Chapter 340: Sinking into the Spirit Realm

Chapter 340: Sinking into the Spirit Realm

The guardhouse fell into an unnerving silence that seemed to permeate the air as though the very atmosphere had congealed into an unsettling stillness. At that moment, the elderly custodian felt odd, as if reality had taken on a dreamlike quality, tricking him into believing that time had frozen in its tracks. It felt as if the shrine on his desk, the delicate flame of the candle, the gentle wafts of incense smoke, and the ambient spiritual energy suspended in the air had all momentarily ceased their natural progression.

Could this be merely an illusion? Uncertain, the old man lifted his gaze, catching sight of the candle flame dancing within his field of vision as if it had only commenced its lively flicker the moment his gaze fell upon it.

His eyes lingered on the pale, dancing flame for a long moment before slowly shaking his head, dismissing his strange sensations. His attention was then redirected back to the letter laid out in front of him. As his eyes began to scan the words, he experienced an uncanny emotion he had never felt before.

However, after traversing through a mere few lines, he could no longer dwell on the peculiarities of his feelings. The content of the letter demanded immediate attention, forcing him to realize the gravity of the unfolding situation.

Warnings indicating that their city-state was being slowly corroded and infiltrated by the profound forces of the deep sea. Clear evidence of the ominous Annihilation cult orchestrating large-scale operations. Intriguing speculations regarding the mysterious saint’s encroachment into the mortal realm. And finally, an alarming alert concerning Dagger Island.

The old custodian studied the lines of the letter with an intense focus. He suddenly felt an unnerving realization that the recent inexplicable tensions permeating throughout their city-state had found their plausible cause.

While he was uncertain whether he should trust this “report” derived from an inexplicable entity, he was sure about one thing: it was of utmost importance to inform the gatekeeper and the cathedral immediately.

Meanwhile, Agatha was carefully observing the orc woman, who was soundly asleep on the sofa. Completely oblivious to the large assembly of guardians congregating in the room, the orc woman occasionally mumbled in her sleep.

The fact that she could articulate words while sleeping suggested that her consciousness remained intact during the earlier “attack,” and that the unexpected visitor who had entered their dwelling did not harbor any harmful intentions.

Agatha’s eyes drifted over the orc woman’s figure, noted as robust in her observation. Most orcs were built this way, inherently endowed with muscular physiques and skin as resilient as stone. After conducting a quick assessment, the young gatekeeper noted the woman’s muscles occasionally tensing in rhythm with her restless mumblings. It seemed her dreams were filled with unrest and unease.

“No external injuries, no signs of mental corruption, no evidence of a physical altercation, and her condition seems akin to natural sleep, though she remains unresponsive,” a priest dressed in a gray-white robe reported his findings to Agatha, providing an overview of the current situation. “Considering the undamaged lock on the door and the evidence of recent cooking activity in the kitchen, we tentatively deduce that the ‘intruder’ was granted access to the home.”Discover new chapters at novelhall.com

“It could possibly be someone familiar to the household or a guest who gained her trust,” Agatha quietly mused. “What about the second floor?”

“We’ve gathered a significant number of samples and uncovered what appears to be a dying declaration. The individual who left this testament appears to be the source of the... unusual substances we found in the room,” the priest nodded in response. “From additional clues we gathered around the house, we believe the individual who left this testament goes by the name ‘Scott Brown,’ a folklorist by profession.”

“A folklorist?” Agatha furrowed her brows in puzzlement. “Have we started investigating his background?”

“We’ve dispatched someone to the nearest residents’ registry office to procure his records. However, we’ve yet to receive any response.”

“Stay here and continue watching over this woman,” Agatha directed, nodding her understanding. “I’ll go upstairs to evaluate the situation.”

Every element within the room, be it the busy guardians, the dust particles whirling in the air, or the hands of the wall-mounted clock, appeared to be frozen in time, akin to insects trapped in amber. They rapidly lost their vibrancy, fading into a monochrome haze. An otherworldly pallid glow seeped in from the outside through the boarded window, casting delicate shadows within the room.

Within this uncanny, luminescent, and stagnant space, only Agatha, standing at the center of the triangle, maintained the hues and semblance of a living being. With her eyes shut, she held her own eyeball in her left hand while she surveyed her surroundings, calmly announcing, “I wish to communicate with the deceased present here.”

The overwhelming whispers around her abruptly lessened, and Agatha pivoted her left hand, enabling her eyeball to observe the desk nearby.

That was where the folklore scholar, Scott Brown, had last labored, leaving behind his final testament. Theoretically, if a spirit had ever resided here, there should be lingering traces of its presence.

Although the strange “mud” scattered across the room suggested the potential habitation of a “monster” created by supernatural forces, this “monster” evidently retained fragments of its human nature. Agatha had grown certain of this after reading through the testament.

However, she found the space around the vacant desk entirely devoid of any signs of the supernatural.

There were no lingering souls, no spectral apparitions formed by emotional attachment, and not even the faintest traces of spiritual remnants. All that was left was a colorless desk laden with piles of the black substance from which thin streams of smoke were rising.

Deep in thought, the gatekeeper considered the possibilities while the eyeball oscillated gently within her open palm.

Had the soul’s remnants dissipated over time due to the entity’s demise? Or was the entity occupying the room merely an “imitation,” never truly human but merely simulating human memories and personality traits? Or had the soul transcended through Bartok’s gate, finding solace in the realm of rest?

The final hypothesis seemed highly unlikely. After all, considering the room’s current condition, if there were any remnants of “Scott Brown’s” soul still lingering, they would have been gravely contaminated. And a tainted soul wouldn’t be granted passage through that door.

But then, where had the soul vanished to?

The whispers surrounding her returned, their murmuring growing louder and more cacophonous than before.

The shadows of the spiritual realm started stirring, displaying their clear disdain for the sudden intruder. Even for a potent gatekeeper such as Agatha, it was best not to linger too long in these spectral depths.

Holding that thought, Agatha lifted her staff and struck it twice against the floor.

The metallic staff’s impact against the wooden surface resonated like thunder.

“Gatekeeper Agatha, envoy of the mortal world, seeks to converse with the Gatekeeper of the realm of the deceased,” she announced solemnly.