wall next to a nearby residence. Could the person inside that house truly not have found a more appropriate location for it? Cadavers are unsanitary, but is that enough reason to discard one’s remains so carelessly?

Perhaps, I think, something stopped them from taking the coffin further.

There’s nothing for it. I won’t be able to gather more information without cracking the shell of my safe, comfortable egg. After running a disinfectant sweep to make sure I’m not the one introducing foreign pathogens to this world’s ecosystem, I open the Century Ark’s door.

The stench of blood greets me first, followed by the shrill screams I heard over the microphones. They’re a lot louder, a lot more agonized than the feed suggested. Covering one ear with my left hand to ward off the nightmares I’ll certainly have later, I slam the Ark’s entrance shut, activate its camouflage, and set off seeking guidance. I can move the transport once I’ve secured a suitable location for it. Right now, I simply need to find such a place.

My firearm sits heavy on my hip as I start navigating the slanted roads. I’m grateful for my thick clothing; my shoulder cape retains my body heat and my coat breaks the highland winds. Dust and ash fall from the sky like snow, making me filthy within a few minutes. Given the city’s current state, I suspect I’ll struggle to find sufficient laundry services.

I think of that to keep my mind away from memories of Okhema burning beneath a dim Dawn Device.

As I analyzed from within the Ark, this city’s layout is abysmally convoluted. I circle the block twice in search of a main road, then find one behind a locked gate. The lock itself isn’t attached to a door or chains, but instead worked by a mechanism on the other side. Why it isn’t operable from this side, I don’t know. The only plausible explanation I can think of is that the city itself was designed with the intention of keeping non-residents out.

Amazing. My first foray into uncharted territory, and I’ve hit a manmade roadblock. Regardless of if I’m right, I’m being quite literally gatekept by these labyrinthine alleys. Some sidewalks are built so close to the hillside that I have to lean to stay upright, and the lampposts seem to have entirely given up. Open doors lead to empty houses, one of which I enter for all of a minute before the rancid smell of rot informs me not to linger. At the end of the path, I finally find signs of life: three men dressed in old fashioned vests and trousers, crowded around a pile of crates.

“Excuse me!” I call, hoping my modified synesthesia beacon is ready to translate their words.⁵ The men stop doing whatever they were doing and stand. They’re armed, all of them, with one holding a torch and cleaver, another a pitchfork, and the last a makeshift wooden shield and another pitchfork. Are those for defending against the beasts? “I seem to be a bit lost, sirs. Can you understand me?”

“An outsider, are you?” To my immense surprise, one of the men speaks in perfect English, one of the languages on Earth, the planet one of the Trailblazers is from. The synesthesia beacon’s databases include English by default because of his contact. Have I landed on Earth itself? …No, that Trailblazer’s clothes wouldn’t have fit in here. A topic for further study at a later time.

“‘e’s wearin’ fanshy clothes,” the second man slurs, swaying with inebriation. He wiggles his pitchfork threateningly, and I halt my approach. “Not from ‘round these parts. D’ya think…?”

“Odd hair. Odd accent,” the first responds with a nod. He raises his weapons and starts shuffling toward me. I step back and place my hand on the hilt of my firearm. “Looks like a beast. Smells like one too. We ought to gut him to be sure, yeah?”

The men nod together, then lurch into motion. I don’t have time to convince them to stand down before they’re upon me, running with superhuman agility belied by their toddling coordination.

“What is the meaning of this!?” I shout. The synesthesia beacon uses neurological impulses to translate my words, forcing my lips, tongue, and vocal cords to move in accordance with my desired intent. My assailants don’t react to my question. I mutter, “Do you understand my words at all?”

“Away, beast! You are not wanted here!” the torchbearing man screams. As he nears, I get a good look at his face. He’s… wounded. There are pits in his cheeks and blood runs down his forehead. Fur sprouts along his jawline in place of a beard, almost indistinguishable if not for the brittle texture. He rears his cleaver back and swings for my head, but he misses without me needing to dodge. From the glassy look in his eyes, I suspect he can hardly see me.

The others are much the same. They thrust with their pitchforks and try to crowd me, but it’s effortless to avoid them while keeping watch of my back. One even strikes his friend, knocking him to the ground.

All the while, I try to get through to them with words, but they don’t respond. Their cries are devoid of logical consistency or meaning. While telling me to leave, they charge. While telling each other to scalp me, they back away. I try to find a pattern to their mysterious code and realize I’m wasting my time when the one who fell behind from being shoved seemingly forgets about the fight and wanders off.

Whatever is wrong with these men, they aren’t lucid. If the other two are like the first, they’ll ignore me once I’ve successfully left their line of sight. Object permanence is a trait that infants and animals alike struggle with. Seeing fur on the men’s faces suggests that they may be more akin to beasts than children, though the difference is academic at this point. Still, I can’t help the curiosity within me that asks, “Were they born like this, or have they suffered from some kind of cognitive degeneration? What is the correlation between their behavior and the injuries on their bodies, if any?”

They remind me of the humans tainted by the black tide — twisted into monstrous forms, brains stripped of reason.⁶ These men aren’t so far gone, able to hold semi-lucid conversations with each other, but the resemblance sends a shiver down my spine. I need more data.

My supposition on their awareness is proven correct when I duck around a corner and hear the shambling steps stop. The men make confused grunting noises before wandering back the way they came, and I sigh. My relief doesn’t last long, however, as I’m now completely lost. I can’t tell which side road I’ve found myself in, but it isn’t the one with the Century Ark. That much I’m certain of.

“Damnit,” I mutter.

What an embarrassment. I’ve grown complacent if mere panic is enough to disorient me so. I need to collect my nerves before setting out again. This time, I’ll keep my wits about me and make note of distinctive features. The memoslate can also take pictures if I operate it manually. I’ll use them as an amateur’s cartography.

…Hm. Who installs a ladder over front of a door?

¹The Interastral Peace Corporation is a multidimensional conglomerate which works to unify the multiverse’s civilizations under the Path of Preservation. They possess unparalleled reach, having established communications and trade across dimensions. The Genius Society is a group of scholars who have made significant breakthroughs such as inventing de-aging or finding solutions to unsolvable problems. For more information on both, see Herta, Herta’s Manuscripts.

²Notable trends include the convergent evolution of biological species across planets which have had no prior contact; the universal advancement of technology to the point of including firearms, teleslates (smartphones, jade abaci), and mechanical lifeforms; and the development of twelve month calendars. Why this occurs falls within the scope of my research.

³Castrum Kremnos is one of the city-states of Amphoreus, and its people are called “Kremnoans”. It’s known for its military might and indomitable spirit, and the lance is its signature weapon.

⁴Okhema is another city-state of Amphoreus, and is widely considered to be Amphoreus’s capital. It’s a gathering place for people from every city, with a mercantile and peace-loving culture. 

⁵The synesthesia beacon is a brain implant developed by Genius Society Member Elias Salas and distributed by the IPC. It automatically translates catalogued languages spoken within the IPC’s sphere of influence. I’ve modified mine to work via memoria reading, similar to the memoslate.

⁶During the Irontomb Crisis, the black tide was a wave of corruptive force that threatened to submerge Amphoreus, twisting life and land alike into irrecognizable forms. Humans who were consumed by it transformed into violent, destructive creatures.

Chapter Text

The Grove of Epiphany first started as a simple, single courtyard. Intellectuals gathered there to hear the teachings of Thalesus, the First Scholar.¹ That courtyard, suspended over a valley on the roots of a great tree, became the central hub of Amphoreus’s more academically inclined. Schools such as the Nousporists were founded around Thalesus’s courtyard and began expanding the Grove inward and upward. Like locusts, they built their lecture halls and libraries within the veins of the sacred tree, climbing higher and higher until they reached its zenith. There, upon the head of Amphoreus’s manifestation of Reason, would be the Luminary Throne where only the most erudite individuals in history would be permitted to venture.

For most people, the Grove is difficult to navigate. One might imagine that following the natural pathways created by the tree’s trunk and branches would lead one in circles, and one would be correct. I can remember many students getting lost on the first day of classes, and a not insignificant number continued to treat the Grove as a maze even nearing graduation. I myself took advantage of this intractability to hide my workshop from prying eyes so I could perform my experiments in peace.

I bring this up now because, gazing down upon the city from a higher vantage point, I realize that the Amphoreans were quite fortunate to have built the Grove inside of a single tree’s gnarled walls. If the university had expanded much farther than the mountains surrounding it, I fear none of the students would have been able to find their ways to classes, much less graduate.

From where I stand, I follow the road in the direction I came from and locate the shambling men returned to their task of huffing at boxes. Now that I’m not being chased, I spy the corpses of a horse, a carriage, its driver, and two passengers. Those crates must be a shipment of cargo, but the assailants aren’t picking through the goods. Instead, they’re draining all of the blood they can find into buckets which they then drink directly from.

How repulsive.

In the other direction is the cloaked Century Ark, identifiable by the dusty imprints on the ground where its legs are propping it upright. I didn’t explore much that way because the road dead-ends at two gates: one which leads to the main street, and the other which blocks what looks to be a manor estate. A large, wolf-like beast prowls the fenced-in area, and I fear that the residents have already perished.

At least now I know where that coffin was destined to. There’s a graveyard in the garden there. The headstones have been smashed, but the rows of carved epitaphs are unmistakable.

Unfortunately, the city hasn’t become more comprehensible since I climbed that ladder. Against any prescription of both function and form, the roof of the building is not a mere balcony but a full cobblestone road with thoroughfares to the left and right. Yet another gate obstructs the leftward path, but I don’t start making my way the other direction just yet.

There’s a lantern embedded in the ground here. Hanging from a pole that comes up about to my chest, the hanging iron cage is empty of light or flame. I search it for a mechanism to turn it on but find none. I also don’t find the point to its existence; it’s redundant considering there’s another lantern affixed to the wall of a small structure barely three steps away.

About that building: I can’t tell if it’s a house or a place of worship. The brickwork is elaborate, and there’s a set of statues over the doorframe which appear to have religious significance according to Amphoreus’s design sensibilities. Five figures stand in a mirrored row, with the outer four raising their hands in supplication toward the central figure, who has their hands splayed open at their sides. That alone can’t have been cheap to sculpt or purchase… unless the ladder-based real estate lowers the property value.

Eventually, I come to the conclusion that this is a house if only because every building in the vicinity is as artistically lavish as this one. What would be more redundant than a lantern next to a lantern is a temple next to a temple of the same denomination. While those five figures don’t repeat in exactitude, similar motifs appear in every doorway and looming over every ledge.

While I am exploring the architecture, I overhear a raucous coughing coming from the house with the lantern. The sound reaches a concerning volume when I near the window.  I’m intent to leave well enough alone, but this is my second contact with (potentially) human life on this planet. Given the subject’s condition, I should be able to evade attacks if they turn hostile, which seems unlikely.

Interacting with this person is a calculated risk. I knock on the window where the sound is loudest, and the coughing stops for a moment. Then, I say, “Hello? You there, inside. Are you well enough to converse?”

“A Hunter?” a man asks. His accent is different from the other men’s in a way I can’t describe. Perhaps it’s the lucidity he clearly possesses where they didn’t. “And judging from your voice, not one from around here either.”

“I’m no Hunter,” I correct. The man devolves into another coughing fit, so I wait for him to finish. Once he does, I expound, “My name is Anaxagoras. I’m a traveling scholar seeking enlightenment. I’ve heard rumors of a city where such knowledge is dispensed — would I be correct in assuming this is it?”

That’s my stock cover story to use whenever I’m new to a locale. It cleanly establishes me as an outsider, thus eliminating questions about my dress or manner, while also allowing me to confirm whether or not I’m in a historic location. If not, someone will likely have heard of one and will point me the right way. And if I am…

“Can’t think of another city around here that fits that description,” the man wryly chuckled. “But that’s a mighty vague reason to come to Yharnam of all places. The people here have a special way of treating guests. I’m Gilbert, a fellow outsider. I can’t stand, so I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but I’ll share what I can.”

Perfect. I have a name for the city and the start of its social structure. I’m no stranger to isolationist cultures. It’s within the context of that isolation that I’ll find what I need.

“By ‘people’, you wouldn’t mean those rabid individuals who attempted to skewer me earlier?”

“Mm. No, but yes. This city’s cursed.” Gilbert coughs once as if in example, clears his throat, and continues, “There’s a plague going ‘round. It turns humans into beasts. Tonight’s the night of the hunt. I’d recommend you leave as soon as you can. Whatever’s to be gained here isn’t worth the cost.”

I frown and set the memoslate to search its records for those keywords. “Humans turning into beasts” and mentions of “the hunt” ring alarm bells in my memory. While the device works, I continued probing Gilbert for intel.

“I’ll be the one to decide Yharnam’s value. Even knowing how and why this plague functions would serve my purposes. Who do you think would have the most information on that front?” I ask.

Gilbert’s silent for a moment, either thinking about my words or put off by my tone. In the end, he answers, “You could try the Healing Church. They know everything there is about blood ministration. Probably them you heard those rumors about. Look to the east, across the valley.”

I do, and I blink when I notice the great statue underhanging the bridge is gone. Was that… not a statue at all, perhaps? Did I not hallucinate it moving? That’s deeply concerning, for the only lifeforms of that size I’ve seen are the Titans of Amphoreus.²

What Gilbert wants me to notice is the towering temple at the nexus of the city. He says, “That’s Cathedral Ward, the town run by the Healing Church. And that big building there-” he coughs, “-is the grand cathedral, the birthplace of their special healing blood… or so the story goes. Yharnamites don’t share much with outsiders. Normally wouldn’t let you get close to that place, but… tonight’s the hunt. You might be able to make it through.”

Though Gilbert can’t see me through the foggy window, I bow anyway in gratitude. “Thank you for your assistance. I would have wandered lost if not for you. Is there any way I can repay you? Help with your illness, maybe?”

“You a doctor?” he dryly asks. When I confirm the negative, he says, “Then there’s no point. I went to the Church and they gave me their blood. It bought me time… I don’t think I can get a better deal now. I don’t want to risk you contracting it too. Best way you can repay me is by staying alive, Anaxagoras.”

He has a point about transmission, but I insist, “Perhaps a novel perspective will help? I may not be a healer by trade, but I’ve studied biology at length and have worked with the best medic of my homeland.”

“No, no,” Gilbert declines. He’s undermined by his cough returning but fights valiantly to say, “I’m afraid I’m of little help now. At least, unharmed by the plague of beasts, I can die human…”

I open my mouth, but am drowned out by coughing. At this point, his stubborn refusal only hurts him. To that extent, so does my selfish insistence. If he truly won’t accept aid, then I’ll respect his wishes. I’ve never been the “hero” type like Phainon or Hyacinthia.

Bidding farewell, I review the conversation as recorded by the memoslate. Thanks to Gilbert, I have a word for the specific type of structure to seek, as well as a direction to travel in. A “cathedral” built in its own neighborhood across the great bridge. There, I’ll hopefully find the miracle doctors who can use blood in some form of healing art. I wonder how they’ll react to the golden blood which denotes me a Chrysos Heir.³

As for obstacles… Aside from distance and Yharnam’s apparent chronic disdain for outsiders, the humans here are transforming into monsters due to a suspected illness. Of course, Gilbert may be wrong that it’s a plague specifically. He is only a layperson, so I take his word with a grain of salt. Regardless of the cause, however, I’ve personally seen the effect. There’s no denying the madness in those men’s eyes.

Checking the memoslate’s query, I find the reference I knew I would. Lycanthropy is an unusual state of being, but it’s one endemic to the species of alien known as the “borisin”. They were never humans originally, having always been shapeshifting hominids, but they were “blessed” with immortality by the Aeon of Abundance. They are one of the targets of the Aeon of the Hunt, as well as said Aeon’s followers. Thus, the Hunters culling the beasts of Yharnam are in good company, though the situations are far from identical.⁴

I will have to prepare myself to kill these beast-afflicted humans if it comes down to it. While I refuse to seek out conflict like some kind of barbarian, I value my research too much to let a backwater curse stifle me. There seems to be no saving the victims, and even if I can eventually figure out a means to cure it, it will take a long time. That is time I don’t have due to my limited resources. Unless I can find a steady, secure source of food and water, I will eventually have to leave Yharnam for greener pastures.

I’ll simply make the most of the time I do have. One week should be sufficient while leaving me a three day buffer in case I get lost in this puzzling city. Rereading my notes on the borisin, I prepare for combat against immortal, rapidly-regenerating wolves with enhanced physicality. They shouldn’t be more dangerous than the black tide creatures, but I’ll keep a steady hand and my head on a swivel. I never know if a lone beast will be enough to lay me low.

¹Every scholar in the Grove of Epiphany follows Thalesus’s example. The Nousporists, for instance, use Thalesus’s theory about the soul (or Nouspores) as the foundation for their study. He is celebrated as the First Scholar because he supposedly met with the Titan of Reason, Cerces. For more information, see Kyros, Tearful Tales Collection.

²The Titans of Amphoreus are revered as gods, but their greatest claim is being equal to the demigods. They serve the same purpose, that being bearing Coreflames, and wield many of the same powers. Their sole advantage over demigods would be their unusual forms. Cerces is one such Titan, and it is their Coreflame that I plucked to become the demigod of Reason.

³“Chrysos Heir” is a nominative equivalent for “one with golden blood”. Chrysos Heirs are the ones with the potential to become demigods, should they procure and accept the power of Coreflames. It is also the name of a specific faction of individuals who slayed the Titans in order to obtain those Coreflames.

⁴The Aeon of the Abundance, Yaoshi, is known to grant immortality as a gift to certain species. Long-lived races typically succumb to an affliction known as “mara”, which drives them insane as their minds and bodies fail to keep up with the accrual of memories combined with Yaoshi’s power. The Aeon of the Hunt, Lan, has made it THEIR mission to eradicate Yaoshi and Yaoshi’s children, of which include the borisin. For further information, see Qingzu, List of Archenemies; Bailu, Records of Treatment of the Mara-Struck; for a contrasting view, see Samatha, Core Principles of Claretwheel Temple.

Chapter Text

My descent down the ladder is interrupted by an ambush. Those men from before have patrolled around the base long enough to catch me on my way down, and now I’m stuck fighting for my life. They’re noisy enough that I’m not caught entirely unawares, but this is tedious regardless.

My firearm barks as I shoot the torch-bearing man in the chest. A ripple of green light flows through his body, and blood begins seeping through cracked skin. He staggers back with a roar of pain; I try to drown out the noise by convincing myself I’m doing him a mercy. I do not have a cure for his illness, and his rational mind has likely already died. Within those eyes, I see naught but bestial instincts and a desire for blood remaining. His desperation, his hunger, is not unfamiliar to me.

His friends are not dissimilar. They behave as individuals, cooperating only so far as not to stab each other. Their flailing strikes fail against a skilled foe. Glowing bullets strike them one by one and do surprisingly little damage. I’m almost insulted by how easily they shrug my prized weapon off, but that annoyance is superseded by curiosity. How are they so durable?

To answer that, I must first explain how my firearm functions. It wasn’t originally a weapon, instead having been conceived as a teaching aid, a tool to demonstrate how Nouspores interact with physical matter. The alchemical arrays inside the weapon’s barrel also serve as examples of how runes can interface with Nouspores to achieve specific results. It’s serendipitous then that the ability to tear Nouspores apart at their base level serves quite the offensive purpose when shaped correctly.

For ammunition, the firearm shoots condensed Nouspore bullets. Those pellets originate from a tincture concocted of my own blood and soul, alchemically charged to store Nouspores with a certain “programming”. Using various runes such as “acceleration” and “aggravation”, the firearm evaporates the liquid into a pure Nouspore state, then condenses that into lethal projectiles that resemble fireballs.

Finally, once those bullets make contact with physical matter, they illustrate the primary thesis of the Nousporists. All matter arises from the same fundamental source: the soul, or Nouspores. Bricks are made of rocks, are made of molecules, are made of atoms, are made of elementary particles — held together by forces such as gravity, electricity, the weak and strong nuclear forces… Every factor at play is dictated by Nouspores.¹ As such, if one can master Nouspores, one can do literally anything.

“To create something out of nothing. To transform something into what it isn’t. To make something into nothing.” Those are the three basic “impossible actions” allowed by alchemy and enacted through the use of alchemical circles, reactive materials, and special tools. However, even what seems like magic must follow hard rules. When making use of Nouspores’ properties, one must always remember the fundamental law of “equivalent exchange”. Every action has a cost.

Most often, that cost is one’s own soul, their internal store of Nouspores.²

I’ve programmed my weapon’s bullets to “deconstruct” the Nouspores in any matter they contact. This gives them a flaming appearance as they reduce air molecules to their constituent parts, and it allows them to implant weaknesses in structures such as walls or bodies. Why I am confused now is that these men’s chests haven’t exploded into open cavities. Their flesh doesn’t seem harder than steel, and yet they’re showing less reaction to my bullets than the black tide beasts did.

Does this have to do with that sensation I noticed earlier? Something in Yharnam is suppressing the movement of Nouspores or otherwise forcing them into a state where they cannot be perceived. I can’t lift the veil with my left eye,³ but the effects are clear as day thanks to my weapon’s inefficacy.

Of course, a reduction in efficiency doesn’t equate to total negation. Three shots each to the body are enough to end the men’s misery, and I whisper an apology to the wind. Unfortunately, I will need to avoid combat whenever possible, as ammunition will turn into a long-term problem. Frequently draining my blood to make Nouspore ampoules will exacerbate my lack of food and potable water. I also lack kinetic weaponry which may be more effective in this environment.

With my photographs taken from on high, it takes me a brisk five minutes to return to the Century Ark. I calculate how many of my supplies I can afford to carry based on how many I can afford to lose in a worst-case scenario and eventually choose to err on the side of caution. After struggling to defeat a handful of mildly enhanced humans, I fear I won’t survive against a more threatening engagement. I’m not athletically unfit, but I’m no hardened warrior either. A heavy pack will intolerably weigh me down.

From there, I sling my satchel over my shoulder and reload my gun. I have five spare ampoules on me, meaning I have sixty shots total. That’s enough to slay twenty modified humans assuming perfect conditions.

There is no such thing as “perfect conditions” outside of a lab. I’ll have to test my bouncing bullets on these monsters.

Hah! And this was supposed to be a relaxing jaunt through the multiverse! Things could be worse, I figure. At least this isn’t a world entirely unbound by Nouspores. That would have thoroughly invalidated my sole means of self defense.

Before departing for Cathedral Ward, I travel to the manor I saw on the lower level. There is a large beast inside the estate’s fenced walls. I intend to use it for target practice, as it won’t be able to reach me unless it breaks free. Knowing how well my weapons work against threats greater than humans is imperative to my wellbeing.

Luckily, there are no more huntsmen in my path. I am unbothered as I reach the gate housing the manor and spy the wolf through the bars. Up close, I can see that this too was once human, though one wouldn’t be able to tell past the lupine snout, razor claws, and all-enveloping black fur. The major trait I can point to to support my theory is the tattered fabric covering its chest and waist — the remnants of a person’s clothes.

“Dearly departed, may you rest in peace,” I murmur, activating the philosopher’s stone embedded in the back of my right hand.⁴ This stone was crafted using another third of the Coreflame of Reason, and it serves as a mnemonic device which summons alchemical circles from ambient Nouspores. Typically, one must carve these glyphs into solid surfaces in order to use them, but the light produced by the philosopher’s stone serves the same purpose.

I have several presets stored in this philosopher’s stone, and can configure it manually when those don’t suffice. One of those presets is exclusively used to make my firearm more effective. Its lack of versatility makes it relatively effortless to summon and inexpensive to maintain. I do so in great numbers, positioning them in a spread around the beast. These rings create surfaces with a lone function: to redirect the velocity of a Nouspore bullet in the desired direction.

Aiming my firearm, I pull back the hammer so that one more triangular array with circles at the vertices and runes floating within appears in front of the barrel. Then, I pull the trigger.

The bullet leaves my weapon, reprogrammed with the properties of “reflection” and “piercing” by the triangle sequence which is fueled by the same destructive reaction that burns the air. Transmuted into something akin to a laser, the beam of pure energy strikes the beast in the hind leg and bounces off. It flies directly toward where I knew it would, the first “vector” circle. It hits, then ricochets back into the beast’s spine, then off again into a wall, then back again into the right shoulder. Five hits, five instances of material degradation, and the beast screeches in pain as blood flies from its wounds.

I’m amazed. It isn’t dead yet, though it’s definitely in no state to kill me. Limping toward the gate with pitiful growls and barks, it tries to cut the bars with its claws, but its natural blades crack. Having absorbed Nouspores across its surface area, the entire organism has been qualitatively softened. One more shot to the skull puts it down for good.

Two bullets this time. Much more efficient, and against a subject further into the beast transformation than those men earlier. However, there was a different cost, separate from my limited ammunition. Summoning circles using the philosopher’s stone drains me of a small amount of ichor per second; that’s why the stone is implanted in my flesh. Vector circles are, thankfully, somewhat self-sustaining. They accept the velocity from the bullet’s impact as part of the fuel, then impart it with an equal velocity in another direction. The only cost I pay is the one required to manifest them.

It speaks to the durability of the beast that the projectile bounced off its skin instead of punching a hole in it. Normally, enhanced bullets will fly through their targets until they hit a surface they can’t, which is where they’ll rebound into one of the vector circles. In this instance, not even the thinnest section of the beast’s body was susceptible to that process. Indeed, combat in Yharnam is beyond a last resort for me if I can’t find a way through this Nouspore suppression.

Turning my back on the manor, I return to the central street’s gate and ponder shooting the mechanism. I refrain, as doing so would be a waste of ammunition for what should be obvious reasons at this point. Instead, I climb that awful ladder again and take the path right of Gilbert’s house. Down a short flight of stairs is a bridge that overlooks the main street. More men in suits and carrying improvised weapons trundle past, ignorant to my presence.

I’ll just avoid them, I dryly think.

The same can’t be said for the man hiding behind a cluster of boxes. As soon as he hears my shoe scuff against the cobblestone, he bursts through his own cover and starts brandishing a hatchet at me, screaming his head off. I shoot him in the face and take a quick look over the edge of the bridge, but the others don’t seem to notice the noise. Returning to the man, I quickly kill him with a second shot and check the surroundings. There’s a long fall to the main street to my left, and a walkable path to my right. I go right and find more stairs which bring me back to ground level.

Instead of going the direction the large group went, I turn back and almost tear my hair out when I see the very same gate that had yet blocked my way to the main road. The main road I’m now standing on.

I can’t help my grumbling, “So this hour spent puffing my way up and down stairs and ladders has been in service of a loop? Damn whoever designed this city.”

The lever clunks nicely in my hands as I pull it, and the gate creaks open with the clattering of rusty gears. Partly in anger, and partly out of a desire to make my life easier, I find a loose stone and use it to jam the mechanism, stomping the rock as deep into the lever’s actuator as I can. A testing yank confirms that this gate isn’t closing again without proper repairs. Surely the mechanics won’t make the trip to fix it with monsters lurking about.

Catharsis and practicality both, I think while looking at the imprints left by the Century Ark’s legs.

The main road continues down past numerous doors sealed shut by heavy locks. The wood is sturdy enough that the beasts couldn’t break them down, and it seems as though the early onset victims of the plague still retain enough awareness not to barge into people’s homes. Like Gilbert, those indoors should be safe from the spreading illness.

As for myself, I’ve taken preventative measures. My mask is specifically designed to filter the air I breathe and has been tested on everything from sand to water vapor. I am also performing routine checks on my body temperature and lungs. I doubt this pathogen spreads through the air, or else the whole city would have been evacuated by now. My primary methods of preventing infection are to refrain from ingesting anything originating from this world and to alchemically annihilate every drop of foreign blood that approaches my body. Those measures should inoculate me against waterborne and bloodborne diseases.

“Once I leave Yharnam, I am going to take the longest, hottest bath,” I mutter. Rolling my eye, I add for my own benefit, “Never thought I would miss Okhema…”

Thus, I begin sneaking through Yharnam’s alleys and shunning the populated streets. Human beasts are sidestepped and a mutated canine is shot dead much easier than its bipedal counterparts. Eventually, I reach a large bonfire with a massive, flayed creature tied to a crucifix. That’s the stopping point for the group I saw before, and there are at least a dozen men standing around celebrating with slovenly, drunken cries.

Communication with them is ruled out. I see human corpses piled up to the side, all exsanguinated. These men are the same as the ones I killed earlier. Watching their revelry in the wake of murder, I shove down a welling gorge of disgust. How dare they rejoice at this wasteful loss of life? One of them is defiling a child’s body with his teeth, and the rest are laughing. Not a positive indication toward their collective sanity.

Realizing that there’s no means to stay out of line of sight if I want to continue down the single path available to me, I sigh and discharge the ampoule in my firearm. Opening its top, I take the content of the other diminished charge and partially refill this one. I have four shots remaining, and five more ampoules after this one. Performing a headcount, I identify twelve total huntsmen and a barking dog.

I can strike five at a time with bouncing bullets before each projectile loses its potency and becomes useless. If I can land every shot in the same location for every one of them, then optimally, it will only take me six bullets to kill ten hostiles, and two more for the remainder and the dog. Of course, that’s a distant hope. The enemy will react and move after the first shot, and some of the beasts carry guns of their own. If I instead use three bounces per target, that will require a similar number of bullets, but will reduce the margin of error.

Naturally, the ideal solution is one where I don’t have to fight at all. While I can’t avoid being seen, previous examples of the plague-addled suggest that their reaction times are slow, and their awareness is dim. If I run straight through them as fast as I can, perhaps I can find a hiding place. There’s a gate past them that’s far too large for me to open, but a side door on a higher sidewalk tempts me.

I merely need to dodge makeshift stabbing implements and firearms. Nothing too dangerous. The real question is if I can sustain a sprint for long enough. A distraction would help… Ah. Is that what I think it is?

I sneak up to a sleeping huntsman and reach for the glass bottle at his side. My hand quivers with excitement, not anxiety, as I slowly extract the flask from his belt. And what do you know? There’s already a rag tucked into the neck. Are the beasts in this world weak to fire? They must be, if the corrupted hunters are carrying burning flasks with them.

An important vulnerability to catalogue, and one I plan on abusing to the fullest.

¹How Nouspores enforce the laws of physics is something I have yet to determine. My current hypothesis is that they are paradoxical, driven by the same cognitive impulse which I believe to be the “seed” of genesis. This means that, in proving or disproving one theory, I am likely to do the same for the other.

²While the word “soul” has spiritual implications, the rational definition supported by Nousporism doesn’t exclude them. Nouspores are known to hold vestiges of personality and memory when influenced by conscious life. “Ghosts”, then, are lingering traces of a person’s internal Nouspores.

³Due to a certain mistake performed early in my career, my left eye is able to vaguely “see” congregations of the soul. This is most effective when Nouspores are being actively directed. Otherwise, I am as blind to ambient Nouspores as anyone else.

⁴Philosopher’s stones are alchemical substances capable of housing complex Nouspore configurations, similar to computer chips. They are extremely expensive to create, requiring something equivalent to an entire human soul to forge.

Chapter Text

The plan works without a hitch. Modifying the flask so that it detonates on a timer is simple enough work that I don’t need to use alchemy for it. Adding a drop of my blood to the mix to excite the flames is slightly more complicated, but elementary for me. I’m rather impressed by the volume of the pyre; it’s enough to span the width of the main road and is even more effective a distraction than I predicted.

With twelve pairs of eyes turning toward the improvised bomb, I burst from my hiding place beneath an overturned wooden crate and jump down, rolling to maintain my forward momentum. Only the dog and riflemen spot me before I make it to the opposite stairs, and the latters’ shots go wide, one hitting their own comrade in the back of the thigh. The dog barks at my heels, drawing the attention of the rest, but they’re far too slow and numerous to make it up the steps before I’m long past the gunners, and I slam the iron door of the underpass shut as soon as I cross it.

There’s a dull thunk as the dog’s skull impacts the iron. Its barking ceases, and the sound of men screaming obscenities replaces it. It’s amusing listening to their invectives gradually taper off while catching my breath.

I don’t linger for long and neither do they. I’ve wound up in a plaza of sorts, with houses in every direction and the towering wall behind me. If I haven’t gotten lost, that wall should itself be part of the great bridge I’d noticed upon arrival, the one that led to Cathedral Ward. There’s no way up from this side of the square, but there’s stairs on the other side near a rope well.

I start walking, keeping a watchful eye out for more dangers, when I find an unusual rock buried beneath rotting crates. It’s sticking up from the torso of a human corpse, near where the heart should be. Staying a cautious distance away, I inspect the stone and the body, finding numerous oddities.

First, the cadaver shows no signs of external preservation, and yet has not decayed nearly enough for how old it appears to be. The boxes show more signs of age than the body does, but the dust coating everything suggests they’ve been in this position for quite a while. It’s as if time has stopped for the corpse specifically.

Second, there are spiked protrusions beneath the body’s skin. Where those protrusions have breached reveals that they’re actually scarlet gems, crystallized blood. They resemble the philosopher’s stone in my hand, though only aesthetically. Gilbert claimed that the Healing Church uses “blood ministration” to cure illnesses and fix wounds. I believe now that this has had unforeseen side-effects on the people who’ve undergone the procedure.

Third, the stone itself is strange. Where the rest of the blood has crystallized, a single pillar has grown vertically into a helixing structure that has a much rougher texture than the regimented blood gems. What has caused this divergence? Is it the proximity to the heart? That would be where the largest concentration of blood is.

Using my left eye, I search for clues within the stone’s Nouspores. I find nothing out of the ordinary, which in and of itself is strange. In fact, it should be impossible given the evidence presented before me. No physical property of blood should force it into this specific shape. That means there must either be an additive within the blood, or the Nouspores here are being suppressed as well.

This stone, whatever it is, will be a valuable specimen. I reach into my pack and extract a test tube and a pair of tongs. It takes little effort to break the stone from its perch, and I quickly store and cork it before wiping my equipment down with disinfectant thrice. That finished, I stand from my crouch and continue on my way as if I hadn’t made the stop at all.

Without a proper lab to work within, I won’t be able to comprehensively examine the blood stone shard. I hope the Healing Church has reading material on the subject for me to peruse. Since Gilbert mentioned them, I’ve been longing to get my hands on their research. While I’m versed in manipulating my golden ichor for alchemy, producing medicine has never crossed my mind.

Imagine that: Me, Anaxagoras, producing a panacea that outstrips the healing arts of the Twilight Courtyard! Hyacinthia will eat her heart out.¹

Before I can infuriate my assistant instructor, however, I must sneak past a bloated humanoid pounding a brick against the large gate beneath the bridge. It doesn’t notice my silent steps until I reach the stairs leading up to the bridge itself, where a group of huntsmen and a dog are waiting. The dog barks, a second emerges from behind the humans and starts chasing me, the giant groans and turns around, and I start running again.

“After ‘im!” the patrol’s leader calls. I try to duck around him, but a woman in the back swings a scimitar at me. Hopping back as fast as I can, I bite my tongue when I’m driven away from the stairs and back toward the plaza. So close to the bridge, too!

These hunters are persistent compared to the others. Thanks to their dogs retaining a lock on me, they continue to hound me further and further. Eventually, my back hits a wall, and I draw my gun.

“I’m not built for this,” I huff, kicking one dog in the snout so I can run around it toward a pile of coffins. There’s a gap between the buildings behind it — if I can just break through…!

I shoot, and the wood slabs explode into splinters. The embers of my alchemy burn the rest away, and I charge fearlessly through the blaze. My foot meets empty air, and I tumble down a sheer drop into an alley where I find yet more dogs. Thankfully, these mutts are locked in cages, so I turn right and maintain my pace until I reach a large temple and pass through the door.

Spinning on my heel, I raise my weapon and fire at the ground. Vector circles appear in calculated positions, and my bullet slays three rabid canines with no waste. The humans gave up long ago, and there are no more pursuers after me.

“Gilbert might have been right. This isn’t worth trouble,” I say, slumping in exhaustion. I have a habit of talking to myself; vocalizing my thoughts helps me process them. What I don’t expect is to hear a response from someone else.

“It’s a sure mess you’ve been caught up in. And tonight of all nights,” the woman says. Like a living shadow, she peels off the wall and slinks toward me with an effortless grace. Her figure is obscured by a black feathered cloak, and her face is hidden beneath a beaked mask. She resembles a crow, though I don’t think most birds can wield the polished blade tucked at her hip. “Are you an outsider? Not a Hunter, by my eye.”

I settle my breathing and nod, backing away a step so I can remain more than a knife’s distance away. Her gait is too measured, too precise. She hasn’t yet been lost to the plague, but that makes her more dangerous, not less.

“I’m a researcher, more suited to wasting away in a lab than on the battlefield. Forgive me if I lack the fortitude to keep my lungs, stranger,” I reservedly say, stowing my gun but keeping a hand on it. I have other means of survival if my life truly falls under danger, but better to not be the one to provoke their use if I can help it.

“You could have fooled me, what with that light show. I’ve not seen a lucid human since the hunt began. All of the rest have gone mad,” the woman says. She waves an empty hand in toast. “Hail to you, researcher.”

Once my pulse stops pounding in my ears, I cross my arms and say, “My name is Anaxagoras. I’m here in search of the Healing Church. Those fiendish dogs chased me away from the bridge.”

“On your way to Cathedral Ward? I’d recommend against it, if you struggle with dogs. The beasts there are far tougher,” the woman chuckles. She dusts her cape and introduces herself. “Eileen, a Hunter. Haven’t been to Cathedral Ward myself yet, but I’m on the way. I checked earlier — you can’t get there via the bridge. It’s closed.”

I exhale heavily. It’s good to learn that now instead of after wasting time attempting to cross, but it’s still frustrating. “Is there no other way to Cathedral Ward, then? Or should I succumb to depression and go home?”

Eileen laughs, a low and mournful sound. “You should stay indoors where it’s safe. But I can tell you won’t. You’re as driven as a Hunter. Maybe, with that gun of yours…” Eyeing the ampoule loaded in the chamber, she assesses, “Your bullets are pretty, but they don’t have the punch of quicksilver. Here.”

She holds out her hand, within which are a dozen chrome bullets. I accept them purposefully, feeling their weight in my palm. Despite how dainty they look, they’re heavy, and warm. Their surfaces are rippled with fingerprints, and a faint red tinge haunts the light reflecting off them. I drag my thumb down the side of one, and it molds like clay.

“Tch. Careful,” Eileen warns. “Quicksilver is quick to melt, but it’s effective against beasts. Don’t ruin your stock.”

“You mean it can damage the wolves? Fascinating,” I murmur. This, for the sake of self-defense, may be worth a field analysis. Storing the rest of the bullets in my pocket, I hold the last in my hand and activate my philosopher’s stone. An orb of amber light surrounds the bullet, and Eileen warily reaches for her weapon.

“What manner of sorcery is this, then?”

“Alchemy. The art of understanding,” I absently answer. Gyroscopic arms made of runes surround the orb with rings set at perpendicular vertices. Light beads in those rings, then shoots out as lasers to begin disassembling the quicksilver bullet. The arms revolve around the orb slowly at first, then more and more rapidly as molecules are broken down and studied. Nouspores whisper secrets to the memoslate, the true nature of this object revealed.² I sway on my feet from blood loss; I’ve used the stone too frivolously today, but my assumption was correct.

This is worth it.

The analysis is completed, and the alchemical circles disperse along with the embers of what had once been a bullet. Laughter bubbles up in my throat, escaping me unbidden. My weariness fades as joy rejuvenates my weary spirit. “Hahahahah! I see! How ingenious. And yet, it’s only a single step away from what I’ve been using! No, perhaps that makes this even more impressive!”

Make no mistake — I’m not amazed by my own discovery. Instead, what elates me is the satisfaction of knowing that there is indeed something to learn in Yharnam! Mysteries shave away one layer at a time, and I’ve finally made the first incision.

“Ah, so you’re mad too,” Eileen sighs, pretending to relax. My sudden mania has surely given her concern, but I don’t care. I’ve finally made a breakthrough in this world! I was starting to think that it would take me a languid two days to find anything of use!

Like I would in a classroom, I begin the lecture. It doesn’t matter if Eileen hears me, for I and the memoslate are the most important students this time. “Quicksilver is no simple steel. It’s soul-infused, empowered by human blood. Mercury is used as the base, but it should be liquid at room temperature. Instead, the blood congeals and solidifies it into a plastic form!” I reach into my pack and withdraw the blood stone shard, holding it up to the light. On the memoslate’s surface and in reality, I see twin double helixes. “Yes… It’s the same! That which makes the blood of the deceased crystallize is the same property which solidifies quicksilver. And the Nouspores in the blood carry a lingering intent to ‘cleanse’, allowing these bullets to work against the plague-ridden beasts where mundane metals would fail!”³

Eileen hums, turning her back to me. She doesn’t walk away, and she doesn’t remove her hand from the hilt of her weapon. “Seems you’ve figured something out. But quiet down. Your screaming’s going to attract the beasts.”

“With this, I can begin the process of reverse engineering quicksilver and upgrading my weapon to utilize it. For that, I thank you, Eileen the Hunter,” I lower my voice, stowing the samples. Bowing at the waist with a flourish, I say, “Call upon me at any time, and I will gladly repay you for your kindness.”

“No need for that, now. You just focus on surviving the night. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll take this answer to whatever shelter you can find.” Eileen strides further into the darkness with a parting message, “This is no city for scholars.”

With a brazen grin, I ask, “And what if I want to become a Hunter?”

She chuckles, voice echoing as she steps into a hidden, pitch-black room. “Then do it. There’s no special rules. All that matters… is that a Hunter must hunt.”

¹The Twilight Courtyard is a medical institution associated with the Grove of Epiphany. While the Courtyard was originally destroyed by the black tide, Hyacinthia rebuilt the organization from the ground up. For more information on the history of the Twilight Courtyard, see Hyacinthia, The Sky People’s Legacy.

²The “deconstruction” and “analysis” circles are used in a specialized alchemical device called the forge of discovery. Disassembling materials into base elements (if not elementary particles) is often a requirement for reassembling them into desired forms. They’re far more expensive to utilize than the vector circles, so I often refrain.

³If human souls are collections of Nouspores bearing memories, then it stands to reason that blood would carry “intent”. And while souls may dissipate over time, they are known to linger longer when bound to physical objects. For more information on phylacteries, see Hyacinthia, The Sky People’s Legacy.

Chapter Text

I don’t leave the building after Eileen. Today has been mildly wearing, so I plan to settle in for the night. Most people would take that to mean “sleep”, but I am not most people.

Prior to that, however, I must explore this building to ensure my own safety. The beasts prowl everywhere. My shelter must remain free of hostiles, else I’ll find myself dying prematurely and without purpose. I can accept meeting Thanatos again if doing so would further my research,¹ but I’d rather avoid it when possible.

This building is similar to the fisheries in Amphoreus’s coastal cities. It has multiple levels, but the highest are comprised of flimsy wooden catwalks, while the lowest is partially submerged in water. It may be more appropriate to call it an aqueduct, but the smell is repulsive enough that I refuse to believe the people of Yharnam would drink any liquid sourced here. I’m half tempted to leave, but there are no enemies on the top floor, and there’s a balcony outside which is free of the pungent odor. In exchange, I merely have to tolerate the screeching of beasts.

Upon the balcony, I barricade the door and begin removing objects from my pack. First comes a plant devised by the Lotophagists in concert with the Twilight Courtyard,² an air purifying flower that resembles a pinwheel. It will cleanse the air of impurities, creating a less volatile environment. I then thoroughly disinfect the workstation.

Next, I extract the forge of discovery, a silver globe apparatus with an input chamber and an output chamber on either side. While forges come in many sizes, this one fits on a desk and is perfect for analyzing small samples such as quicksilver bullets. Along with it are knives, pincers, tongs, beakers, test tubes, and pipettes. I also have a microscope and petri dishes. Everything is lined with a plush wrap, and I’m grateful to see none of it has been damaged by my earlier flights.

At the bottom of the pack is a ration bar and a small bottle of water. Nothing luxurious, but they’re small, easy to carry, and provide all of the nutrients I’ll need when better food is unavailable. As an aside, they taste absolutely horrible. I’d recommend carrying bulk dried fruits and jerky when traveling.

I lay the quicksilver bullets Eileen gave me in a row. I have eleven of them, and I predict I’ll only need to lose two to alchemy before I can replicate them. The first analysis gave me everything I needed to understand their physical properties, but the effects of blood and Nouspores have not been defined, and I have no idea why toxic mercury was used instead of a safer metal.

The first thing I need to do is define the factors: blood and mercury. Placing the sample bullet in the forge’s input chamber, I close the semidome until the airtight seal hisses and clicks. Using my memoslate, I configure the forge to separate the blood from the metal, place a test tube beneath the output chamber, then activate the rune on the forge’s base. The globe whirs to life, twin arms spinning rapidly around the hollow sphere as the Nouspore beams inside dismantle the bullet molecule by molecule in a repeat of my earlier trick.

Alchemical circles manifest around the dome, casting an emerald glow over my workspace. Their patterns are inexplicable, written in myriad languages nobody can read. Not even the synesthesia beacon can translate them. 

After a minute, the forge quiets. The output chamber opens, and a trickle of mercury pours into the test tube which I seal shut. That can be examined later. I’m more interested in the blood.

The second stream runs red. A single drop is extricated using a pipette, then placed in a petri dish beneath the microscope. Solar light shines beneath the blood, and I peer into its secrets using my eye of flesh.

What I see is… amazing. In real time, I watch as the blood congeals and resolidifies, branching arms of solidity extending through the liquid like ice across a pane of glass. Quickly lifting my eyepatch and switching to my eye of magic, I see more. The blood cells are shaped like disks akin to universally prosaic human blood, but the Nouspores are vastly more complicated.

It takes me time to separate the categories, but there are three competing shapes within the Nouspores. One is elongated, flat with pointed tips, and wriggling like a slug. Another is spherical, with dark spots and rings making the soul clumps resemble human eyeballs. The last is purely biological, a single bulbous head with a flagellum propelling it forward. My flesh eye sees that last variant in the cells themselves, now that I know to look for it, but the other two do not show up in the material world.

The cells that crystallize don’t lose their Nouspores. No, in fact, the opposite is true: the Nouspores cause crystallization. Each shape follows a different function within the blood, aiding the process in unique ways. Slugs hold the branches together, acting as strips of adhesive. Eyeballs become pivots, preventing the crystals from rigidifying further and granting them the potential for flexibility. Worms swim around to create paths for the crystals to follow, and their spiralling motions create that distinct double helix I’ve witnessed twice now.

Despite appearances, I can’t say that the Nouspores are working in tandem. When they come into contact with each other, they almost seem to engage in combat until one wins and the other is assimilated. Any mutual support they grant each other is coincidental, though perhaps I’m reading too much into the random movements of cells. I note the observation for future study, then back away to rest my eye.

Worryingly, I don’t find any signs of human soul imbued within the blood. It could be that the soul was lost due to age or whatever manufacturing process creates quicksilver, but even corpses retain echoes of wit, desire, or intention. I hear none of those echoes from the sample.

There are a number of possibilities. Say the abnormal Nouspores are actively fighting each other. It could be that the human’s soul was destroyed by the competing “extras”, unable to fight back against stronger energies. If the former premise is false, then it is otherwise plausible that the human soul’s remnants are simply too small to perceive. My left eye is far from perfect, after all. Or, if the humans of this world are sufficiently different to the humans of Amphoreus, it could be that those strange Nouspores are the human’s soul.

That last possibility is the most unlikely. Slugs devour eyes, which crush worms, which bisect slugs. Any person whose soul contained that much internal conflict would die within a day unless their body were tempered like a beast’s. It’s also exceedingly likely that the blood’s crystallization is caused by the abnormal Nouspores. A living person can’t survive with solid blood. I find it more tenable that a living human soul is required to keep the blood as liquid. Thus, with the soul removed, blood gems can form.

From there, I can’t discern any more from the blood. Unless I have other examples of those bizarre Nouspores, and unless I can find traces of the human’s soul, I won’t be able to progress along this avenue. That means it’s time to switch to the mercury, a mundane element of metal.

To my surprise, that is where I find the missing human soul. It’s merely a phantom of its former self, a shadow cast by candlelight, but it’s there, undeniably so. Upon further thought, that makes sense. My initial disintegration of a quicksilver bullet revealed a meaning stored in its Nouspores — “cleanse”. Those alien Nouspores don’t carry such intent, so a human soul has to be involved. Instead of remaining within its own blood, however, that soul seems to have migrated to the mercury. Is that because the blood is too hostile an environment for it?

My suspicions about the Healing Church’s blood ministration increase. An incurable plague, a fixation on blood, and now anti-human Nouspores behaving like overzealous predators… Puzzle pieces are clicking together, and I don’t appreciate the picture they’re forming.

The final test necessitates I reproduce quicksilver. Adding the mercury and blood back into the forge of discovery, I let it spin under intense pressure, which should finely mix the two elements. I then realize I don’t have a bullet shaped mold to pour the mixture into. Sighing at my lack of foresight, I decide that the curved bottom of the test tube will suffice. It’s not like I can fire solid bullets from my weapon anyway, though that might change soon.

Once the mixture is complete, I place it under the microscope and begin examination. I’m pleased to see that the blood’s crystallization continues while blended with mercury. The two substances are insoluble, so the lighter blood forms threads within pockets of space inside the mercury. Those threads grow like fungi, collecting mercury around and within them and trapping it in tunnels which resemble a human’s vasculature. At the core, where most of the blood is concentrated, the double helix forms, morphing the mixture into a cylindrical shape without the need for a mold. The end result is no bullet, but it no longer fits inside the petri dish either.

Amusingly, this refinement is quite familiar to me. Redsoil, the favored food of dromases,³ also happens to be created when insoluble salts form crystalline structures inside a specific mud slurry. As with quicksilver — and with tree roots through dirt — this compacts the softer material until it becomes difficult to erode via wind or water.

Using my left eye, I inspect the Nouspores. Sure enough, while the alien Nouspores are repulsive to the human soul, the opposite is equally true. Where they come into contact, they conflict, and solid walls similar to plants’ cell walls form between them. This reinforces the real-world solidification while combining the blood’s raw energetic power with the mercury’s human will. I extrapolate from this that anyone capable of controlling blood would naturally be able to infuse the bullet with yet more lethality, though that remains to be tested.

Rubbing my eye, I carefully set everything into a neutral position and step away. I’ve been at it for hours now and need to sleep eventually. This isn’t a city where I can run myself into the ground. I’m used to late nights thanks to Okhema’s eternal sunlight,⁴ but fleeing the beasts and huntsmen has made me tired.

Finding a flat spot of ground to rest on, I glare thoughtfully at the sky. It’s… too bright. I arrived in Yharnam around the crack of sundown, and yet the clouds haven’t dimmed in the slightest. How long have I been here? Five, six hours now? It should be midnight. Does the sun here not set completely? I’ve heard of similar worlds through the IPC’s network.

Disregarding that (and after setting a timer), I fall deep into slumber.

>>End recording.

>>Begin recording.

When I wake up, time has not moved. The sky is the same as it was, and the memoslate informs me that I’ve slept for a full eight hours. Remembrance of Amphoreus irritates me, but these conditions are anything except unmanageable. The truly concerning matter is how analogous this world is to Amphorus on its surface. I dearly hope this isn’t a repeat of the Irontomb Crisis.

Leaving my prayers for the gods to ignore, I go through what morning ablutions I can without running water before settling back down at the worktable. Everything is as I left it, so I can jump right back into my experiments. This time, I wish to synthesize quicksilver from scratch.

Drawing blood is a painless process for me. I’ve done it so many times that I can honestly forget that I’m wounded. Filling a thimble’s worth of a test tube, I then bandage my hand before moving to an empty space with a handful of alchemical ingredients. The philosopher’s stone in my hand reacts, and a golden array two strides long is created.

Of the various alchemical processes, transmutation is the second easiest if one has the tools. Reorganizing atoms’ elementary particles is slightly more difficult than separating them, and much simpler than trying to create them from Nouspores. Not to say that anything about alchemy is easy. For each operation I configure, I have to run calculations which micromanage the active Nouspores. Half of alchemy is mysticism, but the other half is math and I refrain from including those equations in this journal because of how obtrusive they would be.

I will not allow myself to sink to the level of the Nodists.⁵ It is ironic that their philosophy is necessary to the understanding of alchemy.

Atomic reconstruction is math. All one needs is matter that contains protons, neutrons, and electrons, and one can change nickel to gold. Efficiency depends on how many reactions are required to perform this process; eighty hydrogen atoms would suffice to provide mercury’s protons and electrons, but one could do the same work with two zirconium and whatever traces provide neutrons.

It should be obvious that I do not carry zirconium. Instead, I rely on gold, silver, and copper for all of my alchemical purposes. Not only do they have a variety of atomic weights, they can easily be disguised as “foreign currency” in whatever worlds I find myself in. The IPC’s registry indicates that they hold value in many corners of the multiverse — another inexplicable trend that I will gladly take advantage of. And, if they are themselves currency, I can easily procure more by earning money on worlds that use them for coin.

Offerings in hand, I place stacks of coins in each quadrant of the alchemical circle. A triangle’s vertices touch three specific locations, which themselves are circles with constellations around the edges. I have to move fast to stop the philosopher’s stone from draining too much of my blood. Setting a beaker in the center of the array, I quickly activate it, and the coins burn green. Nouspore beads gather inside the beaker, condensing into droplets of mercury. I cut off the reaction once a mirror-like layer coats the bottom.

Gathering the coins, many of which have pits in them thanks to uneven extraction, I place the beaker on the table. I don’t immediately pour my blood in, as it would do nothing of note without Nouspore intervention. I need to program the hints of my soul stored in my golden blood, as I do for my ammunition ampoules, so that they will only solidify upon being shot. And if I want it to be authentic, I’ll need to study the alien Nouspores more closely.

That, along with adjusting my vector circles to account for quicksilver’s mass, modifying my gun to be able to shoot solid bullets, obtaining blood from a beast, figuring out a way to assimilate Yharnam-made quicksilver into my gun’s ampoules without requiring my own blood… I have much to do, and all the time to do it.

“Let’s hope Eileen doesn’t return,” I chuckle under my breath while setting up the forge of discovery. “If she does, I’ll have to give her some of my stock as repayment, and I don’t want to part with it just yet.”

¹Thanatos is the Titan of Death on Amphoreus, responsible for cycling the souls of the departed back into Amphoreus’s cycle of life and rebirth. Part of their authority has been usurped by a Chrysos Heir, Castorice, but they remain active in the form of a woman named “Polyxia”.

²Like the Nousporists, the Lotophagists are a school within the Grove of Epiphany. They study flora and medicine, and have cultivated numerous innovative breeds. They often cooperate with Hyacinthia of the Twilight Courtyard, as both groups study the healing arts, and their knowledge was essential to my understanding of biology.

³Dromases are magnificent creatures who reside in Amphoreus. They are the creations of the Earth Titan, Georios, and have almost as many myths about them as the Titan themself. They are ginormous and docile, perfect companions for humanity while also retaining reliable independence. Their way of life is antithetical to the hurried pace set by human progress, and their inexplicable natures allow them to perform feats belied by their statures. For more information on dromases, see Iason, Dromas Herakles’s Twelve Trials; Anaxagoras, The Dromas Longevity Manual: From Keeping to Bonding; Anaxagoras, Anatomical Study of Dromas Muscle Structure and Microexpression Patterns; Dan Heng, Wish of the Demigod of Earth; Stelle, Nice Weather for Dromases.

⁴During the Irontomb Crisis, Amphoreus’s sky was set in an eternal darkness called “Evernight”. Okhema had a shield against the Evernight, a “Dawn Device” carried by the Titan of Worldbearing, Kephale. This Dawn Device shone at every hour of the day, meaning the sun never set on Amphoreus’s capital.

⁵The Nodists are another school of the Grove of Epiphany. They are mathematicians who believe that everything in the universe can be mapped using hard numbers. I find their point of view to be painfully boring, as there are few limits to qualitative disclosure, whereas quantitative study falls flat in the face of the “impossible”.

Chapter Text

Two days total pass on that balcony, and I make many discoveries in the process.

[Editor’s Note: We’ve removed from this journal the ten pages worth of rote trial and error characteristic of assembling alchemical tools.¹ If we wish to follow Miss Castorice’s advice to turn this academic dispensation into a novel, then skipping the more repetitive parts is for the best. Professor Anaxagoras will recount critical information when it becomes relevant.]

[Anaxagoras’s Note: Tch. In summary, I have found a way to produce personalized Nouspore-infused quicksilver bullets while increasing ampoule production yield by twenty percent. That is all.]

I’m about to set out again when I remember that Cathedral Ward is inaccessible via the great bridge. Not being one to take people at their word, of course, I resolve to double check Eileen’s claim by visiting the bridge myself. The way I came is likely inaccessible to me, as that drop was far steeper than I’m willing to climb and infested by dogs. Two routes remain: the first going past the kennels, and the other deeper into this foul-smelling building I’ve made my temporary base.

Seeing as my mask will shield me from the actual dangers floating around, I’d rather take my chances with the gas. The trek may be longer, but my pack is lighter since I’ve spent a number of my materials. I haven’t yet figured out how to melt existing quicksilver bullets into a reactant liquid like the Nouspore concoction I use for my ammunition ampoules, but I have managed to craft my own variant.

That isn’t enough to warrant me entering the beasts’ den.

I sneak through the fishery, avoiding every beast and half-beast I happen across. The lowest level is dry, and numerous boats lie neglected on empty brickwork in a canal that is more full of sludge than water. A flight of stairs descends to the second floor, and I hide in an alcove when a beast taller than me lumbers past. His saw blade scrapes along the ground with a shrieking cacophony that drowns out my footsteps for me. Once he’s crossed my view, I sprint away, holding my pack close so that its contents don’t clatter.

What a sight I must make, hunching over my belongings like a beggar hiding from the black tide. My dignity has taken a blow since I arrived in this world. On Amphoreus, I rarely fled from confrontation. There were too many innocents to protect, too many enemies to hold back. Death didn’t scare me because I could always use it to my advantage.

In Yharnam, the opposite is true. I have met an “innocent” in the form of Gilbert, and there are no enemies I strictly need to kill for my personal goals. Death is no longer an aid, but an impediment to my understanding of the multiverse. Too long have I spent practicing how to die — I struggle to remember what it takes not to die.

I told my students I wouldn’t return to Amphoreus not because I have no desire to, but because I truly believe that I’ll lose the ability. However if, at the end of my journey, the road guides me back home, then I will gladly follow it toward that familiar west wind.

Speaking of wind, I feel a breeze coming from a nearby archway. The wall opens up to a channel that cuts through Yharnam’s downtown, of which the walkway I’m on hugs the sides. Lanterns illuminate the evernight, and their warm glow highlights evenly-spaced ladders that lead back up to the city’s main confluence of streets.

Jogging briskly across damp cobblestones, I scan the length of the path. A huntress with a rifle screams nonsense words at me, but my draw is faster than hers, and a golden bullet knocks her into the mud far below. She dies long before hitting the ground, her head missing from her shoulders.

“It works,” I hum with satisfaction while checking the ampoule. Inside of the glass bottle is no longer a simple golden liquid. No, I’ve replaced it with something far better! Now, it sloshes a tarnished green due to the incorporation of golden blood into mercury. I call the concoction “hydrargyros”.

These hydrargyros bullets are a perfect blend of Yharnam’s quicksilver and my alchemical tricks. The primary constraint required to make quicksilver is a “fluid which carries power and rigidifies when mixed with mercury”. My weapon does not utilize kinetic projectiles, so I have to add another restriction, “the rigidification must take place during or after firing”.

When it comes to the specifics of rigidification, I want to maintain the advancement demonstrated by the tainted blood. Thus, I need my own blood to “spread roots” through the mercury in order to solidify it. And, crucially, Chrysos Heir blood is specifically designed to do just that.² “Divine ichor” is not merely colored differently, it carries many of the physical properties of liquid gold. This includes amalgamation when combined with mercury, molecularly bonding with it despite not being a metal itself. But how does this help it turn into hydrargyros?

See, a long time ago, I investigated the nature of Chrysos Heirs. What makes us, who bear golden blood, different from other humans? Why are we special, and why isn’t anyone else? Those were the questions I sought to answer. In doing so, I found explanations for tangentially related topics. Relevant to this topic, “What shape are Chrysos Heirs’ blood cells?”

Predictably, they’re not the same as ordinary humans’. Instead of disks, Chrysos Heirs’ blood cells are seed-shaped. These seeds follow the patterns of our Nouspores, which themselves resemble seeds. The conclusion should follow logically, yes?

As with the tainted blood’s Nouspores, I’ve designed mine to grow when provided a certain stimulus (being fired), and have set their growth to conform to a double helix (bullet). The seeds bloom, extending their roots through the mixture until they’re the proper size and shape, and then leave the firearm as lethal thorns. Because the process is directed, it happens almost instantaneously upon firing.

Additionally, the weakness implant inherent to my Nouspore bullets has been retained. Once the hydrargyros bullets make contact with a surface, they unleash a pulse of deconstruction into whatever they hit. Combined with the damage a lump of high velocity metal can cause, they should be able to kill any beast and breach any armor. I’ve even gone as far as to add rifling to the barrel of my weapon, stabilizing the bullets’ trajectories.

Indeed, quicksilver — no, hydrargyros — has been a worthwhile investment!

It proves itself again a moment later. At the end of the path is a sheer drop into the sewage, and a ladder leading from the bottom of the pit up to a balcony. I see what might be a familiar bridge in that direction, so I carefully secure my pack before jumping the short distance to the ladder, catching it and climbing up. I cross a smaller bridge at the top and find one of those bloated giants shuffling aimlessly in front of a house’s door.

The people on the other side must surely have heard its stomping. While I can (or have to) ignore most of the other beasts, this individual is an active threat. I’ve found more innocents to protect.

My break action firearm opens, and I check the ampoule again. It has nine shots since I refilled it with hydrargyros yesterday. Swinging the hinge closed, I pull the trigger, activating the acceleration runes adorning the interior of the barrel. A pebble of hydrargyros floats up and starts spinning, golden veins lighting up around the rivulet as it flows into the barrel. Then, with the snap of a twig breaking, the bullet flies out and strikes the beast in the back of the head.

Rocking forward with significant force, the giant’s skull cracks against the house’s stone wall. It falls over, dead, without a chance to retaliate. My newest invention is already paying dividends, doubling my efficiency in combat.

Feeling proud of my work, I use my philosopher’s stone to summon an alchemical circle around the creature’s body. I need to see if there is a difference between fresh and stale blood. Constellations for “sublimation”, “exclusion”, “compression”, “gravity”, and “hydrostasis” inscribe themselves into the outer ring. This is a complex array, and it’s paid for by sacrificing some of the material I hope to gather. I have no need of flesh; leaving the body would inconvenience the people in that house, so I offer it as fuel for the flames.

Almost half an hour of charging passes thanks to Yharnam’s Nouspore suppression, during which a hard shell of solidified air surrounds the beast, stasis taking effect. Once it has been completely encased, both the air and monster sublimate into fog. Only the blood remains as a liquid, and it’s gathered into a single large orb, which is itself locked in a crystal ball. That trinket goes into my sack, safe and secure, while the mist is ignited into a brief and fleeting pyre.

Alchemy really is too easy when one’s soul is powered by a third of a Coreflame. While I don’t care for the Titans’ or demigods’ so-called “divinity”, I must admit that their power is beneficial. With the Coreflame of Reason, even a scholar such as myself can reforge anything.

“That’s enough testing,” I murmur, approaching another ladder. Yharnam is full of them, isn’t it? Again, I question the sanity of this city’s architects.

My hands sting by the time I reach the top. There, I find another gate locked by another lever. Obnoxious, but the plaza beneath the great bridge is on the other side. That is enough of a motive for me to grab the lever and pull it as hard as I can. The metal clunks, and the gate opens with a groan.

“What a stroke of fortune that I’ve found myself back here without a map.”

There’s a thunk behind me. I turn on my heel, half expecting some beast to have snuck up on me. Instead, what I find is a small girl leaning out of a window. She is young, prepubescent, with messy brown hair tamed by a white ribbon.

Staring at me with wide, watery eyes, she whispers, “Mister? Did you open the gate?”

“I did. Should I not have?” I ask, mentally calculating a way to close it once I’m on the other side. Perhaps if I make a long hook, I can push the lever through the bars…

“It’s okay,” the girl denies, slumping a little. She looks tired, pale. Her eyes aren’t just watery, they’re red from crying. When she speaks, her voice carries an unheard quaver. “Um… Are you a Hunter, Mister?”

I purse my lips. On one hand, claiming I am would be a lie. On the other, Eileen made it clear that being a Hunter is as simple as hunting. In the end, I settle on, “I’m passable. Do you need a Hunter?”

“Mhmm.” The girl’s expression lightens, her eyes glimmering with newfound hope. “Can you help me find my mum? Daddy went out to hunt and never came back, and she went searching for him… and I think she’s gone too. I’m all alone… I keep hearing scary noises… Was that loud bang a second ago you?”

“It was. As for your parents, I’m an extremely busy man. I make no guarantees… but I’ll do what I can to search for them.” I’m often called “brusque” by my assistant instructor, but I’m not so heartless as to tell a child her mother is likely dead. This city is not safe for noncombatants to wander. Still, as far as the girl is concerned, I’m her only hope of reuniting with her family. “Do they have any identifying features?”

“Oh, thank you!” the girl exclaims, her smile widening. She’s missing a front tooth. “My mum wears this beautiful red brooch! You can’t miss it!” Blinking, she slips down behind the windowsill and returns with a music box held between her hands. “I mustn’t forget… If you find my mum, can you please give her this music box? It plays one of daddy’s favorite songs. He’s forgetful, so when his mind starts to go, we wind the music box and he remembers us again!”

That… is a very concerning statement, young lady, I politely refuse to say. Instead I vocalize, “You should keep it. It’s a precious tool, correct? You’ll need it if your parents come home before I find them.”

I don’t want to know what will happen to the girl if her father’s mind has “started to go” and she doesn’t have a means of defense. A music box is hardly a weapon, but if it works, it works.

The girl frowns, then places the music box on the sill. “You’re right, Mister. Maybe if I play it, Daddy will hear the song and follow it home?”

“It’s worth a try,” I urge, checking the surroundings for beasts. None within earshot — they’d have come running if they were. The girl nods and twists the handle on the side of the box, cranking it with quiet, clockwork ticks. Once it will move no further, she lets go, and the first notes play.

“Urgh!”

I grunt, clutching my head as strange sensations wash over me. This is too similar to the feeling I had when I visited the nether realm.³ I can even smell the warm scent of antila flowers. It’s as though I’m walking in two worlds simultaneously, my mind unable to comprehend the boundary between them. The music box’s melody plays triple, overlapping with itself. Twice I hear it play right in front of me.

The last instance of the song is very quiet, and very distant. I can hear an infant crying. In that half of my sight, the sky is blood red and darker than ink. Something… whispers in my ear, filling my head with ideas. Like Amphoreus’s Titans, the words are unintelligible, but carry multitudes of meaning. The being who speaks them is old and terrible, and yet so, so ignorant. It’s a genius and a fool, a scholar and a miser.

Its voice weighs heavy with grief.

My instincts warn me that listening too closely will result in my death. But the knowledge is a temptation like the sweetest apple. I crave it, yearn to reach out and pluck it like eyes from the skull of-

“Mister?” the girl asks, voice again trembling with fear. I gasp back to consciousness, my left hand hovering near the window. The music box has stopped. She places it somewhere inside and says, “Are you okay? Did you… forget?”

It takes me a minute to respond. My mind is racing ahead at full speed without me. There are so many insights waiting to be dissected. Lowering my hand and gathering my wits, I answer, “No. In fact, I believe I understand. That music box…”

Reaching up, I run my fingers over my eyepatch. I don’t lift it, for it’s an ugly sight, but I don’t need to. In the echoes of that other realm, the lingering effect revealed to me by the mere awareness of its existence, I can see them — gloves and flesh and Nouspores… all with my missing left eye.

“…has revealed to me the truth.”

¹A more thorough recounting on alchemical processes may be found within the appendix. Without the requisite knowledge, it will likely be incomprehensible. For an introductory course into alchemy, see Anaxagoras, Soul Physics 201.

²The Chrysos Heirs’ golden blood is supposedly a consequence of Amphoreus attracting the attention of the Aeon of Destruction. This is why “deconstruction” is relatively easy to program into it, and why my alchemy is more effective when dismantling objects of study.

³During the Irontomb Crisis, my soul was damaged and sent to the nether realm, the land of the dead. My body continued to reside in the living world, sustained by the Coreflame of Reason. The separation allowed me to walk in both planes at once. Castorice, the demigod of Death, sent my soul into the cycle of rebirth, where it was restored after the Crisis’s conclusion.

Chapter Text

I spend some time comforting the girl, assuring her that I’m fine. She is an honest child and accepts my words with a smile and a wish. “Please find my parents,” she begs. I make no promises, but I can’t bear to tell her no. I’m tempted to change my mind and request that music box, but I have nothing to give her as payment, and listening to that song again might kill me.

So when I venture back into the plaza and sneak around another patrol to finally reach the stairs to the bridge, I keep watchful for any red brooches. Finding her parents should indebt her enough to me that she’ll hand the music box over.

I can’t deny that my mind is occupied by more interesting matters, however. This city, Yharnam, is more than “similar” to Amphoreus — it could be considered a microcosm of my homeworld in its entirety. Since arriving, I’ve made many observations. Allow me to review them.

First, this city is similar in layout to Okhema, the capital of Amphoreus. Second, its people face a plight akin to the black tide, the commonfolk mutating into beasts due to an unseen corruption that an elite group of eclectics wars again. Third, Nouspores are unable to move freely, their effects dampened and their voices reduced to echoes. Fourth, the sky is frozen in an eternal night which gazes blindly down upon the land. And fifth, there exists a nearly impenetrable veil which covers perceivable reality, hiding the truth from sight.

In Amphorean terms, the scenario is thus: I am in Okhema. The black tide is transforming the populace into abominations, and the Chrysos Heirs are trying to stop it. Outside of the light of Okhema’s Dawn Device, we are weaker. Evernight descends and is held back only by a single lie.¹

Yes. This situation, from beginning to end, is identical to the Irontomb Crisis. They say history repeats itself, but who knew that that adage applied over interdimensional borders? Does this support my thesis that the multiverse’s hypostasis is tied to human cognition? I believe it does.

The existence of two replicant catastrophes across variant worlds (along with the “trends” identified by the IPC), suggests that humans will always repeat the same mistakes. History repeating itself is not fated or ordained by gods, but instead a consequence of the natural limits humans possess. Read through any textbook, and you are sure to find stories which you recognize. Humans evolve, civilizations grow, they fall due to internal or external strife… The names, dates, and locations may change, but the events invariably play out the same. I could make a flow chart that accurately dictates the course of any city’s lifespan.

Within my mind, I conjure a hypothetical rhetorician to debate me. “Anaxagoras,” they say, “Isn’t it possible that these common narratives have been written by a higher power? When people from wholly separate realities can find common ground despite the infinite possibilities in the multiverse, there is no longer an appeal to ‘coincidence’. Patterns are often established by deliberate action, no?”

To that, I retort, “Even if you are correct, there is no evidence to imply that the being who wrote our destinies is a god. What we call ‘the divine’ is merely anything we cannot comprehend. Vast potential is not reserved for omnipotent beings, and even unintended consequences can be far-reaching. It is just as likely that a human’s actions in the past are the cause of everything we experience.”

People often make the mistake of assuming that, because I decry the gods’ supremacy, that must mean I disbelieve in them. That is a foolish assumption. I myself have met Titans and demigods, and have seen the actions of Aeons bearing fruit. Why would I refuse the existence of that which I have witnessed with my own eyes?

No, what I argue against is the notion that these gods are more than what they evidently are. Supreme strength, unfathomable intellect, the gods enjoy many advantages like those. However, so do I, and I am far from godly. To me, “demigod” is a human title. “Titan” refers to a biological state, and “Aeons” are bound to concepts. All of them can die, so none of them can be almighty. And I have yet to see irrefutable proof that said perfect being does exist.

People are capable of more than they believe. Changing history to carve paths of least resistance into its flow is well within human limitations. Perhaps, during the origin of everything, the first Nouspore was influenced by a story woven by humans. Recursive logic would suggest that it is because we’ve overcome such hardships that those hardships manifest. Just as the challenge of fighting off corruption is shared between Yharnamites and Amphoreans, so too must we breathe oxygen, drink water, and consume food.

Two of those are resources that I am soon to run short of. I must conclude my business within Yharnam as soon as I can. Unfortunately, I can’t presently delve deeper into the mysteries of that other world. Aside from my inability to freely access it, doing so would ravage my brain. I can’t deny the Titans’ power, and the entity that whispered to me while I listened to the music box carries the same magnitude as Amphoreus’s “gods”.

That call from the beyond was inhuman. I could feel tendrils of Nouspores wriggling into my brain when it spoke. It was trying to find something inside of me and bring it to the surface, and I think only the destructive nature of my blood saved me. If the golden ichor hadn’t bought me time, the entity would have found whatever it was looking for. Given how intelligent that being sounded, it has surely learned from our encounter. I will need active measures to ward it off next time.

As for breaching the wall between us, the Century Ark is not tuned to traverse between layers of reality within the same dimension. It can’t reach the nether realm from Okhema, so it doubtlessly can’t reach the “truth” from this “lie” cast over Yharnam. I either need a more delicate method of transport, or a means of dispelling the veil itself. The cost of doing so with alchemy would be too great; I’ve yet to find a way to overcome Tickery’s lies. Maybe if I had a way to access the world’s “soul”, the collective unconscious that guides its progression, I could circumvent the need for the music box.

My footfalls are brisk as I climb the stairs to the bridge. Before I take my leave, I will perform what investigations I can. I will try to reach the Healing Church, and I will search for the girl’s parents on the way. If I fail at the latter task, I can assign it to Eileen when I meet her again. I don’t want to do that, because I need that music box, but I won’t leave the child unattended during my absence.

I will return someday. Can’t leave with a guilty conscience.

“Mm. I suppose I’ll have to deal with this,” I grumble when I reach the top of the steps. There are two larger wolves prowling near the middle of the bridge’s length. Many toppled carriages obstruct the path between me and them, so they don’t immediately spot me, but that will change if I loiter. There’s no way I’m getting past them without them noticing, so combat appears to be my only option.

What strange diversity between the beasts. Why are these wolves different from the giant I killed and harvested for blood? What is the fundamental difference between them? Because I didn’t use my pre-hydrargyros firearm on the giants, I don’t know how their durabilities compare. Given that these are the least humanoid of the enemies I’ve faced so far, I assume that the full wolves are stronger and tougher than their furless counterparts.

The power imbued in their blood comes at the price of humanity — equivalent exchange. Again, I ponder if alchemy holds the cure.

“Hahahahah!”

Suffice to say, the wolves do not survive my bouncing bullets. Adding the kinetic force of a physical projectile to the Nouspore concoction has been enough to push my weapon over the edge from “powerful” to “deadly”. What took two shots to accomplish before now takes a quarter of that. The beasts didn’t have a chance to react. It seems the age of firearms has arrived!

Rejoicing with the success of my hydrargyros experiment, I walk confidently toward them and summon a collection array. This time, it takes an entire hour to gather the materials both because of the wolves’ increased durability and because there are two of them. My supply of blood is starting to weigh on me, so I narrow the scope of the circle to one of the wolves and abandon the other. Soon enough, I have a crystal ball full of beast blood which I safely stuff into my pack, surrounded by enough padding to see it through a fall from the top of the Grove.

My destination is within sight. A large, decorated archway denotes the border between central Yharnam and Cathedral Ward. More statues adorn it, and they seem to tell a story. On the left, a man with no legs raises his hand in supplication. The next step shows a giant, spindly hand reaching down from above to grant him something. In the center, he injects it into his chest, fingers twined in a mockery of prayer. The next statue shows him growing legs, and finally, he stands triumphant.

“What we call ‘the divine’ is merely anything we cannot comprehend.”

A bit on the nose, isn’t it? I have a strong feeling that whatever gave the Healing Church their special blood is the same kind of being that I met beneath the blood moon. That is the only hint of “divinity” I’ve encountered in this world, so it isn’t a stretch to guess that such an entity would be worshipped by the ignorant. The humans surely didn’t derive their healing blood from a beast directly, else there wouldn’t be a hunt or Hunters. That means their source lies elsewhere.

Beyond the arch is a wall that encompasses Cathedral Ward. As Eileen said, the gate is closed. The abundance of carriages has grown to such a number that they line the walls, and numerous bodies are strewn about. Something killed the people trying to receive healing. I don’t see any signs of it, though.

I do see a door built into the side of the gate, so I decide to try it and am immediately punished for my hubris. A ghastly scream rips the world in half. A giant, clawed hand grabs Cathedral Ward’s wall from the other side and hauls a beast over it, the scream growing louder as it leaps from its hiding place.

This beast is bipedal, with long gray fur covering its body and two deer-like antlers emerging from its canid skull. It is malformed, the left arm being far larger than the right, and the torso twice the length of legs which can barely support its weight. The fury emanating from the monster reminds me of Nikador, Amphoreus’s Titan of Strife. This creature is of similar stature, though is a commonality I feel comfortable calling a coincidence.

The beast hunches, slamming its bigger hand on the ground, and unleashes a roar which rattles my bones. I raise my gun, ready to fire a distraction shot so I can escape, but then a wave of dizziness staggers me. Indistinct whispers tickle my synapses.

“That voice… You again…!”

Seams form around my vision, and the facade pulls away. With my newfound awareness, I hear an infant’s cries. The blood moon rises over my left eye, casting Yharnam in a red deeper than life’s essence. The beast is the same between worlds… no, it’s larger and more psychotic in the “truth”. What I see in the “lie” is the monster’s presence seeping through the cracks into reality.

Behind me, in the crook of the arch, a wall of fog forms. It is thick and impenetrable, crafted from the lie that surrounds this city. I back into it and drop my pack, pushing my palm into the white cotton. It stops moving without touching anything physical, space extending endlessly in front of it.

I can’t escape this fight.

My left eye loses track of the truth and returns to the present. I am no longer besieged by the entity’s voice — but while I was distracted, the beast lunged for me. I sprint forward, ducking past its guard and ending up behind it. I can’t let it destroy my research.

“I was looking to stress test my new bullets. Thank you for volunteering,” I hiss, drawing my gun and firing. Hydrargyros infused with destructive Nouspores strikes its left leg and fails to penetrate. My hypothesis holds true; the more bestial the transformation, the more enhanced the physicality.

The monster spins, swiping its left arm along the ground. I jump back and shoot again, aiming this time for the head. It flinches at the hit and screeches, tramping toward me at speed. Its swipes are not as clumsy as its more human counterparts, pure instinct driving it where awareness had impeded them. The bridge’s cobblestones crack under the force of its blows. If I take too long, I’ll die from a fall, not a mauling.

This is dangerous. My mortal body is in peril because of the beast, and my soul is being assaulted by what made the beast. However, I am Anaxagoras, Sage of the Nousporists! If I am going to be defeated, it’s only by someone as erudite as myself. No mindless beast shall have my blood — not until I’ve unraveled every last thread of mystery in the universe!

¹The demigod of Trickery has the power to turn lies into reality. The only condition is that people must believe in the lie she tells. This lie has been used to obscure a truth around the entire city of Okhema before.