Just as the Benevolent Father attempted to trace his empathic connection with Ledebert to locate his soul's current whereabouts and, in the process, uncover the identity of the one spying on him, something entirely unexpected occurred.

  From the very nexus he was about to probe, a foul stench of black decay emanated—not a physical odor, but a spiritual miasma that made one feel as though they were standing amidst rotting corpses in a morgue or graveyard.

  As this nauseating, needle-like sensation spread through every fiber of his being, a long-buried memory of excruciating suffering rose like the bubbles of swamp gas to the surface of his consciousness.

  Something similar had happened before. A venomous disease had gnawed at his nerves like a viper, black abscesses swelling and bursting across his body, their vile, greasy fluids oozing over his form, staining his ivory-white bones as black as soot. The corruption had seeped deeper, tainting his very soul, severing the spiritual connection he had forged with the corpse of a nascent Elder God. Day after day, he weakened amidst agonized screams, watching helplessly as his divine immortality was devoured bite by bite by Death itself.

  Whether by sheer endurance or some other reason, the plague had vanished like the wind, leaving him barely alive.

  He had brushed shoulders with Death. The lingering aftereffects still reminded him daily of that harrowing ordeal.

  And now, that familiar power had returned. Terror and loathing pierced his divine intellect.

  What if it happened again...?

  No. Perhaps this time, luck would not be on his side.

  Though just one step away from touching the growing acorn, the Benevolent Father recoiled in dread, swiftly severing the empathic connection.

  With his departure, the erased history collapsed like a crumbling tunnel, sealing shut forever. Just as Ledebert would forget his existence, from now on, he too could no longer follow the bond between them to locate Ledebert.

  Save for the Benevolent Father’s own memory, they had indeed become complete strangers.

  Yvette came to her senses amidst sharp pain, only to realize in shock that Ulysses was biting her wrist. Stranger still, the sensation was not the dull pressure of a human’s teeth but rather four sharp needles piercing her skin.

  What had just happened? What were those eerie humanoid silhouettes and swirling monochrome vortices in her space?

  A cascade of questions whirled in her mind, but before she could dwell on them, Ulysses moved.

  He swiftly withdrew his fangs from her veins—and "withdrew" was indeed the most accurate term possible.

  Though his motion was swift, Yvette glimpsed the pair of elongated teeth folding back into his upper jaw, disappearing behind Ulysses’ thin lips. They were unlike those of any feline or canine—long, sharp, and needle-like, distinctly hollow and translucent, curving inward like hooks. Extricating them required him to momentarily push her wrist deeper into his mouth before finally retracting them.

  They were unnatural fangs, reminiscent of a serpent’s.

  Had he injected something into her veins? Yvette noticed a drop of shimmering saliva clinging to the fangs’ tips—whatever had passed through those hollow needles must now be inside her.

  Yet, to her confusion, Ulysses immediately sucked at the wound, drawing out her blood only to spit it aside.

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  "Your Lordship?"

  "We must leave. Now."

  "So urgent? What about loose ends here? Did something just happen?" Yvette had sensed something approaching her home through the silhouette Ledebert had left, but it had retreated just as swiftly.

  "Another matter takes priority. The rest... we can reflect on it during our journey."

  "Shouldn’t we at least stop by town to send a letter—?"

  "No time." Ulysses locked eyes with her for a brief, intense moment before glancing away. "Soon, you will fall ill—likely a high fever, followed by delirium. We must find a place to treat you."

  "Ah?" Having acquired the Source, Yvette had scarcely fallen ill since arriving in this world. The news struck her as almost surreal. "But if it’s a minor ailment, couldn’t Your Lordship’s abilities heal me?"

  "My power is that of Vital Breath—blood infused with life force to mend wounds. It works not just on humans, but animals and bacteria alike. In other words, pathogens exposed to my blood will proliferate explosively." As he spoke, his hands never stopped moving, already fetching a light two-wheeled carriage from a nearby dwelling.

  "But..." The abrupt turns in the conversation left Yvette grasping for clarity. "Where did I contract this illness? From the bee stings? Or unclean water? What is the source of the sickness?"

  "...Me." His reply was as soft as a falling leaf.

  Within the impossible corridors of Doomsday Clock, two members emerged from their respective spaces. Their paths inevitably crossed as they navigated the twisting passages toward the same destination.

  "Good morning, Gauthier," greeted a man with a meticulously groomed mustache, exuding the air of a fashionable dandy.

  The one he addressed—Gauthier—had a ruddy complexion. Though short in stature, his vitality was palpable, his voice booming: "Good is hardly the word, Valendin. My research was at a crucial juncture."

  Clearly, despite his restrained tone, Gauthier was far from pleased with the Benevolent Father’s summons.

  "Still deep in your symbology, I take it?"

  "I recently acquired a two-century-old grimoire. It details rare magical circle schematics, specialized marks and incantations for summoning and binding low-tier demons, among many other things. The foreword alone is fascinating: 'This is the Miracle Grimoire of Dr. Johann Faust. By its power, I once compelled the spirits of Hell to fulfill my desires. And, of course, once my wish was granted, sending them peacefully back was also possible.'"

  "Peacefully back? Does he take the Kin for jolly old Saint Nicholas, doling out gifts with a laugh?"

  "I’ve studied its contents. Though brazen, the notion of using one Kin to suppress another is... imaginative. Still, I suspect it would snowball—each successive ritual requiring ever stronger Kin until the inevitable demise. Assuming the practitioner isn’t first apprehended by the Church..."

  "And? Have you tested it?"

  The portly Gauthier stroked his chin. "Not yet. I planned to compile the intriguing sections and quietly place them in underground auctions—let those blind to their own limits serve as test subjects. What of your own endeavors?"

  "Researching the effects of syphilis on human spiritual ascension. I’ve procured several low-tier supernaturals and inoculated them. The question is whether the ensuing psychosis—hallmark of advanced infection—could grant them deeper insights into higher Sources."

  "Ah?" Gauthier’s face twisted in disgust, likely recalling the grotesque visages of syphilitics.

  "Do not harbor prejudices against science, my friend. This disease is fascinating—its impact on the nervous system can stimulate consciousness akin to the hallucinogens of ancient shamans. This, I posit, is the wellspring of enduring masterworks."

  "Spare me. I’d rather this ‘Muse of Pus’ kept her distance."

  "Ah, but you cannot!" Valendin chuckled, twirling his mustache. "'I have syphilis! At last... real syphilis! Not some paltry gonorrhea or warts—syphilis, Francis I died of it! Grand, majestic syphilis, pure and exquisite!' So exclaimed Mozart upon his diagnosis. And let’s not forget your beloved Beethoven, Schubert... Syphilis sang in their minds!"

  "I admire their works, but they remained irredeemable Sleepers. The chasm between our consciousness is vaster than that between the healthy and the afflicted. You, dear colleague, ought to cease fixating on such prurient matters—be it syphilis or last season’s obsession with Indian temple prostitutes—and redirect your brilliance toward worthier pursuits."

  "Why shackle oneself to the mortals’ shame and guilt? Sex is the font of power, creation, fertility. Copulation is art, a primordial magic unchanged since genesis. We were born of such ecstasies—if sex can forge us, it can forge all." Valendin’s retort was fervent. "Besides, this is no mere indulgence. My colleague Dr. Monis has long theorized that mental illnesses might unlock latent cerebral faculties."

  "Dr. Monis—an intriguing man. I recall Edwin corresponded with him. We ought to recruit him."

  "Brilliant men have their own calculations. Even if they align partially, pursuing it as an ideal is another matter... Frankly, I fear he’d fail our loyalty trials. Eliminating a wavering candidate of his caliber would be a waste. Better to leave such minds as external allies."

  Their banter carried them effortlessly to the assembly chamber.