“Just then, the sound of a crystalline die clattering to the floor echoed in his mind, and at its center appeared the word Inspiration. Almost immediately, another clatter rang out—this time the roll was for Will!
The numbers three and eighteen were determined almost simultaneously. Once more, the crimson glow of a critical failure flared in Harlotte’s consciousness.
Stumbling out of the washroom, his head still pulsing with sharp pains, he ignored the call of the head maid to come eat. He—he had to get to the chapel!
“Master, allow me to help you wash up.” Head Maid Lilith offered him a milky-white bar of soap, interrupting his daze. In her other hand she held a warm, soft towel.
Harlotte took the soap and quickly finished his ablutions. Then he asked to rest a little longer and instructed Head Maid Lilith to bring his meal to his room when it was ready.
Head Maid Lilith soon departed to prepare his luncheon.
Alone, Harlotte sank into the chaise lounge and pressed his hand to his forehead. He finally understood: it wasn’t just the castle or its inhuman denizens that were wrong—it was this entire world.
God is dead. The taint of the Cthonic gods had quietly warped everything, importing eldritch rules into this realm. And the most fundamental Cthonic rule was: the more you know, the faster you die. The closer you came to the world’s truth, the more swiftly your sanity unraveled. Even knowing the names or images of those unknowable entities eroded one’s mind. Once sanity plunged too far, one fell into temporary madness—or permanent madness.
Unluckily, as a veteran of solo Call of Cthulhu campaigns, Harlotte understood the Mythos all too well. Surviving the instant he crossed over was already the Emperor’s blessing.
Indeed, praising the Emperor at once after a crossing was wise: if this world was Terra, the Emperor protected you; if not Terra, you should be grateful he hadn’t sent you there.
He realized that the visions he’d seen a day ago likely sprung from his sanity tanking the moment he’d heard those four transcendent paths—temporary madness induced by critical failures. Dice Maiden, how many points did you roll? Damn it—why can’t I see the result?
In madness, what he saw might not be real—or might be.
He might even still be in a temporary frenzy. His expression moments ago certainly belonged to no sane person. Yet in his current ordeal, perhaps a touch of madness wasn’t so bad.
Of course, there was another possibility: the castle was just a castle, and his family merely cared for him.
Madness belonged to him—him alone. He needed to be sure he had already gone insane!
He could not tell. From the moment he resolved to confirm his own madness, that thought sprouted like a weed, overwhelming him. The more he knew, the less he could distinguish!
A silver door? A silver key? Preposterous—such things couldn’t exist here. It’s all false!
God is dead. The chapel—could it help? Yes, it must help.
Struggling to his feet, unsteady, he made his way to the chapel once more.
With a fierce thud, he threw open the great door and strode straight to the statue of Christ. As before, the crucified Savior clasped a real Bible in His hands.
Perhaps it was psychological, but the instant he crossed the threshold, the gnawing doubt and madness ebbed somewhat; he felt a clear relaxation of spirit.
He collapsed onto the floor, limbs splayed, and the steady throb in his brain sent a comforting signal. Since leaving Lorelei’s chamber, that pain had persisted.
It seemed that only upon leaving his sister’s room did his madness fully strike—and only then did he recognize it.
Gasping for breath, Harlotte lay for a full half-hour before forcing himself up. Shaking, he took the Bible from Christ’s hands and withdrew the vellum sheet inside.
It was real—truly his mother’s writing.
Exhaling deeply, he now felt certain: this world bore the corruption of Cthonic rules, and he was playing a single-player tabletop simulation. A strange familiarity lent him the calm to think. Were there a mirror, he would see in his wild eyes an impossible thing: serenity.
He was now a calm madman… as though the chapel had bestowed upon him a calming buff, momentarily suppressing his frenzied mind.
Of this, Harlotte was unaware; he continued muttering to himself.
“A solo tabletop campaign is hellish difficulty. Thankfully, those dice sounds I heard are real, and I can trigger them at will—but their pattern remains to be deciphered.”
“Full moon… it’s almost upon us.”
As a fabled investigator among his peers, Harlotte had run solo campaigns before—but that had been mere pastime. Now it was life or death.
Strangely, his fear and despair at first had been overwhelming, but now they had given way to exhilaration: his perspective had shifted from ordinary youth to legendary investigator!
When facing those unspeakable beings, humanity’s allies were courage to challenge the gods, the will to persevere, and the wisdom to see all.
“According to Mother’s note, Captain Eira is to safeguard me—she should be among the strongest fighters here. If she were gone, how could I stay safe?”
“No—this matter requires confronting Captain Eira directly, and… with my eighteenth birthday approaching, the restrictions on inhuman entities may loosen. In the original’s memories, the head maid never revealed her inhuman form. The full moon is a threshold; pass it, and there remains one month to find a path to life. Fail it, and all is lost.”
At first, his mind had been muddled by the crossing, but now Mother’s scrap felt interlinked: no rule stood alone, and the inhuman were in balance and contention with one another.
This, perhaps, was why the original had survived so long—though bound by Mother’s covenant, any single entity could have slain him. Only their mutual checks kept him alive.
Harlotte thought: My unseen mother truly was extraordinary, devising such a scheme. No wonder she managed to pit so many inhuman beings against one another—absurdly brilliant.
All I can say is, my mother possessed the fool’s audacity.