Rustle.
His vision was gradually swallowed by darkness.
At the edge of the abyss into which his consciousness was finally sinking, an ancient and mysterious symbol of a hanging man slowly emerged, like the final vision of a drowning man, taking shape upon the last remaining stage of Charles’s mind.
The mark was utterly unfamiliar, yet it carried a chilling sense of recognition from somewhere deep within his blood and soul, as though it had been branded into the very core of his existence from the moment he was born.
“Hunter’s Mark.”
The instant Charles became aware of it, all the vague memories and knowledge associated with the mark suddenly awakened and became clear.
It was the symbol of the Hunter, a covenant forged with the ancient Hunter’s Dream.
Even if he lost all his “Blood Echoes,” so long as he focused his thoughts upon the mark and embraced it, he could break free from the shackles of death and be reborn from the cradle of the Hunter.
Whoosh.
Cold moonlight, flowing like liquid mercury, silently swept away the heavy darkness clouding his consciousness and pulled Charles back into a strange kind of “reality.”
He found himself standing before an impossibly quiet estate, with soft, slightly damp grass beneath his feet.
The air was fresh, carrying faint traces of flowers and old wood.
The bloodshed and madness he had just experienced on the streets of Yharnam now seemed like nothing more than an all-too-vivid Nightmare.
Beside the snow-white marble steps, The Doll, a lifelike silver-haired figure, sat quietly among the flowers.
She wore a dark Gothic dress trimmed with delicate lace.
Her features were flawless, as though carved by a master sculptor, and her long eyelashes rested low as if she were asleep.
Yet she seemed to have been abandoned here by her creator, surrounded by a heartbreaking stillness and solitude.
On the other side of the steps stood several moss-covered stone tombstones arranged neatly in rows, their surfaces gleaming coldly beneath the moonlight.
Before Charles could examine them more closely, a group of pale-skinned children with hollow, eerie features had silently gathered around his feet.
They were the same children he had glimpsed from his hospital bed at Iosefka’s Clinic.
Seeing them again, Charles inexplicably felt the faintest sense of familiarity, though deep down he remained wary and full of questions about the supernatural scene before him.
These pale children, who called themselves “Messengers,” told him plainly that this was a dream world beyond reality, a sanctuary and workshop for Hunters.
And for any traveler visiting the “Hunter’s Dream” for the first time, they would provide the necessary “gifts” to prepare them for the Hunt ahead.
Immediately afterward, they struggled to carry out several weapons gleaming with a cold metallic sheen and presented them for Charles to choose from.
Saw Cleaver.
It featured a unique serpentine folding mechanism.
Once extended, it became a heavy machete capable of tearing through flesh with centrifugal force.
Its serrated edge was especially effective at causing severe blood loss and excelled against monsters warped by flesh and blood.
Hunter Axe.
Sturdy in construction and fitted with a large, heavy blade, it could alter its reach through a built-in mechanism.
It served both as a sharp chopping weapon and a heavy bludgeon, striking with tremendous force.
Threaded Cane.
Elegant in appearance, resembling a T-shaped gentleman’s cane, it concealed a sharp blade within.
Through an ingenious mechanism, it could also split apart and transform into a flexible metal whip with exceptional reach and difficult-to-predict attacks.
Hunter Pistol.
A light and swift single-shot firearm.
Its specially made Quicksilver Bullets could resonate with the wielder’s Hunter’s Blood, greatly increasing their lethality against supernatural monsters.
Hunter Blunderbuss.
A relatively simple but immensely powerful shotgun, best suited for striking multiple targets at close range.
It could likewise be infused with Blood to temporarily increase the force of its shots.
Charles’s gaze moved across these exotic instruments of death.
After a moment of thought, he finally reached for the Threaded Cane and the Hunter Pistol.
The Threaded Cane’s elegance and concealability, together with the Hunter Pistol’s lightness and speed, suited his instinctive preference for skill and agility far better than sheer brute force.
What he did not know was that this first choice, made largely for convenience and elegance, would later cost him dearly when he faced monsters with thick hides and terrifying strength.
The Messengers did more than hand over the weapons.
They also carefully explained how to use them, how their transformation mechanisms worked, and the basics of dodging in combat.
They placed particular emphasis on the importance of a seemingly ordinary “Notebook.”
Through the power of dreams, it served as a vital medium connecting Hunters across the world, allowing them to exchange valuable information and warnings.
Once everything had been settled, the Messengers gathered around Charles like guiding spirits and led him toward the quaint house at the top of the stone steps, where warm light glowed from within.
The furnishings inside were simple.
A gentle flame danced endlessly in the fireplace.
Sitting in a wheelchair was an elderly man whose right leg had been amputated below the knee.
His face was weathered, yet he wore a strangely gentle smile.
“Ah, you must be the new Hunter.” He greeted Charles warmly, his voice rough and mellow like an old pipe.
“Welcome, welcome to the Hunter’s Dream. From now on, this is your home, your workshop, and your sanctuary.”
“Who are you?” Charles studied him in confusion, trying to read something in the old man’s eyes.
“I am… Gehrman. A friend to you lost Hunters. You might say I’m the… caretaker here.” The old man introduced himself haltingly, pausing and trailing off from time to time as though searching through memories from long ago.
“Mr. Gehrman, my name is Charles.” At last, Charles had found someone who appeared rational and capable of holding a normal conversation.
A wave of relief washed over him, and his long-suppressed confusion and agitation drove him to ask question after question.
“What exactly is this place? A moment ago, I was on the streets of Yharnam, being attacked by three… three madmen. I was already…”
“Calm down, calm down, my child.” Gehrman raised a callused hand and gently motioned for him to slow down.
“I know you must feel a little dazed right now, but don’t think too much about it. Just accept it.”
But after everything Charles had experienced, from waking in a hospital bed, to the horrors of the streets, and now this impossible dream, how could he possibly calm down so easily?
He took a deep breath and began recounting everything that had happened since he woke up.
The strange Blood Ministration, his amnesia, the monster inside the clinic, and the completely unprovoked attacks by the residents of Yharnam.
Gehrman seemed to pay no attention to Charles’s rapid explanation.
In an almost numb, matter-of-fact voice, he simply said, “Go hunt some Beasts. It’ll do you good.”
“Why should I hunt Beasts? What exactly counts as a Beast? Scourge Beasts? Or those mad people in the streets? Where am I supposed to hunt them? What is really going on behind all of this…”
Charles could not understand the meaning or purpose behind Gehrman’s words.
Unable to hold back, he kept questioning him, desperate for a clear answer.
Seeing that Charles was still hesitating and pressing him for explanations, the faintest trace of impatience crossed Gehrman’s face.
When he spoke again, his tone left little room for argument.
“Come now, that’s what a Hunter is meant to do! Hunt Beasts, no matter what form they take. You’ll get used to it.”
“That’s what a Hunter has to do? No reason, no choice?” Charles was about to ask more when he looked up and caught a fleeting flash of murderous intent in Gehrman’s eyes.
It vanished almost instantly, but the sensation sent a chill through his spine.
Charles forcibly swallowed the rest of his questions, and his voice unconsciously dropped.
“All right. Fine. I’ll go… Hunt the Beasts.”
“Then go, before the night swallows everything. I need to rest. I’m getting old…”
Gehrman seemed to become a weary old man again in an instant.
Having dismissed him, he leaned back in his wheelchair, closed his eyes, and paid Charles no further attention, as though Charles’s very presence had already disturbed the tranquility of this “dream.”