Chapter 80 - The Glowing Lists of Convergence

Wait.

That's when a familiar possibility reared its ugly head, and a shiver went down his spine.

Someone actively murdered them before the time rewound itself! That is why they weren't brought back.

That had to be it. He remembered that scene in the library. Everyone but Ari had turned into some kind of bloody liquid, escaping through the roof into the skies beyond.

Ari also had cuts and scrapes on her body, but they were healed like nothing had happened when time turned back. But anyone that was already dead due to the fire, only had their clothes floating to represent their selves.

They were gone. Didn't matter if they were fundamentalists or if they could have survived the terrorscape. They were squeezed dry of their very blood, flesh, and bones. There was no bringing them back.

Could the same have happened to all the people in these establishments?

But all this still didn't clarify how exactly they died. Eleonora's archive was a special case because it had caught on fire; what was their reason? And on top of that, why only Fundamentalists? If everyone in those buildings died, were Fundamentalists really the target or just unlucky casualties?

So he asked to clarify, "Are these the only two patterns? Fundamentalists and children?"

The tall commander nodded, "As far as I know."

"By your estimate, how bad is it? Like you said, about two-thirds of the children disappeared, but what about my colleagues?"

The man rubbed his stubble with those leather gloves for a while before replying, "You're the third Fundamentalist I've met in the last 10 days, and I used to see about a hundred every day of the conference. No one bothered to do the numbers, but if I had to wager, it'd be around five out of a hundred?"

Vern gasped involuntarily at the distressing number. "That's…that's it? Why is no one investigating this?"

The man shrugged, "There is nothing to investigate. We've already matched the remains of thousands of fundamentalists to their identities from all over the city. They're gone. Just like everyone else, there's no explanation unless you want to believe in one of those scammy religions."

Then, he gave Vern a dubious look and added, "No offense, but apparently, the lady was more furious with your kind than the others."

Vern's mind slipped into a whirlwind of questions and confusion as he kept his head down and continued following the man. Those shoes passed over cobblestone, the bridge's metal, and the inner district's concrete in what felt like a second.

.

.

.

Finally, when the footsteps halted, Vern followed suit.

"We're here. Before I go get the permit, can you tell me your name? As well as your place of residence, if you don't mind. For both purposes—the permit and for my own knowledge."

He absent-mindedly replied, "Vern Lockwood, and I am currently staying at Hotel Inkwell."

"I will be right back."

Vern waited in front of what seemed like a barrack that had been repurposed to act as administrative checkpoints in all the 'free' districts. There was one on each side of the bridge. And no more Kingsmen this time.

Vern monitored the street full of graves, but surprisingly, the atmosphere wasn't as stifling as last time. A couple shops had opened up, and people were going about their day with something akin to a smile on their faces.

It seemed that time was performing its magic—healing the inner wounds.

Or it could just be temporary bliss brought on by the new year. They probably believed things were going to get better.

Vern didn't know.

"There you go," came the commander's voice, snapping him out of his reverie. The man presented him with a paper that had the crown's stamp on it alongside a signature by an 'Oberon Derleth.'

"This is a level three ownership certificate, perfect for a fundamentalist. It allows you to carry any kind of weapon on your person. No matter the type, length, or weight."

"Thank you, Commander Oberon." Vern nodded, eyeing his name badge as he folded the paper and slipped it into his inner pockets. He didn't miss the overcompensation he was receiving.

It wasn't because he was wronged, but due to his profession. It was ironic that the death of his colleagues made him more valuable to the city.

The certificate might come in handy later. Or not. It would depend on how Vigil handled these issues. But it was good to have, nonetheless, just like connections with people in power. One can never know enough of such people.

So he walked away, leaving one final sentence in the air, "I will remember this favor. Please feel free to send me a letter if there's something I can do for you."

"My pleasure. I will do just that," Oberon tipped his helmet.

Vern stood on the edge of the sidewalk next to the tombstones and raised his arm, making eye contact with the drivers passing by. However, two drivers quickly approached his way before he could even close the buttons of his coat with his free hand.

After an intense exchange of looks and implied threats, the one on the left backed away and continued past Vern. The other driver stopped in front, and the door opened automatically.

Fancy.

Vern didn't think much of it and got on, "Ferrovane Heights, please."

"Don't worry, good sir. We'll be there before you know it."

Vern settled down on the comfortable seats and opened his notepad. As the carriage started with puttering sounds, he began scribbling the new information he had found today.

He would ask De Flanc if the Vigil knew something about this. This made him wonder if there was something of an intelligence squad in the Vigil. Surely, they did, right?

However, when he flipped the page to continue writing, he reached that one page. In what seemed like words penned by a crazed murderer, it said, "SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

This one was very weird. It had allowed him to gain some major insights on how those Golden Glyphs worked, but damn, did it give him the scare of his life.

When he first felt that weird notion in his mind, he had assumed Esther had finally found the time to write to him, but there was no way this was Esther.

They parted on good terms. Esther had no reason to say something like that to him. So, who the hell sent him that message? There was no way anyone else was in possession of his Viewpoint's trace. That left De Flanc’s guess.

Fate.

Except, he didn't believe in things like that, and the man had scared him right after. Sending messages in the void was one thing, but receiving was another. Apparently, some people in the past had communicated with malevolent spirits in this manner, only to turn mad soon after.

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

This was one of the reasons he had completely stopped his experimentation with the thing. And it was saddening, to say the least.

Unlike Observation, where experimentation could only be done by taking on mortal risks, he had believed this was heaven. All he had to do was spend some of his Representation, the same thing he used to execute Visions, and the glyphs would follow a pattern.

Before receiving this…threat, he had done over fifty tests. The tests comprised sending a very specific string of messages and then observing how the glyphs changed to represent that message.

But there were so many variations, even with a message as simple as 'a,' that he had all but given up on figuring out how they were encoded in the short term. Primarily because looking at these glyphs hurt his head.

If he just stared at them passively, it didn't matter, but whenever he tried to understand their course, his eyes strained, and he found himself getting tired in a dozen seconds.

Sending these small messages cost him next to nothing, but the observation and studying after dimmed his Thought Space almost entirely every time.

He had pages full of notes that tried to decode the movements of the glyph and the set of lists that appeared after it for a short instant.

It was an enigmatic process. Once he was finished penning the message, there was a consistent delay of about two and a half seconds in which the glyphs didn't change at all. After that, golden rectangles appeared, and the combined glyph would channel itself into one of them.

But the window for which these golden rectangles appeared was too short for him to figure out anything. He had made over fifty attempts but barely managed to trace out a drawing of them.

He was making slow progress towards understanding what all of that meant until he felt it that day. When he sat back down in the carriage after meeting Mistress Amelia, a glyph appeared in his mind.

It was such a complex shape he couldn't understand any of it, so he had done exactly as one was supposed to do with messages received through Convergence notes—pen them.

But doing so had sent the glyphs into a new routine. Usually, the rectangles appeared momentarily after the glyphs converged. But this time, those golden rectangles appeared first and stayed etched on the paper. That was when he had come to the conclusion that they were lists.

This gave him the opportunity he needed to study them, but the wording of that message and the reaction of De Flanc had disturbed him enough that he had failed to glean too much.

From what he remembered, it was a set of lists, each with ten or so items in them. But obviously, he had no clue whatever the hell they meant since they were written in that glyph language, too.

Only if he could study them for longer…

He let out a sigh and slouched back on the cushioned seats.

Why hasn't she sent me anything?

Esther seemed so pumped about wanting to exchange letters with him, but it had been so many days. Why hadn't she said anything at all? If she did, he would have a chance to look at those golden lists again.

He was hoping she'd begin the conversation.

Did women generally not do that?

But it'd be weird if I sent the first message, right?.

.

.

.

"Fuck me!" he muttered, rustling his hair. He would have to take the loss here. Curiosity was killing him. And it would be nice to know if she got back home safe.

No. It's only gentlemanly of me to begin the conversation! Also, when she responds, I can study those lists. It's a win-win.

He looked outside for a solid minute before he managed to convince himself that this was really a good idea. Nodding to himself, he picked up the pen and…

Wait…

It was like lightning struck in his mind, and his serious expression slowly morphed into one of joy. He couldn't believe he hadn't thought of this before!

What if I…send a message to myself?

This way, he wouldn't have to be the one to initiate the conversation…uh, that is, umm…more like he wouldn't have to depend on others for research. Yeah. That was it.

There was nothing to lose by trying this.

Feeling a little squeamish, he placed the nib of his pen beneath that disturbing text and wrote, 'aaaaaaaaaaaaaa.' While doing so, he considered his own Viewpoint and face.

Glyphs birthed around his every stroke and soon moved in one direction. After two and a half seconds, they converged, and…

What!? His eyes widened in surprise, and he gripped the pen harder than ever. The exact same glyph that was on the paper had appeared in his mind, urging him to release it on the note.

That's…

He had gone through this, almost as a joke, and to rid himself of stupid reasons to not message Esther first. But it actually fucking worked?

However, his disbelief was quickly picked apart by the growing urge in his head to put the notion on the paper.

So, he didn't waste any more time and let the notion guide him. The moment he put his pen on the paper, his arm moved on its own like it knew what to do. But his focus wasn't on that.

A golden glow seemed to shine in his eyes as his Vision was populated by an array of rectangles, lines, and glyphs.

He intentionally slowed down his writing speed, trying to make the most out of this situation. It was fascinating, but he knew he didn't have much time because of his weak eyes, so he focused on analyzing the details beyond the mundane.

Firstly, he leaned in, almost shoving his face into the notepad. The lists were very small in size, after all. The golden things took up most of the space around where he had begun writing. Sadly, many of them were cut off, reaching beyond the canvas of the paper.

Out of the four or five that he could make out, the one in the center was glowing. No, not the whole list, but just one of the items inside it—the very first one out of ten or so. Small golden threads emerged out of that glowing glyph, combining to make a path for his next strokes.

So that's how it works? he mused, his eyebrows raised a little too high.

But that wasn't the most interesting part. If he remembered correctly, the last time he was in the carriage with De Flanc, the second glyph on the list was the one that was glowing. Not the first.

And in every second that passed, he became more and more confident that these ten glyphs on this specific list were exactly the same as last time.

Did this mean something?

He had previously hypothesized that these 'items' or glorified glyphs were actually just traces of Viewpoints that one used to send messages to others. But then, why was he first on the list? And why was it second for that strange message he had received?

Was it really the so-called 'fate?'

Then could he interpret this as: he was most fated with himself, and hence first on the list. And other people on the list shared his fate, the extent of which decreased the further down he went?

That sounded oddly reasonable.

Is there any other criteria that I am glossing over just because De Flanc planted this idea in my head? And what even is fate exactly?

But even his slow writing began approaching the end as he sat there without a better answer. So, he focused on other nuances. Could he send a message to other entities on this list, too? And what were those other lists?

The items in the list to the right of the 'fate list' changed every second. What could be the essence of that one?

However, as he continued to write more letter ‘a’s due to the notion that guided him, the carriage came to a sudden halt, and a voice filled his ears, "We're here, good sir. As fast as wind, ain't it? That would be Eleven crowns, please."

Vern sulked, for he wasn't done yet. But right when he was about to shout to make the man wait a while, something changed in those golden rectangles, and an excited gleam appeared in his eyes.

The list with rapidly changing glyphs next to the fate list had settled down. Just like the carriage.

Did that mean?

With bated breath, he shouted, "Sorry, but can you drop me off at the next block?"

"You sure, sir? Entering the district would cost me toll, and by that, I mean cost you."

"Yeah, whatever. Just go!"

He was almost at the end of the message he had sent himself. The list would disappear at any moment.

So when the carriage started again, and the list began changing rapidly, Vern's heart burst with excitement.

These are the traces of people around me!

As the carriage moved about, the people in some range around the Convergence note changed, and so did the traces in that list.

"We're here. That would be sixteen crowns."

The list settled down again, confirming his suspicion, and so did the message as his hand halted. Vern closed the notepad shut and exited gingerly. He gave the man two ten-crown notes and said, "Please keep the change."

The moment he turned away from the carriage, his breath caught in his lungs as he looked at the scenery in front of him.

He believed things couldn't get any better. But it seemed today was one of those days.

Ferrovane Heights was truly a sight to behold.

Carved into the mountain, the towering spires of the castles pierced the fog. Below, a sea of mist swirled through cobbled streets, veiling the lower quarters. Gas lamps glowed intermittently, casting dancing shadows and lending an air of mystery to the shrouded alleys and byways.

Craning his neck, he took in the breathtaking view. Stone and steel bridges spanned the mountain's chasms, connecting various structures. High above, he could just discern people moving within the tall, gilded towers.

The city extended to the river shores, where the fog obscured all but the lights in the buildings, revealing the undimmed heart of the Calidian empire. As his gaze swept across the expanse, mechanical marvels revealed themselves.

Here, trams clattered along serpentine viaducts, their steam engines chuffing rhythmically while far in the distance, an intricate network of gears and pulleys operated a massive elevator, easing access to the upper castles.

Sentinel-like smokestacks rose against the bright sky, their plumes mingling with the fog. In the distance, airships dotted the horizon. Their propellers added a soft hum to the industry's symphony, silhouetted against the sun's orange sheen.

Indeed, this was the capital of one of the largest empires on the continent of Quartzford.