"What do you think death is?" Faced with Yvette's pressing question, Dr. Monis instead asked in return.

  "Do not answer my question with another question."

  "Haha..." He laughed, speaking as if talking to himself. "I wonder if you have ever encountered the undead? That sensation is truly peculiar—utterly intangible, and yet your intuition assures you of a foreign consciousness nearby. If you ever experience this, remain quiet. Feel their presence with your heart, for they are conveying greetings from another world."

  His words were disjointed, yet they stirred in Yvette memories of nights spent gazing out her window—moments of paradise-like serenity, the island's faint, elusive lights, the whisper of leaves and the gentle lapping of waves...

  Back then, she had been utterly captivated, yet also keenly aware of hollow eyes watching her from everywhere.

  Moreover, the diary of the Horned One had described sensations eerily similar to hers.

  [June 25, 1837: I burned my eyes with a red-hot knife. If this is the price to stop seeing...]

  [Too late. Eyes surround me—even in my belly.]

  "This island is always teeming with life. The plants here grow faster than anywhere else, rendering the hermits unable to cultivate; their crops are inevitably swallowed by rampant weeds, leaving no harvest. Yet the cows feed on lush grass and produce the sweetest milk. Do you know why?" Dr. Monis turned, stepping half a pace closer to Yvette, undeterred by the pistol pressed to his forehead that could blast his skull open. "Because this is the tomb of an Elder God. The ancients believed a fallen Elder God was buried here. But for such an indescribably vast being—what does death truly mean? To me, it seems more like... a transformation into another state of existence."

  Indeed, the world’s ancient past had witnessed the descent of Elder Gods themselves—not just their servitors. In a vision, Yvette had once seen a dead mountain of flesh, an Elder God devoured by its own brood.

  Yet that was an unimaginably distant era. Yvette had never understood—how could beings of such cosmic grandeur, practically immortal, perish? Why were Elder Gods said to be deathless, yet capable of dying once they descended into this world?

  Her own experiences bordered on myth. In dreams, she had glimpsed a slumbering creator’s pupil, the Flesh Mountain Elder God, and the Daughter of Stars. Though the Creator had revealed but a fragment, its oppressive weight dwarfed all else. Had the lapis lazuli-enshrined servitors not diverted its gaze, Yvette might have tumbled helplessly into that vast golden eye. The Flesh Mountain’s remnants were a broken corpse, its aura on par with the Daughter of Stars—indicating the latter as the weakest of the trio. Yet the Daughter’s true form was a comet, capable of apocalyptic devastation had it struck Earth. If Elder Gods had truly walked this world, even in limited numbers—what power could have opposed them?

  The Church’s records contained no history of Elder Gods descending, yet preserved countless accounts of their mighty servitors. Even Scripture hinted: "The sons of God saw that the daughters of humans were beautiful, and they took wives for themselves... In those days, there were giants on the earth..." (Genesis 6:4).

  Greek myths, too, hailed an age of sage-kings and heroes as the "Golden Age," where men sprung from immortal gods, enduring without age or illness.

  Like Ulysses, many believed these "gods" were fully manifested servitors. The Golden Age’s superhumans rebelled against their progenitors—myths refracting their battles into tales of monster-slaying heroes. Most of that first generation perished; today’s bloodline-awakened inheritors are their descendants.

  But could humans truly contend with fully manifested servitors? Yvette’s encounters featured only intangible fragments, yet their nightmare-inducing powers—less physical than their sheer, sanity-crushing presence—seemed beyond mortal resistance.

  "Mr. Fisher’s mental waves surprised me yet felt inevitable. Brief as it was, you were reminiscing just now, weren’t you? My mention of Elder Gods raised no questions—only memories. It seems others beside me have touched true divinity."

  "How can you be certain you saw an Elder God? Most ‘gods’ in history proved mere servitors."

  "No proof is needed. Had you shared my experience, you wouldn’t doubt. They are nothing like servitors—one glance tells you."

  True, neither the Slumbering Creator, Flesh Mountain, nor Daughter of Stars had offered explanations or proofs. Yet Yvette knew at once they were higher, utterly distinct existences.

  "If this truly is a god’s tomb—what do you intend?"

  All expression drained from Dr. Monis’ face, leaving him a weatherworn statue.

  After a long pause, he finally spoke: "By your measure—do I still possess reason?"

  "Debatable. You appear human. Your actions… less so." Calling men "monkeys" for ice-pick lobotomy experiments was sheer madness.

  "You’ve read my diary, yet dislike my humor?"

  If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  "If by ‘monkeys’—then ‘self-deprecating’ is too kind. Try ‘vile.’"

  "Fine, the pun is archaic—monk, monkey..."

  Yvette’s brow furrowed.

  The island’s hermits were indeed monks by vocation.

  She’d assumed his "monkeys" were patients—not the hermits themselves.

  "Your experiments were here?" she pressed.

  "Surprised? You missed my joke—"

  "Enough. How dare you return after what you did?"

  "Why fear? My surgeries gifted them clearer divine perception. As reason shattered, a gateway of spirit opened atop its ruins. Never before has communication felt so pure, so lucid—a journey beyond mortal words."

  "You’re all mad…" Yvette shook her head slowly, unconvinced.

  "This was our collective choice. The evidence is undeniable—not just for us, but the ancients too." Monis turned toward the peat bog. "You’ve seen what was unearthed there, yes? One night during rites, the leaves whispered of a watcher—only you’d do such a thing."

  "I won’t hide it: my associates and I cleared the bog of obsolete offerings—peat-mummified Celts, all willingly slain. Only nobles warranted the sacred Triple Death. Know why?"

  "Cult rituals baffle me. Nor do I care." Yvette’s tone iced over—as if denial could bar the horrific truth.

  "Perhaps the Celts discovered early that bog-submerged corpses don’t decay—coupled with this island’s revelations. But rational shackles bar communion with the divine. So they crafted conduits. Those mummies bridge our world and theirs—preserved in peat, frozen in time. Many lie buried there, doors to another realm."

  "The feathered were devoured by birds, offered to sky; the horned crushed by stones, left to rot. These traces faded. But the scaled offerings—drowned where the gods are closest—those mattered most."

  "So the island’s late physician was your ‘Horned’ sacrifice? My friend Miss Solé—the ‘Feathered’? Dead already. What’s left to slaughter?"

  "You, esteemed ‘Scaled One.’" Monis spoke blithely, as if inviting her to dinner.

  "Your ritual dies tonight. Thank you for confessing. A corpse like you serves the greater good." Yvette’s fury twisted into a smile.

  "Unlikely. The gods say you’ll agree. Listen—waves and wind alike whisper of an ancient mark upon you. One you’ve long struggled to erase."

  "You're slipping away... This may be our last chance... Before it's too late—before we pass the point of no return—let us die together. Alone, I could never do it. But with you here... we can."

  In her dreams, another version of herself had whispered these words to Yvette.

  She didn’t understand what her other self feared, but this dread wasn’t new. Long ago, that self had hinted at a secret—one Yvette would never be permitted to know.

  She seemed certain they were hurtling toward an unavoidable ruin, with no hope of turning back.

  "Tell me, Mr. Fisher—have you ever rescued a bird? A fledgling, too young to fly, still relying on its parents in the nest. Once, during a storm, I watched the wind tear apart a sycamore nest. A chick fell into the flooded grass below, shivering. I picked it up—tiny thing, with wide black eyes like grapes. It didn’t even fear me. I nursed it on soaked crumbs, then climbed a ladder to return it to its nest." Dr. Monis sighed. "Do you know what happened? The next day, I found it dead in the same spot. The others had pecked it to death—my scent had made it an outcast."

  "We’re like that bird. The Old Gods’ gaze has marked us. We’re different. Our fates were rewritten by horrors no one else has seen."

  "My purpose is to wake the God buried here. There’s no other path."

  "You’re wrong," Yvette said softly. "There’s always another way. I could kill you now. Stop this madness."

  "True enough," Dr. Monis conceded flatly. "But aren’t you curious why they chose you? What do they want?"

  "Nothing. The Old Gods are chaos incarnate—no logic, no reason. To them, we’re ants."

  "For ordinary men? Yes. But you... you must feel it. You’re special."

  Was there anyone more special? The silent, slumbering Creator ignored all—yet it whispered to her alone. No other descendants walked the earth.

  And why did it want her to kill its own kin? If it hated them, why not smite them itself?

  Why did it crave their deaths—but only by her hand?

  Why?

  "Come to the marshes tonight," Dr. Monis urged. "The spring there bleeds from the God’s ancient wound. Beneath the moon, perhaps it will answer you." A thin smile. "Not that you need me. You could slay me now. You’d still find the place."

  "You’d die for nothing," she pointed out. "If your purpose dies with you, why pretend to bargain?"

  "Ah..." He laughed, strained. "I envy you. The Gods treat you gently, asking permission. Not like me." He tapped his temple. "I’m just a puppet."

  "They’re nothing like us. Our history is a blink to them. There will always be more pawns..." His voice grew distant. "The marshes hide corpses from the first century—when Rome crushed the druids. Desperate, the Celts sacrificed their exiled royals. But their God only helped briefly... then fled to avoid Rome’s ire. I saw this in dreams. Visions granted only to those who reach the fifth tier of the Source."

  "It knew humans would always breed new worshippers. New fools to deceive."

  "Did your dreams show its death? What killed it? Something with golden, slitted eyes—"

  "No." Dr. Monis shook his head. "The God here was an egg-like mass—translucent, with pulsing light. A ‘mother’ of many breasts slew it, then starved, devouring its own children. But the one you describe? I’ve never seen it."

  They spoke until dusk. With a bow, Dr. Monis departed: "I’ll wait by the garden path before eleven."

  Alone at the cliffs, Yvette drowned in history’s echoes. The crashing waves seemed to chant of elder wars—when beasts ruled and men cowered in caves. Had any lived to pass down those secrets?

  ......

  That night, she found Dr. Monis on the mist-laden path. Wordlessly, they trekked toward the marshes.

  Her mind warred with itself. Every instinct screamed that her God despised her actions—proof being the murderous heat in her veins. Dr. Monis’ back was a provocation, a red flag to a bull.

  This bloodlust had only ever struck at monsters. Now it burned for a mere man.

  Yet another voice howled warnings: Stop. Turn back.

  But was this her fear? Or the God’s?

  Normally, she’d obey instinct—but now, the urge to kill twisted even her intuition.

  Lies.

  They have to be lies.

  She staggered slightly but pressed on, silencing the protests in her skull.

  "Master, don’t!" shrieked the dead.

  "You’ll perish—"

  "Your sacred blood mustn’t stain this cursed ground—NO!"

  She’d severed her dream-ties, yet their wails slithered through, maddening.

  Her thoughts frayed. A dark euphoria coiled in her gut—the thrill of self-destruction. What was real?

  "We’re here." Dr. Monis’ voice snapped the spell. Oblivious, he caught a glowing beetle in his palm.

  Not a firefly—an ordinary insect, yet eerily bioluminescent. The woods shimmered with them.

  Her step cracked a twig. Instantly, a constellation of winged embers erupted—moths, beetles, a rain of blue fire.

  "Beautiful," Dr. Monis murmured. "In my dreams, when the Mother-God stabbed the Egg, its fluids gushed forth... and the sea burned blue."

  Strangely, amid the glowing swarm, Yvette’s mind cleared. The ghosts fell silent.