Harold's entry into the Intelligence Institute caused no ripples; each day he clocked in to sip tea, skim newspapers, and glance at archived intelligence, then wandered the city after work.
This routine left Houseman—who'd kept his guard up—finally convinced the man was harmless.
On Harold's fifth day inside, in a two-storey common house on the second floor…
Curtains sealed the bedroom; Harold rose as usual, only this time a peculiar painting hung on the wall.
It showed a woman in bright-red bridal dress and scarlet veil, the background a haze of grey mist.
Mirror Demon smiled at the sight: "So you've finally arrived. Once you're here, I can make my move!"
Harold's original self had seen the Ghost Painting inside the church; its following him to this world was only to be expected.
As for the delay, Mirror Demon guessed it was the distance—crossing worlds simply took time.
Within the painting, the Ghost Bride released a tendril of Mental Power toward Harold, and the two monsters began conversing on the psychic plane.
Moments later Harold stepped out, faint smile on his face, and headed for the Institute as he always did.
But when he passed an alley he suddenly veered in, weaving through its twists.
The surroundings grew filthier; ragged figures slumped against walls, destitute and unmoving.
They stared at Harold in his Church garb, awe flickering in their eyes.
Members of the Eternal Church ranked far above such rabble—people these paupers dared not provoke.
Among them a grey-clad Caucasian youth watched Harold pass with envy: "If only I could join the Church."
The Church accepted no vagrants; with small regions still war-torn, factions ran rampant, spawning countless refugees.
Fft!
A soft thud caught his eye: the middle-aged Churchman had dropped a grey pouch.
Through the cloth glinted something golden.
Taut hissed in a breath, spun his head—no one ahead, the Churchman rounding the corner unaware.
No one else was on this stretch of alley.
Without hesitation Taut scrambled forward on all fours, snatched the pouch, stuffed it under his rags, and bolted into another lane.
After seven turns he stopped in an empty nook, heart pounding as he drew out the bag.
"I'm rich, I'm rich!" A fist-sized nugget of gold sparkled inside; he couldn't stop grinning.
A lump this big could buy a house in Hoburn City and let him live easy for years—maybe even find a wife.
While he dreamed, the gold pulsed, releasing a peculiar Mental Power that crept from his palm into his brain.
'Divine-King Gold—offer life to this gold and the God-King will grant you power!'
"What was that?!" The sudden voice in his head made him jump; he spun around—no one in sight.
Alone in the alley, he paled. 'Damn—have I met a ghost?'
As he turned to leave, the gold quivered and the message echoed again.
'Divine-King Gold—offer life to this gold and the God-King will grant you power!'
Taut froze, staring at the gold stone in shock. 'A voice in my head… could this be a source artifact?'
Source-Artifact Users were mighty, exalted beings who could wipe out nobodies like him with a flick.
And now he might become one; visions of grandeur flooded back.
His lowly status left him knowing almost nothing of such supernatural items.
'Since fate dropped this treasure in my lap, better to risk everything than starve in some ditch!'
He snapped from his fantasy, face hardening, and pulled out a fifteen-centimeter iron spike sharpened to a point—his defense in these slums.
Without a weapon you could end up murdered and eaten by maniacs.
He tucked the gold back into the pouch, slipped it inside his shirt, and strode out with the spike.
The alleys formed a wet maze; bodies lay conserving strength, waiting for the Church's noonhandouts.
Most lanes held two or three people—no safe moment to strike—so Taut kept searching.
Half an hour later he spotted a secluded corner where a gaunt middle-aged man lay asleep.
Eyes lighting up, Taut padded closer on tiptoe.
'Sorry, friend. For my rise to the top, you'll have to pay the price.' He loomed over the sleeper, gaze ruthless.
The man stirred, eyelids fluttering.
Thk! Before he could wake, Taut drove the spike into his throat.
Blood gushed, drenching Taut; the victim stared in horror.
No scream escaped as the man collapsed.
A surge of warmth flowed from the pouch into Taut, flooding him with strength.
"Not enough—more souls, I need more!" Eyes reddening, voice crazed, Taut hungered for greater power.