Every night after that, Yvette dreamed of growing scales and slithering on her belly.

  In the dream, she saw a cruel, rugged, gloomy, and desolate land and sky. A woman with a vacant stare sat motionless on the windowsill from afternoon till late at night, holding a bottle of laudanum in her hand. In the blink of an eye, the woman disappeared, replaced by a white swan falling from the sky onto the reefs at the headland. Carnivorous birds circled the corpse, swooping and dancing around it like guests gathered at a banquet table.

  Sometimes, she saw a man with red, ulcerated eyes. Despite being blind, he could write words on paper. When Yvette swam up to his table, he even lowered his eyeless face toward her, as if aware of her presence. Later, the scene shifted to a cold, damp, overgrown meadow, where a bull lay among the trees, one of its horns broken. Scattered nearby were many stones, some smeared with blood, pressing down on the leaves.

  It all seemed to hint at the cause of Miss Sorrel’s death—and perhaps also the fate of the man who wrote the diary. He had been stoned to death.

  "For the Celts, being eaten by carrion birds was an honor, as they believed birds were sacred messengers of the sky god. Through this, the souls of the dead would be delivered to the deities above. Stones, on the other hand, were the method Druids used to execute heretics. It’s said that Saint Patrick, while spreading Catholicism in Ireland, was nearly stoned to death by angry local Druids," the Hydra told her in her dwelling.

  But what was the point of knowing this? The island was full of too many obscure and hidden things, like the tangled roots of plants—impossible to discern where they truly led. The Celtic triskele, Thrice-Great Hermes, the Holy Trinity... From the dawn of writing, the number three had always held an exalted position in religion. Yvette felt like an ant in a desert of knowledge, where sand-like facts lay there for her to grasp. But how could an ant comprehend the entirety of a desert?

  As for the current doctor on the island, Yvette had found time to interact with him. The man seemed utterly ignorant of everything. Feigning a cold, she requested treatment, only to watch this quack—who couldn’t even read Latin—pretentiously concoct a "medicine" by haphazardly grabbing two bottles of powder. According to the Ghoul Doctor, one bottle contained calamine powder for external use, while the other held soap shavings meant to induce vomiting.

  While he was busy weighing the ingredients with a scale, Yvette peered over his spectacles and noticed a small scar in his left eye socket—unmistakably a remnant of the "ice pick lobotomy."

  Europeans have deep-set eye sockets, so unless observed closely, a well-healed scar would be difficult to spot. Realizing this, Yvette couldn’t help but wonder: beneath the lowered hoods of the island’s hermits, did they all have similar scars in their eye sockets?

  If so, this island was far more insane than she’d imagined.

  After nearly a week on the island, Yvette began to see plants emitting a faint glow. It was subtle—most of the time, only visible at night. Perhaps that was why she hadn’t noticed earlier. But once detected, it was impossible to ignore. The light seemed omnipresent: in the cows, the cheese made from their milk, the cider brewed from apples—even in the people who consumed these things.

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  Including herself.

  Why hadn’t she noticed it before?

  Was it the island’s doing, or was she hallucinating?

  Regardless, the glow was overwhelming, stirring an inexplicable unease. The only food untouched was the bread made from imported grain—yet for some reason, it tasted bitter and flavorless now, like chewing on soggy, crumbling bricks.

  The secret history of sacrifices, the omnipresence of the number three, the eerie glow pervading everything...

  Yvette felt trapped in a maddening dream, unable to distinguish wakefulness from sleep. Just as she believed she was losing her mind, the weekly supply ship finally arrived.

  "Mr. Fisher, how’ve you been this past week? I imagine a place like this must be rough for someone of your standing. If you’d like to return with us, I’d be happy to oblige," the captain said with a boisterous laugh.

  It had been only a week, yet the sight of outsiders felt surreal. Perhaps it was time to leave.

  Before she could respond, Brother Rains stepped forward to count the delivered goods with the captain, directing the sailors to haul them to the monastery. The island’s hermits didn’t accept money, so bartering was time-consuming. The captain likely wouldn’t be free until dusk.

  However, scanning the bustling crew, Yvette failed to spot Geoffrey.

  "Where’s Geoffrey? Why isn’t he here this time?"

  She casually asked a familiar sailor, but not only the questioned man—even his fellow crew members nervously averted their gazes.

  "Geoffrey? He... uh, saved up enough and decided to quit. No idea where he went, though. Didn’t know him well—maybe back to his hometown to marry some pretty, gentle girl?"

  The young sailor, though mostly deferential toward her, had clearly stolen from the island’s offerings. His hidden golden dagger at his waist left little doubt about his sudden retirement. Sailors in this era led harsh lives; even the covert prostitutes in taverns avoided them.

  Yet their shifty expressions made Yvette suspect that Geoffrey had been lynched—with the whole crew complicit.

  Just then, a familiar face emerged.

  "Long time no see, Mr. Fisher." Dr. Monis stepped out from the hold, nodding with a smile.

  Was he a supernatural being? Or worse—was he responsible for the island’s anomalies?

  Marking him as a prime suspect, Yvette subtly probed for information.

  "The patients here seem in excellent spirits. I hear this place benefitted from Dr. Monis’ guidance. What new marvels will you bring this time?"

  "Ah, this trip is purely personal. Private, yet important," Dr. Monis chuckled. "But if my work interests you, I’d gladly share my current studies."

  "Lobotomies?"

  "No, that’s behind me now. It’s merely a crude, simple physical adjustment to the brain—something even a monkey could master once the basics are understood. Hardly worth deeper exploration."

  He described this brutal procedure—one that destroyed personalities, leaving victims dead or vegetative—with chilling nonchalance. Yvette’s already muddled mind grew murkier.

  Sinister undercurrents of thought churned in her subconscious.

  "At our core, we’re no different from animals: just flesh, blood, and bones wrapped in skin. So what truly separates us? Language, writing, art, science?" He tapped his head. "Thought."

  "Each of us is crowned by a divinity-cloaked mountain, atop which burns the sacred fire of intellect—right here, beneath the skull. Through thought, we mortals have created countless miracles. Doesn’t such power intrigue you?"

  "No. I believe it’s all the Holy Spirit’s design. He left many mysteries in creation for us to uncover." Yvette feigned pious devotion to the Trinity, hoping to end the conversation.

  Unfazed, Dr. Monis expounded, "Rare to meet someone as devout as you these days. But regarding Christians, I’ve made an intriguing psychological discovery. Some, burdened by unfathomable inferiority, develop a savior complex—deluding themselves into martyrs, redeeming others to validate their own worth. Doesn’t that mirror the Savior who shed His blood for mankind? I call it the ‘Messiah Complex.’"

  Though seemingly casual, every word grated on Yvette.

  "Blasphemy. Were you not elderly, I’d challenge you to a duel. This unpleasant discussion ends now. Since we disagree, let us avoid further exchanges, Dr. Monis."

  With that, she stormed off like an offended believer—though the real reason for her fury cut far deeper.