The room was silent except for the slow ticking of a clock on the wall.
Dr. Alastor sat in a high-backed chair near a small round table, the dim light from a single lamp casting long shadows across the floor. His black coat was folded neatly over the armrest, his wide-brimmed hat resting on the table beside a glass of untouched wine.
Across from him, a woman sat with her legs crossed, her posture straight. She wore a long, deep crimson dress that seemed almost to drink in the light, with black gloves covering her hands. A thin silver chain rested around her neck, disappearing beneath the dress's high collar.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Alastor broke the quiet.
"Our search narrows," he said, his voice calm, almost thoughtful. "The Spirit of Darkness is not wandering… it is hiding."
The woman's gloved fingers tapped once against the arm of her chair. "And hiding means it fears being found."
Alastor's mask lay on the table, the long beak turned toward her like a bird frozen mid-step. "We've been chasing whispers and false leads for months. But now…" His eyes narrowed slightly. "Now, it's different. I've seen the thread that will lead us there."
The woman tilted her head slightly. "And what thread is that?"
Alastor leaned back, the faintest smile on his lips. "A man. Young, but already… touched by its power."
The woman didn't answer at once. Her gaze drifted to the darkened window, as though the city itself might be listening. "Then you know what must be done."
Alastor nodded once. "If we want the Spirit of Darkness…"
"…we have to get him first," she finished.
The clock ticked again, louder this time, as the lamplight flickered.
Outside, the wind rattled the shutters, and the quiet room seemed to grow colder.
___________
Cliffdon was drifting again.
The darkness was endless, a vast ocean without water, without wind, without even the mercy of a single star. There was no ground beneath him, no sky above — only the heavy, breathless air pressing in from every side. The cold was not the kind that stung the skin; it was the kind that crept deep into the bones, slow and certain, as though it had been here since the beginning of time.
He knew this place. He had been here before — twice. Each time it returned, it felt less like a dream and more like a memory he could not escape, as though the waking world was the lie and this was the truth.
Then came the voice.
Deep. Calm. Close.
"We meet again, master."
He turned, unhurried, for he already knew who stood behind him.
The shadow figure stepped out of the dark, its shape shifting like smoke caught in an invisible wind, its eyes pale and glowing faintly in the gloom.
Cliffdon's voice was steady.
"Spirit of Darkness."
The figure inclined its head in slow acknowledgement.
"Now you know me well… Master."
The title made him narrow his eyes.
"Master?"
The shadow moved closer, each step silent, the mist curling at its feet as though the world bent around it.
"Your bloodline carries the mark. The one chosen long ago — chosen by the God who shaped this world. You, Master, are His successor."
Cliffdon said nothing at first. His mind was already turning, his thoughts returning to the warnings he had heard before.
"And they know it too," he said at last, his voice low.
The figure's head tilted slightly.
"They do. The ones you already know. They will come for you — patient, relentless — until the power is theirs or you are no more."
The air around them grew heavier, as though the darkness itself was listening.
"You must protect it, Master," the figure continued. "If it leaves your hands, the world will crumble as it once did. And when it does, there will be no God left to save it."
Its form began to fade, breaking apart like smoke into the void.
"Guard it at all costs… for you are the last light they will never see coming."
The cold wrapped around him like a closing fist.
Then, with a breath, the dark world vanished.
The cold closed in around him—then it was gone.
Cliffdon's eyes snapped open. He was in his room, the pale light of dawn spilling through the curtains, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
For a moment he couldn't move. The dream still clung to him like frost.
His lips parted, the single word escaping in a whisper.
"Successor…"
The air in his room felt heavier, as though the darkness from his dream had slipped through some unseen crack and settled here.
Cliffdon sat for a moment, the sound of his own breathing loud in his ears. Then, slowly, he swung his legs off the bed and stood.
The wooden floor felt colder than it should.
He stepped into the hallway. The pale morning light was spilling in through the window, but it seemed weaker somehow — not the warm, gentle light he was used to.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
He made his way downstairs. The kitchen was tidy, untouched. No smell of tea, no sound of clinking plates. Sara wasn't there. Her schoolbag wasn't by the door. He told himself she had probably gone to school early, but the thought didn't fit. Sara despised early mornings.
He moved from room to room, and the faint wrongness grew sharper. The curtains weren't the ones he remembered. The bookshelf in the corner was filled, but none of the titles were familiar. Even the clock on the wall was different — older, darker, and… silent.
A cold feeling crept into his chest.
This wasn't his house.
Or… it almost was. The shape of the rooms was the same, but the pieces inside were not. It was like walking through a memory that had been rearranged by someone else.
He turned toward the front door — and stopped. The lock was bolted from the inside.
The floor beneath him shivered. The walls blurred, the furniture melting away like paint in the rain. Light poured in from nowhere, erasing every shadow, until he stood in an endless white world.
There was nothing here. No sky, no ground — just white stretching forever.
And then he saw it.
Far ahead stood a single chair, carved from pale stone. It had the shape of a throne, but without gold or jewels, its presence alone enough to pull his steps toward it.
Each footstep echoed strangely, as if the sound came from somewhere far away.
He reached it, laid his hand on the cold stone, and without fully knowing why, he sat down.
The moment he did, the world vanished.
Cliffdon's eyes snapped open. The cold darkness of the dream clung to him like a shadow that refused to fade. For a moment, he lay still, letting the familiar shape of his ceiling come into focus. The pale morning light filtered through the curtains, chasing away the last traces of the nightmare — or whatever it was.
With a slow breath, he pushed himself up. His room was just as he'd left it: the old desk by the window, the books stacked in uneven piles, the coat hanging on the wall. Yet something felt different, as if the air itself was heavier.
Shaking off the unease, he swung his legs to the floor and dressed quickly. When he stepped out into the hallway, the scent of fresh tea drifted from the kitchen. Sara was by the door, slipping on her shoes, her school satchel already over her shoulder.
"Good morning," she said with a quick smile.
"Good morning," Cliffdon replied, though his voice still carried the weight of the dream.
"You're up late," she added, glancing at him. "I'm heading out."
Before she could open the door, a knock echoed through the hall — firm, measured, and deliberate.
Sara frowned and turned the handle.
Standing outside was a tall man in a neat dark coat, his posture straight and his expression calm. A faint gleam from a polished badge at his chest caught the morning light.
"Good morning," the man said warmly. "Miss Sara, I presume?"
"Uh… yes," she replied cautiously. "And you are?"
Cliffdon hesitated, his mouth parting slightly, but before he could speak, the man stepped in smoothly.
"I'm one of your brother's colleagues," he said with a reassuring nod. "We just need to talk about something."
Sara blinked, then gave a small nod. "Oh, I see. Sorry, I didn't know." She stepped outside, offering a brief smile before hurrying down the street.
The man's gaze followed her for a moment. "You have a very beautiful sister, Mr. Williams," he said evenly.
Cliffdon didn't answer.
Inspector Hangson stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
"Why are you here, Inspector?" Cliffdon asked quietly.
"I'm here to discuss something related to the villain you fought the other day," Hangson replied.
He walked towards the sofa, sat down, and in a serious voice said,
"This might lead us to a very big problem."