Chapter 12 Contradiction

"Oh, mistress, forgive me. Oh, radiant empress, forgive me."

"Oh empress, why would you show me light, when I will forget it all."

Words? Words. Words! Someone's here.

Vern snapped out of his reverie, and his mind failed to catch up. Someone other than himself was awake, and they were approaching his location. The dull echo of the voice was getting louder and louder by the second.

"Oh, mistress, how could you? I will forget. I will forget! I will forget your grace!"

Could this be that man in black? Vern perked up at the thought. Even if his stalkers weren’t the most courteous of the people, they had helped him out one way or the other. They might even lend me a hand in getting Ariane out of here and give me some context about this scenario.

However, as he got up, his languid brain turned for the better, and the incongruency of the situation reared its head. The behavior doesn’t match up at all. My stalker has never even said a word, much less ramble like a madman.

Not just that. Why would they come now if they were always following him? Did something just change?

But just the fact that this person is awake and functioning during this nightmare must mean they’re an Observer.

"How can you be so cruel, oh empress?"

The voice only got clearer as moments passed. They were definitely moving towards him. If they’re not my stalkers, it doesn’t make any sense. Why would anyone come here? For me? But how would they even know I am here?

"I waited. I waited. I waited ALL THIS TIME!"

Vern’s hair stood on end as the possibility crossed his mind, further exacerbated by the shrill shout. They’re here to silence me.

If someone other than his stalkers knew exactly where he was, then they had some transcendent observation method he couldn’t even imagine to pinpoint him. But what did that say about their motive? The world of observation had been so well-hidden that it wouldn’t be surprising if they simply killed anyone and everyone that came in contact with it.

I should plan for the worst case.

Then, the first order of business is to get away from Ariane. Vern of a few hours ago wouldn’t consider this necessary. However, his reflections pointed out a clear flaw in his mode of operations. He’d been too passive.

The balance between his proactiveness and reactiveness was tipping far too much toward the latter. But this situation demanded the former. He always knew what the worst case entailed, but he had allowed them to come to pass.

Not anymore.

In his pursuit to become a Savant and comprehend as many fundamentals as possible, he had gone through more literature than most coven leaders. But the study of fundamentals needed a balanced mindset. Too much focused knowledge was as good as overfilling a train's engine with coal—’ It could cloud the view, weigh down the journey, and risk causing more problems than it solves,’ his master’s words.

So, the master’s solution to that was to add fundamentals dictating relationships within society into Vern’s already exaggerated curriculum. The loathing he felt for the first few months at being forced to study sociology, psychology, economics, and the like instead of mechanical arts was still vivid in his mind.

He never managed to become a Savant in the realm of relationships, but it had done him good in his desired path of mechanical arts. More good than he was ever willing to credit it. He didn’t want to go back to those days of endless social anxiety.

That mindset gave him an edge of its own, but he still rather preferred being a functioning member of the civilization. A now-ruined civilization.

So this situation’s worst case entailed possible harm to Ariane by association. No way am I implicating Ari once again. She had survived the worst of it and might even wake up soon. Letting her breathe some poisonous air was still better than getting her killed as collateral damage just because some madman decided she was linked to him.

"ALL THIS TIME, and you decide to do this to me when I will forget?"

Making up his mind, Vern took a deep breath and walked towards the stairs, descending one step at a time, feeling just the solid touch of the steps. No texture. No heat.

It is better to confront the man before they even ascend to this floor and avoid having Ariane acknowledged at all.

The thought of just running away also crossed his mind. Given his ethereal form, he might not incur many injuries when jumping from the balcony. But if they can pinpoint his location anyway, what would be the point of doing that? Also, there was the possibility that this person was friendly. However minuscule, it was still a possibility.

"I will forget. I will forget!"

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Halfway down the stairs, he saw him. A man of great fashion with a hint of fantastical flair entered the reading hall, walking straight through the fire and smoke. His indigo velvet frock coat billowed gracefully with his every step, its edges adorned with golden embroidery. A design that embellished his black top hat too. A sleek jaw and sharp features paired with a twisted smile and a resounding voice added a touch of insanity to his sophisticated profile.

Vern continued his descent, scrutinizing the changes in the fire around the man. It was bizarre. Every time a flame would leap for him, it would pass right through as if he didn’t exist. But that meant the man could choose what to interact with, because his clothes didn’t fall off of him like it did for Vern.

Or was it inherently different for him and was related to his viewpoint? It seemed just like Vern’s own form but visible to the eyes.

Does that mean this ethereal form is not temporary but is the standard for all the observers. I just don’t know how to control it yet? Or this person’s viewpoint allows him to manipulate himself like that?

"Oh mistre—" The man abruptly halted beside a fallen chandelier, twisted his head sideways, and peered straight at the staircase, his gaze landing right on Vern.

He can see me.

It was somewhat expected. If a novice like Vern could look through walls, what was a little smoke and awkward invisibility to an actual observer?

He turned around to face Vern and adjusted the rim of his hat. "Mistress was correct as always!"

Then out of nowhere, a coin appeared in his palm, which he flipped without a wasted second. Not knowing what to make of it, Vern maintained his composure and sensed for changes around himself.

Huh!?

Out of thin air, a cluster of sharp-edged golden crystals flourished right in the middle of where his chest should be. It was shining with a malignant glimmer, its razor-sharp ends expanding and rapidly shrinking with a grating noise.

The sight sent a shiver down his spine, and his heart thumped so fast it seemed ready to burst out of his chest any second. It would have absolutely punctured a thousand holes in his heart if it wasn’t for this immaterial form.

Vern resumed his descent, taking one measured step after another right through the bones and corpses. Ensuring he didn’t stumble from his nerves was the priority. Distance didn’t mean much to his foe, but his only chance at retaliation had range limits that he would need to comply with by getting up close.

Clap. Clap. Clap. The sound reverberated amongst the ambient noise of billowing smoke. Vern involuntarily glanced at the elegant man and his exaggerated clapping. "My guess was right on the fucking money! You’re as subjective as one could get in enlightenment. Not even a single wisp of representation is leaking out."

Then abruptly, the man stopped clapping, and the world went quiet. Then he spoke in a scathing tone. "Now, before I shatter your conscious for the sheer audacity of going against the empress' decree, tell me—which Visionary fostered your viewpoint? Because I don’t remember our empress exempting anyone from that in Elmhurst."

Vern clung to the railing as if his life depended on it. His mind was sent in disarray from the simple string of words. Contradicting thoughts filled his mind—to flee and to huddle in a corner, to cry and to laugh. To jump and to lay prone. Hundreds of such thoughts flashed through his mind, their sheer contrast stretching his mind at the seams.

But the words soon ended, their nerve-wracking deviation gone as quickly as it had arrived. Vern took a deep breath and employed his typical method of avoiding Faux pas—he replied in an impassive tone, using it as a crutch to gain some semblance of control in the conversation.

"I apologize for my ignorance, but I have yet to learn from anyone with the title of a Visionary. Nor do I know of the decree sent down by the empress. I came into contact with this whole facet of reality just this morning, and that was due to events orchestrated by someone named Yharl Ballin."

"Heh. So you’re saying that you’re just some random fucker who got roped into the observer society by another random fucker? Then, you just happened to break all your shackles of subjectivity, and you don’t even know about the empress' decree or what a Visionary is? And I am supposed to believe all that?" He paused, and his eyes turned a deep shade of indigo. Visible all the way to Vern on stairs when they shone like a beacon.

Everything began vibrating.

"I am to believe that you just happened to have a perfectly realized viewpoint and that it’s okay for you alone to remember while the world will forget? I, HENSEN VEHEN WILL FORGET? FORGET HER GRACE! WHILE YOU REMEMBER EVERYTHING?" screamed the man.

The world followed his pace. The fire blew sideways, turning into…water? The smoke grew white, plunging to the ground with urgency. The debris and ashes flew in the air haphazardly, creating a tempest of shimmering sparks that rotated into incalculable directions.

Some of the furniture went up but reappeared back to its original place a second later. Things disappeared. The water met the sparks and created an orchestra of lighting in one of the most harrowing abuses of reality Vern had ever seen.

What was even more bizarre was the fact that this phenomenon had a sharp boundary. The sparks that went out of this threshold just disappeared—the smoke reaching the boundary never made it outside. From the looks of it, the boundary was roughly everything within the line of sight of Hensen.

Vern had conjectured during his enlightenment that something this absurd would be impossible. But apparently, he had been wrong. More than just wrong. The sight made his knees feel weak. What was he to do in front of this godlike display?

What would he do even if he reached within the activation range of his own vision?

But it'd be the most passive choice not to try and find a solution. The first order was to—

"I swear in the name of Lady Lennix herself. May her fundamentals forsake me if there was a shred of falsehood in my previous words," yelled Vern, trying to get his words across in this calamitous wreckage.

He waited with bated breaths for a change. A response—none came.

In this rampage of uncanny interactions, the figure was obscured by the rapidly shifting aspects of reality. But then Vern got a glimpse.

Hensen's eyes were glazed over, staring off into the distance as something went awry with his left hand. The previously smooth arm was morphing, losing its mass—turning into things Vern couldn't comprehend. One second it was a hand. Next, it became a blistered mass. Another second, and it turned pure white like a corpse's before its shape started stretching out unnaturally.

Just looking at it gave Vern a feeling of dissociation, as if his limbs were being chopped off, and he averted his gaze without any hesitation.

Fuck! This is getting out of hand. It's just not something I should be dealing with. This whole situation is way above my pay grade.

FUCK! But he knew. Now wasn't the time to start moping again. Something was wrong with the man, and this was Vern's only shot at getting closer without being subjected to tens of other ungodly visions, truly dying in the process.

At least I don't have to go against this chaotic mess using my own visions. He left caution to the wind and began leaping over the stairs.

But the world didn't want it.

Seconds passed by, but the floor never inched closer. He kept jumping down the stairs only to make another leap and get nowhere. It was as if the staircase had infinite steps. He never reached down from the twenty-fourth step to the twenty-third.