Chapter 16 Light and Shadows
Hours passed, and Viktor and Mifa found themselves no closer to answers. The streets of the city stretched endlessly before them, each lead dissolving into frustration as their inquiries hit dead ends.
“I see. Thank you for your time,” Viktor said politely to the shop owner after yet another fruitless conversation.
He turned to Mifa, sighing. “No one seems to know anything about this ‘Cult of the Witch.’”
Mifa crossed her arms, her brow furrowed. “Yeah. The only thing people mentioned was that rumor about a group secretly operating near the ruins of the Sunken City.”
“What could they even want in a place like that?” Viktor muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
“That place is filled with ancient artifacts—some of them dangerous in the wrong hands,” Mifa replied, her tone sharp. “Whatever they’re up to, it can’t be anything good.” She glanced toward the horizon, where the sun dipped lower. “Let’s wrap this up and meet the others at the guild.”
As they walked through the fading light of the alleys, Viktor’s curiosity gnawed at him like an itch he couldn’t ignore. He glanced at Mifa, hesitating for a moment before speaking.
“I’ve been wondering, ‘Robert’—what’s your connection to Mr. Aizen?” Viktor asked cautiously. “You don’t have to answer if it’s personal.”
Mifa turned her sharp, calculating gaze on him, her expression unreadable.
“Hmm… I suppose you could say I’m both his disciple and his caretaker,” she said finally.
“So, you’re not related by blood?” Viktor asked.
“No,” Mifa replied, her voice steady but distant. “I’m a war orphan from the village of Metrial. A survivor of the Noclan Dominion’s attack.” She paused, her words hanging in the air like the ghost of a memory too painful to fully confront. When she continued, her tone was hollow, almost mechanical. “After that, I ended up in Krempossa—a street kid scrambling for scraps in a city that devours the weak. Stealing food, picking pockets, hiding in alleyways... That was my childhood.”
Viktor swallowed hard, the image of a young Mifa scavenging among the filth of the capital city weighing heavily on his mind. “I’m… sorry to hear that,” he said softly.
Mifa’s sharp laugh cut through the gloom. It wasn’t one of humor but of bitter resignation. “Don’t waste your pity,” she snapped, her amethyst eyes narrowing. “Stories like mine are a dime a dozen. I was just another nameless face in the crowd—another kid nobody wanted.” She drew a breath, her voice lowering to something almost inaudible. “But I was one of the lucky ones. If it weren’t for him...”
Her voice cracked, just for a moment. She clenched her fists tightly, nails biting into her palms as she forced herself to continue. “If it weren’t for him, I’d have been dragged into the underground markets. I’d have been sold, body and soul, to the highest bidder. Or worse... I’d have ended up a plaything for the city’s gangs.” Her words trembled with suppressed rage, but her face remained like stone—unflinching, determined not to break.
Viktor felt the weight of her words press against his chest, a sharp pang of guilt forming in his voice. “I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry.”
Mifa didn’t respond at first. She simply stared ahead, her eyes glassy, as if gazing into a distant memory she couldn’t escape. Finally, she muttered, “It’s fine.” But the tightness in her voice betrayed her.
Her amethyst eyes, once vibrant, now held a dull, haunted look. They lingered on the cobblestones beneath her feet, as though the ground itself could offer her some kind of solace. In that moment, Viktor saw not the sharp, calculating woman who could take down opponents twice her size, but a girl who had carried the weight of survival on her shoulders for far too long. She didn’t cry. She didn’t waver. But the silence that followed spoke louder than any scream ever could.
As they wandered deeper into the town, their path led them through a narrow alley. There, tucked away in the shadows, they came across an old mural. It was surrounded by burnt-out candles, shattered ornaments, and discarded totems. The sight immediately caught Viktor’s attention.
He stepped forward, his brow furrowing as he studied the faded painting. Though the colors were weathered, the figure depicted was unmistakable.
“It’s... Nytheris the Giver,” Viktor murmured.
The mural portrayed a human-like deity with a flower-like head, its petals tightly closed. Unlike the sketch Professor Lang had shown him—an image that reeked of malice—this depiction exuded an air of divinity, almost serene.
Mifa froze as she gazed at the mural, her expression shifting to disbelief. “It can’t be...” she whispered.
Viktor glanced at her, puzzled. “What is it?”
Before Mifa could answer, a voice called out from nearby. “The God of the Gifted.”
They turned sharply toward the source of the voice. Emerging from the shadows was an elderly man, his hunched figure wrapped in a tattered cloak. He leaned heavily on a crooked cane, his weathered face creased with a faint smile. Despite his frail appearance, his eyes gleamed with a spark of recognition as they lingered on the mural.
“It has been so long,” the old man said, his voice a low, gravelly murmur. “So long since anyone has recognized our god. It warms my heart to see him remembered, even after all these years.”
The old man shuffled closer, his gnarled hand brushing against the mural as if greeting an old friend.
“You know about this god?” Viktor asked cautiously.
The elder turned his sharp gaze to Viktor and smiled. “Aye, lad. I know much. Tales of Nytheris were passed down to me from my ancestors, who lived in the Sunken City long before it fell. I’d be happy to share what I know... but only on one condition.”
Mifa and Viktor exchanged wary glances before Viktor asked, “And what condition is that?”
The old man’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Join me for afternoon tea.”
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“Tea?” Mifa raised an eyebrow.
“Aye,” the elder said with a chuckle. “My granddaughter baked cookies just the other day—best ones I’ve had in years. I’ve no doubt you’ll enjoy them too.”
Mifa shrugged, giving Viktor a sidelong glance. “Well, if that’s all, I don’t see why not.”
“Excellent!” The old man clapped his hands together with surprising vigor. “Ah, forgive my manners. Name’s Allan Thalyndor. My ancestors was among the last living inhabitants of the city.”
“I’m Viktor,” Viktor replied, shaking the old man’s hand. “And this is Mifa... the daughter of an acquaintance.”
“Well then,” Allan said, his voice laced with cheer. “Let’s not waste time. You’ve a tale to hear, cookies to eat, and tea to drink. Come along now!”
With surprising sprightliness, he turned and began to lead them through the winding streets, his cane tapping rhythmically against the cobblestones. Viktor and Mifa exchanged a glance before following him.
As they left the alley, a faint rustling stirred behind them. Near the mural, the dim light cast long shadows—but one of them lingered unnaturally seemingly embracing the mural of the forgotten god in front of it. It shifted slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if watching them leave. Then, for just a moment, it seemed to glare at the three with malicious intent.
After some time walking, the three finally arrived at a modest house tucked away from the busy streets of the city. At the front, a young woman was sweeping away dried leaves from the ground.
Allan waved energetically from the gate. “Hally! Grandpa’s home!”
The woman, Hally, looked up and immediately ran to greet him. “Welcome home, Grandpa!” Her eyes flickered to Viktor and Mifa, standing behind him. “Who are they?” she asked curiously.
“They’re my guests,” Allan replied with a grin. “They’re interested in learning about our god, so I thought I’d tell them a tale or two. Quickly now—brew us some tea and fetch those cookies of yours!”
“Yes, Grandpa!” Hally said, smiling. She helped him up the steps, ushering everyone inside.
The house had a warmth to it. The golden afternoon light spilled through the windows, illuminating the wooden furniture and walls adorned with carvings and ornaments. The faint scent of tea and oak lingered in the air, giving the place the comforting aroma of a home well-lived in.
“Such a lovely home,” Viktor said, admiring the craftsmanship of the woodwork.
“Thank you,” Allan replied, settling into his chair. “This house was built by my grandfather when he first moved to the village. Every beam and nail is his handiwork.”
“A family heirloom, then,” Viktor remarked.
“Exactly so,” Allan said, his voice tinged with pride.
After a short while, Hally returned with a tray of tea and a plate of freshly baked cookies.
“Thank you, my dear,” Allan said, motioning for Viktor and Mifa to help themselves.
“Thank you,” Viktor said, picking up a cookie and pouring himself some tea.
Mifa hesitated, her eyes darting around the room cautiously. “I don’t drink tea,” she finally said, reaching into her purse for a small pouch, “but I’ll try a cookie.” She broke off a piece and popped it into her mouth.
“Well?” Allan asked, watching her expectantly.
“It’s… good,” Mifa admitted after a moment.
“Delicious,” Viktor agreed, savoring both the cookie and the tea. “You’re quite the baker, Miss Hally.”
Hally blushed faintly. “Thank you,” she murmured, before retreating to tidy up the kitchen.
As Viktor sipped his tea, his gaze wandered to the shelves lining the walls. They were packed with peculiar ornaments, some resembling ancient relics.
“Do you collect artifacts, Mr. Allan?” Viktor asked.
“These?” Allan chuckled. “No, no. They’re not mine. My grandfather was an archaeologist. He spent his life studying the ruins of our ancestors and brought these back from his expeditions. They’re his legacy. I could never bring myself to part with them.”
“I see,” Viktor said softly. “Just like the professor…”
Allan set his teacup down with a deliberate motion. “Enough about me,” he said, leaning forward. “You mentioned wanting to learn about the history of the sunken city, yes? May I ask why?”
“I’m an investigative journalist,” Viktor explained. “I’m following a trail that led me here—a dangerous group called the ‘Cult of the Witch.’ There are whispers that they might be operating in the ruins.”
Allan’s face darkened slightly. “Ah, yes. There have been rumors. Strange folk seen wandering the outskirts, odd lights in the ruins at night. But… no concrete evidence. Just stories passed around the market stalls.”
“I see,” Viktor said, disappointment creeping into his voice. “Thank you for sharing what you know.”
Allan smiled faintly and picked up his tea again. “But you’re also here for the history, aren’t you?” he said. “The story of the sunken city?”
“Yes,” Viktor said eagerly.
The old man’s expression softened as he leaned back in his chair. “Very well, then. Let me tell you a tale—a tale of light and loss.” He sipped his tea and began.
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“This happened long ago,” Allan said, his voice low and reverent. “When the ancient city was just a humble fishing village by the sea. The people here lived simply—trading, fishing, building their lives with their own hands. Then, one day, a great golden light appeared over the ocean. It bathed the village in its radiance, and with it came gifts beyond comprehension. The people were granted the power to spread knowledge, to wield light itself.
“The light called itself Nytheris. It claimed to be a giver—a servant of the gods, sent to share their light with the world. And so, the people worshiped it, grateful for its blessings. Peace and prosperity followed, and the small village grew into a grand city: Thalmyra, the Blessed City. For three hundred years, it flourished under the watchful gaze of Nytheris.”
He paused, his voice growing somber. "Until..., Viktor what is the academy told you about what happened to the sunken city?"
"The Great leak' the catastrophic release of the 'beasts of the night' from the dark forest of the 'Poisoned oasis'" Viktor said "this is the story most historians believe, yet some argue that this might not be entirely true for the 'great leak' happened during the final years of the war between the ancient Kingdom of Rosta and the City of Thalmyra, they believe the kingdom took the opportunity to attack when the 'Beasts of the night' attacked the city and weakened their defenses"
"Neither was true," Allan’s eyes drifted to the window, where the sun hung low on the horizon. “It wasn’t the kingdom or a beast,” he said softly. “It was… hunger. A creature unlike anything the world has ever seen. A monster that devoured not just flesh, but light itself..."
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At the village market…
Scorn wandered through the bustling streets, doing what he loosely called an "investigation," though his focus seemed to lie more on sampling every local delicacy he could find.
“This is so good!” he exclaimed, stuffing his face with food through the partially opened slit of his mask. “Telling Mifa to go with Viktor was the best call I’ve made today,” he thought smugly.
The nearby vendors and villagers looked on, equal parts baffled and concerned at the sheer amount of food he was consuming.
“Ahh, this soup hits the spot! ‘Investigating’ alone sure has its perks!” Scorn said between bites, his voice muffled but cheerful.
“Whoa, whoa, easy there—you might choke if you keep eating like that!” a man’s voice chimed in from behind him.
Scorn didn’t even bother to turn around, focusing instead on his soup.
The voice continued, unfazed. “You don’t mind if I sit here, right?” Without waiting for a reply, the man slid onto the bench beside him and gestured to a vendor. “I’ll take the special rock wyvern soup, please.”
Scorn glanced at him briefly out of the corner of his eye. The man looked rugged—short black hair, a thin beard, and wearing weathered leather pants and boots paired with a stained yellow shirt. He carried himself with a strange air of casual confidence.
“You should try the special here. It’s really good,” the man said, flashing a grin as he accepted his order.
Scorn didn’t respond, focusing instead on the last bits of his soup.
The two sat in silence for a while, the sounds of the bustling market filling the air. Then, the man broke the quiet.
“You ever wonder if the One Piece series ever finished back in our world?” he asked casually, his tone light, almost playful.
“No way,” Scorn replied without thinking. “Toei’s probably still milking that show for all it’s worth.”
The words hung in the air for a moment.
The atmosphere shifted. The lively chatter of the market seemed to dull, the air growing heavy between the two men.
The stranger slowly turned to Scorn, a wide, knowing grin spreading across his face. “You’re not from this world, are you... Mr. Aizen?”
Scorn froze, his hand tightening around his empty bowl. His voice dropped to a growl as he glared at the man, his tone brimming with suspicion and dread.
“Who in the hell are you?”