"So this island indeed hides something extraordinary? Aside from Dr. Monis, has it helped more people become like us? Like the hermits on the island?" Yvette sought to extract more information. If it were only Dr. Monis, she could be slightly relieved. But if there were other supernaturals among the island's hermits, she would have to consider the possibility of armed conflict.

  "I believe I am special. Some of the monastery's residents know the island's secret, while others do not. But regardless, they are merely ordinary people—neither gifted with nor in need of additional power."

  He didn't even conceal the secret of his supernatural nature, so the likelihood of him lying about other matters was small. Nonetheless, some of the monastery's hermits might preserve an ancient, barbaric faith. Upon returning to London, it would be imperative to report this crucial intelligence to the organization.

  Yvette took Dr. Monis's notebook back to her room and attempted to read part of it that very night.

  It was a thick notebook. The first half recorded the ravings of numerous patients. The disjointed logic made for laborious reading, inducing a dizzying sensation. Yet, for some reason, she couldn't bring herself to stop.

  Until the bell for midnight prayers tolled. Yvette heard the hermits downstairs opening their doors and stepping out. Unlike the usual silence, tonight she also heard the dull clang of metal objects—likely agricultural tools like shovels or spades.

  Though curious, Yvette didn't investigate further. The lunatics' ramblings held a peculiar allure, like obscure riddles no one had ever solved, drawing her in unconsciously. She hadn't even noticed it was already midnight.

  It was indeed late. Reluctantly, Yvette extinguished the lamp and lay down, planning to continue the next morning. Yet when she awoke to daylight, her fascination had waned. As she flipped through a few pages, none of last night's fervor remained. The text now seemed mere gibberish. She closed the notebook and resolved to stroll about as usual.

  But today was strange. Yvette saw more patients than usual cleaning under the guidance of several hermits. Normally, beyond major cleaning days, they merely swept away dust. Yet today, they hauled buckets and rags, scrubbing staircases, corridors, and railings.

  As she passed, she noticed the water in the buckets looked odd—a bluish-black like coal dust rather than the usual brown of dust-laden water. To her knowledge, the island's thriving forests provided firewood, eliminating any need for imported coal like London.

  Venturing outside the monastery, Yvette found fresh black footprints in the grass. She pinched some of the black mire. It reeked of rotting swamp, crumbling lightly between her fingers like excavated peat.

  Did they go to the swamp last night?

  Having stayed a week, Yvette had grown somewhat familiar with the island's terrain. She knew of only one swamp—where Jeffrey had stolen the golden dagger. Spring water collected in a depression, forming a muddy wetland strewn with shattered vessels and weapons, suggesting great antiquity.

  She suspected some strange ritual had taken place. If only she had stealthily followed last night.

  Come evening, however, an irresistible urge led her back to Dr. Monis's notebook. Soon she finished the patients' ravings and reached his own observations upon arriving. Like Yvette, he too had gazed out his window at night, spotting eerie glows beneath the stars. Many entries chronicled his fixation with the light.

  Except...

  ["My soul and life remain, tougher than before, as if renewed. I now possess another soul—a cold one. Old passions can no longer warm me; fine food brings no pleasure beyond sustenance; caressing a woman is but friction of keratin, no longer igniting love's thrill... Everything is dull. Instead, alien desires blaze in my mind.

  "I've woken from dreamless sleep surrounded by slumbering fools. I feel profoundly alone yet not solitary. Perhaps I've joined a rare few attuned to His thoughts and whispers in the silence.

  "He is everywhere."]

  It resembled a supernatural awakening. Yvette knew this solitude. Just then, midnight struck. The same heavy metallic clamor rose from below.

  Were they returning to the swamp?

  Once the footsteps faded, Yvette quietly opened her door. Through an arrow slit, she spied toward the swamp.

  Hooded brown figures moved silently through misty trees, bearing torches, shovels, and sacks—exactly where she predicted.

  The hermits ate little and toiled, gaunt and stooped. Yet among them, one tall, burly hooded figure stood out.

  That silhouette resembled Dr. Monis.

  Faced with a fellow supernatural, Yvette hesitated. Instead of following, she resolved to observe their return.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Two or three hours later, the eerie procession reemerged. Their numbers were unchanged, but the once-empty sacks now bulged with stiff, black-stained shapes—undoubtedly corpses.

  Forbidden rites often involved sacrifice. Even murder wouldn't surprise her. Yet—who were the victims? Why empty sacks going, full ones returning? Moreover, extreme rigor mortis suggested unnatural preservation beyond mere hours.

  The group veered toward the nearby cemetery before silently reentering the monastery. From her hidden perch, Yvette noted their robes caked with black grime, ordinary brown soil clinging to their tools. The sacks were gone.

  After all fell quiet, Yvette slipped out under darkness to the desolate graves.

  Locating freshly disturbed earth, she quietly dug with a monastery shovel.

  Two feet down, she struck foreign matter. Carefully unearthing it, she uncovered a human-sized sack.

  Using her sword tip to slit it open, she revealed the contents.

  A... mummy?

  Though ancient, its well-preserved form suggested unnatural death. The darkened, leathery body resembled a charcoal sculpture.

  "A bog body," whispered The Hydra. "In peat-rich swamps, tannins mummify corpses."

  Furthermore, Yvette discerned unmistakable signs of ritual killing. The crushed skull base, the neck slashed and noosed to arm's thickness—three fatal wounds beyond mere violence.

  "Sounds like the Druids' 'Triple Death'," mused The Hydra.

  "Such sacrifices were usually nobles," Redbreast added. "Check for markings."

  Under starlight, details emerged. The handsome male mummy bore pristine skin save death wounds. His muscular frame spoke of youth, vigor, and privilege—his trimmed beard and hair impeccable.

  This was no commoner.

  That such an illustrious figure met so brutal an end suggested an extraordinary ritual's demand.

  Two more excavations yielded identical young male mummies—all identically executed.

  That night, strange dreams plagued Yvette: leading wounded, long-haired warriors past bodies skewered by Roman blades; standing neck-noosed in mirror-still swampwater reflecting knife-wielding priests; slithering through grass to an opened grave—where her own face stared back from peat-blackened remains.

  Dreaming of one's own death is never a good sign—in either the supernatural world or the mundane one.

  Yvette couldn't shake the memory of that dream—her murderous doppelg?nger, or the Horned One's diary describing his death premonitions. The signs seemed clear: this island would be her grave.

  She wasn't surprised. Those who recklessly pursued forbidden knowledge usually paid the ultimate price—often regardless of caution. Ulysses and others had warned her; the fates of enemies and past victims had proven it time and again.

  Yet countless still chased secrets behind the Veil like moths to flame, hungry for glimpses into the unknown.

  As the organization's arcane investigator, she was supposed to guard those secrets—not accumulate more forbidden knowledge than any field agent. But whether by fate or chance, Yvette had encountered more blasphemous truths than any of her peers. The bizarre, the twisted—terrifying yet intoxicating. Sometimes she wondered: was she pursuing this knowledge, or was it pursuing her?

  Even now, death didn't scare her. Half-asleep, her consciousness filtered reality through a hazy veil. The material world shed its pretenses like peeling paint—everything pulsed like living flesh, as if some slumbering leviathan whispered incomprehensible secrets with each tidal breath.

  The hermit's distant prayer bell finally snapped her back.

  Thud. Dr. Moniz's diary hit the floor.

  She'd been reading it last night—must've dozed off during the monkey experiments.

  Yvette flipped back to the disturbing passage.

  Moniz had discovered the frontal lobe's influence on personality, using monkeys as test subjects:

  ["Cognition, emotion, and behavior stem from the frontal brain. While humans can't create ex nihilo, altering this region might reveal new perspectives. Illusion and reality are two sides of one coin—like dreams, fleeting yet containing all forms."]

  ["Trepanning above the temple allows frontal lobe ablation. Post-surgery, each monkey became a different individual."]

  ["Too inefficient. The orbital bone proves thinner—perhaps a better entry point."]

  The clinical tone couldn't mask the horror. "A different individual"? As if Moniz could distinguish each monkey's personality.

  Soon, the truth emerged between the lines. Obsession eroded his discretion, revealing chilling admissions:

  ["The monkey said something's in the shadows. It's afraid."]

  Since when could monkeys talk? Yvette shuddered.

  ["Lobotomized subjects perceive invisible realms, always looking downward. Their rambling speech contained an unknown tongue—hypnotic. Attempting to repeat it, the words melted away. My notes vanished. No matter—I understand now."]

  The entries grew worse. Learning some lobotomized patients saw "more," Moniz promoted his "ice pick surgery" to harvest their delirious utterances for forbidden insights...

  Among all her enemies, none matched Moniz's calculated cruelty.

  He had to be stopped—his barbaric procedure eradicated.

  The diary's final pages hinted at leveraging academic connections to legitimize his work, even suggesting "radical measures." How lobotomy became mainstream wasn't recorded here—later volumes likely detailed bribes and threats that transformed atrocity into celebrated science. Exposing that corruption could secure global bans.

  "Supernatural peeking" couldn't be the stated reason. Official prohibitions might stop licensed lobotomies, but desperate families would still seek black-market procedures—like illegal abortions. Academic scandal, however, could destroy public acceptance more effectively than any supernatural decree. Especially since her authority only extended to Albion—this needed worldwide condemnation.

  Despite craving to shoot Moniz on this isolated rock, she played along when they met, subtly probing for information.

  "Fascinating work, Doctor. Pity those 'enlightening' ramblings went unrecorded." She returned his diary. "Might I read the subsequent volumes?"

  "An honor, Mr. Fisher!" Moniz's investor grin didn't waver as they reached a cliffside overlook. "Though I shouldn't share such secrets... even if Mr. Fisher is Church-affiliated and fantasizes about killing me. In fact—"

  Cold steel met his skull before he finished. "Who else knows?" she demanded over crashing waves.

  This secluded spot was perfect for murder—no witnesses, the sea below a convenient grave. Yet she sensed traps—this man didn't reveal himself without purpose.

  "From the start—your identity, even your gender." Calmly, Moniz explained: allies from the Doomsday Clock had tasked him to investigate two deaths. He'd recognized Yvette from a public lobotomy demo, then mentally coerced a tourist to confirm her identity.

  "My friends would've torn your network apart for revenge. But their grudges mean nothing next to my life's work."

  The icy conviction in his voice rang true. If he'd wanted her dead earlier, she would be. That he hadn't—even admitting his psychic abilities—meant either madness or inconceivable ambition.

  "What do you want?"