At that moment, a crystalline die clattered in his mind—this time the Twenty-sided Die of Inspiration (rolled a …) revealed the word Inspiration. Immediately, he heard another die drop—this roll was for Will!
Three… eighteen. Two numbers almost determined simultaneously. The blood-red glow of critical failure swamped his mind once more.
Staggering out of the washroom, his skull still pulsing with stabbing pain, he paid no heed to the Head Maid’s summons for dinner. He had to reach the chapel!
“Master, allow me to help you wash up.” Head Maid Lilith offered him a milk-white bar of soap and a warm, soft towel, snapping him back from his daze.
Harlotte accepted the soap and finished cleansing himself swiftly. He asked to rest a little longer, instructing Lilith to bring his meal to his room.
She left at once to prepare his lunch.
Alone on the chaise lounge, Harlotte pressed his palm to his forehead. He now understood that it wasn’t just the castle or its nonhuman denizens that were wrong—but the world itself.
God is dead. The contamination of the Cthulhu mythos had quietly bent this world’s fabric, overlaying it with rules born of dread. And the fundamental rule of that universe: the more you know, the faster you die. The closer you draw to the world’s truth, the quicker your sanity slips into madness. Even naming or picturing the unknowable drains your remaining reason. Once sanity plunges too rapidly, temporary insanity—or eternal madness—follows.
As a veteran of solo Cthulhu campaigns, I should have died the moment I arrived, he thought ruefully. Praise the Emperor I didn’t.
He realized the horrors he saw yesterday likely stemmed from those four supernatural “paths” he overheard—and his sanity collapse into temporary madness. Or perhaps his madness was ongoing: every unconscious recollection of those nameless entities chipped away at his reason.
He fumed: Dice Maiden, what did you roll? Dammit—why can’t I see the result!
In madness, what he sees may be true… or may be lies. He might still be in that temporary frenzy. Given his own reflection earlier, he certainly looked anything but sane. Yet perhaps a touch of madness wasn’t entirely bad.
Or, just maybe, this castle was ordinary, and his family genuinely cared for him. Madness is mine alone!
He needed to confirm how far gone he was.
The more I know, the less clear everything becomes. He shook his head to dispel the swirl of panic.
Silver door? Mercury-tinted key? Ridiculous—those things can’t exist here. They’re false, all false!
God is dead… but does the church still help? No—there has to be something.
Struggling to his feet, unsteady as ever, he made for the chapel again.
With a bang, he thrust open the heavy door and strode toward the crucified Jesus statue. Just as before, Christ’s hands clasped a real Bible.
Whether by mind-play or miracle, the instant he entered, the compulsive doubts and hallucinatory agony eased. His brain, thrumming with pain since leaving Lorelei’s room, at last felt relief.
Collapsed on the floor, limbs splayed, he lay panting. Only here—within these sacred walls—did his tortured mind find a reprieve. After half an hour, he climbed up and wrested the Bible from the statue’s hands, pulling free the parchment within.
It was real. His mother’s words were there in ink on genuine vellum.
Exhaling long and slow, he knew with certainty: this world had been tainted by eldritch laws, and he was trapped in a solo tabletop-simulation of survival. A bizarre familiarity lent him the calm to think. If there were a mirror, he’d see in his mad eyes something impossible: serenity.
He was now—a calm lunatic. The chapel had bestowed a temporary sanity buff, suppressing his descent into madness.
He murmured to himself, still half in disbelief, “Solo TTRPG… hell difficulty. At least those dice sounds are real and can be triggered. I must discover their pattern.”
There’s still time… the full moon approaches.
As a legendary investigator among peers, Harlotte had run solo horror scenarios before—a game. Now it was his life.
My vantage has shifted from ordinary youth to epic investigator. The horror-fueled fear had waned, replaced by exhilaration.
When facing the unknowable, humanity clings to courage to defy gods, will to endure, and wisdom to perceive.
According to Mother’s note, Captain of the Guard Aila guarantees my safety—she’s among the strongest. If she’s gone, how will I survive?
I must find her and question her directly. With my eighteenth birthday—and the full moon—so close, the rules binding these nonhumans may loosen. In the original timeline, the Head Maid never showed her true form. The full moon is a threshold; if I cross it, I’ve another month to find escape—fail, and all is lost.
Each rule Mother left was interconnected; the nonhumans balanced and constrained each other. That was why the original heir survived so long—because Mother outwitted every supernatural being here.
My unknown mother truly was something else—able to manipulate so many nonhumans in one breath. No wonder she’s called the Fool.
Resolved, Harlotte stepped from the chapel into the courtyard. Only two days remained until the fifteenth—full-moon night. If he did not locate Captain Aila swiftly, his very survival beyond the day after tomorrow was in doubt.
The instant his foot crossed the threshold, the familiar brain-pain and twisted visions surged back. Statues around him curved into grotesque smiles, crimson tears streaking their faces. Their grin chilled him to the bone.
Stay lucid. Stay lucid! he muttered, pounding his forehead with his fist to no avail. Through the illusion came haunting chants—part hymn, part opera—praising some unspeakable, magnificent being. Horrifyingly, he understood every word, though he’d never heard this tongue. He dared not listen—his investigator’s instinct screamed that comprehension here meant deeper madness.
Instinct drove him back inside the chapel. The instant he did, the pain vanished, and the phantoms dissolved. Peering out again, the statues and surround-sound psalmody were gone.
Jesus delivers, he thought in dumb relief.
Even a fool would sense something uncanny about this chapel. The original heir prayed here day and night with no sign of miracles—yet Harlotte spoke one line from the Epistle, and this refuge appeared.
Perhaps it’s not this world’s Jesus guarding me, but my own universe’s Emperor? In that realm, the Emperor was the supreme protector. This world already held tales of God, so the Emperor’s aid here wouldn’t be impossible.
Though uncertain of the chapel’s broader powers, its gift of temporary sanity was astonishing.
Yet he couldn’t camp here forever. His madness was temporary, but its duration unknown—and he had to return to his room before nine-thirty or risk another night of terror that would shatter his final sanity.
Even if he survived tonight, what of tomorrow and the day after? The full moon would pit him against his guardian Aila, friend or foe.
Teeth clenched, his eyes alight with resolve, Harlotte strode out of the chapel. Time was short; even amid hallucinations and cacophony, he had tasks to complete.
Once outside, the pain and noise returned. Gritting his teeth, he searched for any soul nearby—he didn’t know where Captain Aila might be.
The original heir had been so obedient, knowing only a few castle locations. The Captain didn’t sleep here in the main fortress but in an annex below.
Determined, Harlotte decided to find a guard or maid to ask Aila’s whereabouts.
Though few visited the chapel, the castle grounds were busy. He soon spotted a young maid hurrying with a basket of meat.
When he called her, she froze at the sight of the master, then mechanically bowed deeply. But when she lifted her gaze, he saw the terror in her eyes—understandable, for his face was pale, eyes blood-shot and wild.
“Do you know where the Captain of the Guard is? If you do, take me to her!” he rasped, each word clawed out between convulsions of pain and intrusive illusions.
He didn’t know how long he could hold on, but he had to get that information.
“S-she’s… dining now, sir. This meat is for her meal. If you wish to see her, I can guide you,” the maid stammered.
As they moved away from the chapel, the hymns praising the unknowable grew louder, drowning normal sound.
“Take me… please.”
The maid lowered her head and hurried ahead, leading him toward the kitchens.
The castle’s dining hall lay in the annex beneath the fortress, served by two kitchens: the large one for servants and guards, and a smaller one for Harlotte and his siblings. Captain Aila favored the bustling large hall over the quiet family quarters.
Entering the vast dining room, Harlotte’s hallucinations peaked: he saw a mountain of flesh, a monstrous wolf devouring gore amidst severed limbs and rivers of blood and brain matter—the very visage of hell.
Yet he knew these were phantoms. Forcing calm, he followed the maid toward where the grotesque wolf appeared to prowl—each step on the sanguine flesh floor echoing with wet, sickening squelches.