Although Charles had agreed, he did not act rashly.
He retreated to a dim corner of the room far from the fireplace, sat against the cold stone wall, and tried to untangle his thoughts, which were knotted together like a hopeless ball of yarn.
The moment he entered, he had noticed that the seemingly modest log cabin was littered with dusty books, scrolls, and loose manuscripts.
Perhaps somewhere among these forgotten records were fragments of the truth about this world that he was searching for.
To the left of the entrance stood a sturdy solid-wood bookshelf spanning the entire wall, crammed with all kinds of books, some crudely bound and others exquisitely made.
Charles moved quietly, leafing through them with the care of a thief, his fingertips brushing over yellowed, brittle pages.
At last, in one handwritten manuscript, he found some background information about the “Hunter’s Dream”:
This mysterious realm known as the Hunter’s Dream was like a resting chamber where gladiators of old could catch their breath between bloody battles.
When a Hunter died in the outside world, or needed to rest or reinforce their equipment, they could return here through special “Lanterns” scattered throughout Yharnam.
The discovery left Charles deeply shaken.
Things that belonged only in fantasy novels had become the brutal reality his survival now depended on.
The cold Headstones on the steps outside were not places of rest at all, but portals leading to specific locations throughout Yharnam.
However, a Hunter first had to light or activate the corresponding special Lantern in an area before establishing a connection with the Headstone and using it.
At present, the only Headstone available to him was the one connected to the first-floor lobby of Iosefka’s Clinic.
Opposite the bookshelf stood a row of enormous mahogany storage cabinets built into the wall, specifically intended for Hunters to store loot and surplus supplies.
Together, they were known as the “Hunter’s Storage.”
The Messengers told Charles that even while hunting outside, he could send important items back to this secure storage through certain Messengers.
Even more conveniently, the pale little creatures would attach a brief explanation of each collected item’s function.
For example, the dark red “Blood Vial” was a fast-acting healing medicine made from blood blessed by the Church, capable of rapidly healing serious injuries.
In Yharnam, repeatedly receiving this blood made people feel filled with strength and could even lead to dependence.
Charles immediately thought of the madman whose head had been split open by a brick, only for him to quickly recover enough to fight as though nothing had happened.
He must have used a Blood Vial immediately.
As for “Quicksilver Bullets,” they had to be mixed with the special blood within a Hunter’s body to unleash their mysterious power, because ordinary lead bullets were nearly useless against monsters nourished by blessed, or perhaps cursed, blood.
Their ultimate power depended entirely on the quality of the blood that fueled them and the purity of the wielder’s Bloodtinge.
Charles silently committed this life-or-death information to memory.
He intended to collect as many of these vital supplies as possible in the future.
It was used to strengthen, modify, and maintain weapons.
On a nearby stone platform lay a detailed instruction manual, complete with illustrations explaining how to use “Blood Echoes” and specific materials to increase a weapon’s power.
At the center of the deepest part of the building stood a slightly elevated stone platform bearing an ancient-looking altar carved with intricate patterns resembling the “Hunter’s Mark.” Unfortunately, its central ritual implements appeared to be missing.
Only a few grooves and pedestals remained, their purpose unclear for the time being.
In a shadowed corner behind the altar lay a carelessly stacked pile of dust-covered scrolls and discarded manuscripts.
As Charles crouched down and carefully leafed through the fragile pages, an unsigned, folded letter slipped out from among them.
He unfolded it and found a message written in hurried, scrawling handwriting:
“To escape this dreadful Hunter’s Dream, one must eliminate the source that allows the Scourge of Beasts to continue spreading, lest the night shroud the world forever.”
The Hunter’s Dream isn’t safe either!
I’ll have to leave eventually!
Charles’s heart lurched as he read the words, and a chill crawled up his spine.
He had thought this place was a refuge from Yharnam’s bloody madness, only to discover that it harbored unknown rules and dangers of its own.
It might even be another prison, merely a more elaborate one.
He stole a glance at Gehrman, who still seemed to be dozing, his breathing steady.
Charles quickly crumpled the note that revealed the truth, or at least part of it, and stuffed it into an inner pocket, forcing down the unease and suspicion churning inside him.
As long as he remained under someone else’s roof, he had to be careful in everything he did.
Determined to uncover the truth and escape this strange place as soon as possible, Charles hesitated no longer.
He rose at once and headed toward the cold teleportation Headstones outside.
…
Standing before the first, and currently only, faintly glowing Headstone, Charles quietly recited the strange prayer exactly as the Messengers had taught him.
The runes across the surface of the Headstone lit up one after another with a ghostly blue glow, opening the passage to Iosefka’s Clinic.
A moment later, a strange humming filled the air, accompanied by faint, almost imperceptible sobbing.
Several Messengers emerged from the ground, releasing a soft yet icy light that enveloped him.
After a brief sensation of weightlessness and distortion, Charles came back to himself.
The cold stone floor had replaced the grass of the Dream, and he once again found himself surrounded by the familiar, oppressive atmosphere of the clinic’s ground floor.
Taking a deep breath of air heavy with the smell of blood and mildew, Charles pushed open the clinic’s front door and stepped onto the streets of Yharnam once more.
As he approached the place where he had been attacked earlier, his pace slowed involuntarily.
An instinctive vigilance born of muscle memory took over before conscious thought could give the order. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
His fingers instinctively and precisely closed around the transformation mechanism of the Threaded Cane.
The movement was smooth and practiced, as though he had performed it thousands of times over countless days and nights, through countless battles.
With a crisp metallic click, the intricate joints within the cane extended, lengthened, and locked into place.
In an instant, it became a flexible segmented metal whip lined with sharp serrated edges, like a deadly serpent covered in thorns, hissing in his hand as it waited to strike.
Sure enough, something stirred in the shadows.
Charles snapped his wrist without the slightest hesitation.
The whip shot forward like a venomous snake lunging from its den, slicing through the air and wrapping precisely around the neck of a thug who had just emerged from behind an abandoned wagon with a large axe raised.
Charles yanked him forward like a fish caught on a line.
As the man’s eyes widened from suffocation and terror, Charles raised the Hunter Pistol in his other hand and pulled the trigger without hesitation.
“Bang!”
The Quicksilver Bullet, mixed with Charles’s blood, unleashed tremendous power at point-blank range and brought the brief encounter to an abrupt end.
He immediately turned toward the other enemies drawn by the gunshot.
First, he fired at the thug rushing toward him with a Torch, knocking him back.
At the same time, Charles flicked his wrist and swiftly retracted the whip into its compact cane form, using the motion to deflect a pitchfork swung at him from the side.
Without pause, he drove a powerful side kick into the off-balance enemy in front of him, sending the man sprawling into a murky roadside puddle.
Then, with the weapon still in cane form, Charles wielded it like a short sword and drove it through the man’s chest with cold precision.
Warm blood splattered across the back of his hand, repaying the earlier ambush.
The enemy who had been shot in the shoulder and tried to flee did not escape either.
Charles quickly caught up with him and smashed the metal end of the cane into the back of his skull, killing him on the cold street.
As he searched the bodies, Charles got a clear look at the Yharnam residents and saw just how different they were from people in the outside world.
They were generally unnaturally tall and thin, with long, slender arms and thick, coarse body hair.
Most unsettling of all were their eyes.
Their pupils were murky, resembling the yolks of spoiled eggs.
“They look strange. Maybe it’s because of the environment they live in… or a side effect of Blood Ministration? Either way, that’s not something I need to worry about right now.”
He pocketed the few Blood Vials and Quicksilver Bullets he had found and gave the matter no further thought.