”You two, give me a hand.” One by one, the shower’s debris were swiftly removed, revealing a large tungsten surface with a handle at its border, and Casimir, using the strength of his big arms, easily lifted the trapdoor. Beneath it, a dark hole stretched downward, featuring a set of metallic stairs offering sinners the chance to reach Hell on their own.
After exchanging glances, the trio began their descent, climbing down for at least ten minutes before finally reaching the underground gallery at the bottom. The rush of water echoed beneath the copper-paved floor, each step ringing out through the secret chamber like an eerie drumbeat. “This isn’t like the sewers or the ’MIMT’s’ Underground,” Jacques explained, trailing his fingers along the wall. “It looks a lot older, but…it’s cleaner—not a single speck of dust.” The walls were formed from three curved tin plates, fitted almost seamlessly together to create a cylindrical tunnel where each segment was stacked like a vertebra in a spine.
No smell again…even in this cesspool…
”Someone built this monstrosity right in the middle of the Academy, and no one ever noticed?” Derserk pointed out. ”It sounds a little far-fetched, doesn’t it? I mean, I’ve heard that the Miraval Institute of Magic and Technology goes deeper than this place could possibly reach.”
I have this strange feeling like…I’m returning home after a long time.
Himself whispered, lost in his now-resurfacing memories.
”Well, as my father always says—‘stop talking and start milking’—shall we?” Casimir pointed forward, and the trio advanced into the darkness, their way lit only by a very old model of Magicbulbs flickering along the ceiling. However, their journey was short because the tunnel ended abruptly—no side passages, no hidden trapdoors, not even a vent—blocking their path, three times the height of the ’Scarecrow,’ was a slab of pure tungsten worth millions of Marini—it seemed that a bank’s security vault was hiding beneath their dormitory the whole time.
”The fun is over,” Casimir declared after knocking a few times on the massive vault door, whistling at the symphony of echoes his hits produced. ”My uncle Verservic is an expert at opening safes. At night, we used to crack thousands together, helping poor bank managers who just happened to forget their keys.” He smiled out of nostalgia, but his expression quickly shifted to one of puzzlement. ”But this? A keyless lock on such an old model? I’m amazed.” He glanced at his friends, who looked even more confused than before.
”You see, a Pascal Lock doesn’t use a traditional mechanism, requiring, instead, the exact frequency of a specific type of Radiation to unlock. The simplest models can be opened with a musical instrument or even a chant, as long as it produces the right symphony. The more advanced ones demand a cutting-edge tech that can emit an actual Radiation.”
Casimir gave a strong kick to the bottom of the tungsten door, and after a faint click, a portion of the vault slid open, revealing a small embedded keyboard. ”In this case, this big safe can only be opened with the correct password. But…” He rubbed the back of his head, apologetically. ”…I’ve opened way more advanced safes, but to crack any Pascal Lock, you need some very specific tools. My uncle made most of ours himself because they’re not exactly sold at your neighborhood hardware store, and, unfortunately, I didn’t bring any with me.” He raised his hands apologetically. ”So for now, I’m afraid I can’t crack it. But maybe, the password’s hidden somewhere in the dormitory—let’s search for it!” Casimir proposed, and Derserk nodded because there wasn’t really another option, and, maybe, he could search for the password inside the books in his room. However, Jacques…
”Ahem…Casimir, let me try for a second,” Jacques announced as he stepped toward the keyboard, typing in a specific phrase—
’The Big Bad Wolf.’
A loud mechanical clank echoed through the tunnel, and then the massive tungsten door began to slide upward, vanishing into the space above.
”How the hell did you know that?” Derserk asked, stunned.
”Yeah, that was insane—how?” Casimir joined the awe.
”Ahem…standard backup password for this model. Hd. Miraval has the same one in his office,” Jacques cut short, and, without uttering another word, the three of them embraced the light beyond the door.
”Looks comfy.” Everyone agreed with Casimir as they stepped into a spacious apartment—by Miraval City standards, of course. Half of the chamber was an open-plan living space—kitchen, bedroom, and lounge all combined into one ample room—the other half was a fully equipped engineering workshop—filled with hundreds of tools, an old drafting board with a yellowed blueprint still pinned to it, and several aging machines—and the door of a small bathroom could be found right in the middle—it was, by far, more than any of the three Class F students could dream of affording with their wages. ”What about living here?” The ’Scarecrow’ proposed while poking around the workshop and running his fingers over anything interesting.
”It’d be a massive improvement.” The ’Gravedigger’ removed his red-round glasses, and for the first time in eight years, the world looked no different from its filtered version.
”The bathroom looks clean, and the shower actually works!” The ’Javelinist’ cheered, nearly brought to tears by the end of his long servitude under the tyrannical regime of the public bathrooms. ”We have to live here!”
Then, the exploration of the hidden sanctuary continued. Derserk sank into a red couch in front of a faux fireplace, chilling in the comforting warmth of its bluish flame—an illusion provided by the room’s Hydro-system. Jacques tested the bed, bouncing lightly on the mattress and foretasting the pleasure he had lost the moment he left the Free City of Maria—a good night’s sleep. Casimir, however, remained fixated on the workshop since many of the tools scattered throughout it reminded the young man of his grandfather’s. Nevertheless, his attention was soon caught by the room’s main attraction. ”This is so cool…Do you guys have any idea what this is?” He pointed to a massive workstation integrated into the wall, resembling a compact distillery—copper pots, stills, pressure gauges, a system of winding pipes, and even a whole oven connected to its side.
”A little old, for sure, but not that bad,” Derserk commented as Jacques rummaged through a stack of metal boxes next to the workstation. ”Looks like some kind of alchemy setup. It could be useful for our course.”
”Yeah, Jellyserk, you’re not wrong. This bad boy was built for alchemy, just a very specific type of it.” Jacques tossed at him one of the many small packs within the tungsten containers, all about the size of a cigarette one. ”Narcotics.”
”Are you serious?” Derserk asked, catching the package midair.
”Dead serious. We’ve just stumbled onto something even the Stasi wasn’t able to find—the secret lab where Imperfect Paradise was first produced—this little oven has claimed millions of lives.” Jacques straightened his posture and gave the machine a military salute, paying his respects to the patriot that had saved the ’HRE’ from the Red Insurrection.
”Then I don’t think it’s a good idea to let you live here.”
”For the last time, Casimir—I’ve changed. And even if my self-control slips, I still don’t have the secret ingredient to make the drug. No one—not even Class D with specialized [Skills]—has ever figured out what has to be added to Manalamine to synthesize Imperfect Paradise, and, definitely, I’m definitely not going to be the first to do so.” The ‘Scarecrow’ frowned, still unconvinced, but in the end decided to give his teammate the benefit of the doubt.
”Wait a minute,” Derserk mumbled, pointing at the drafting board. ”I don’t remember seeing that before…” There, fully unrolled and pinned under metal weights, was a blueprint, its surface was smeared with something grotesque—a message written in fresh blood.
Unknown guest, it is with joy that I welcome you to my sweet home. However, I must apologize for the inconvenience because if you are reading this---I am already dead.
Who am I? Just a naive man who once dreamed of freeing humanity from its Original Sin. You can call me---the 'Entropist.' I studied, I researched, and I committed every kind of unspeakable act to realize that dream. The end justifies the means---that’s what I believed as I sacrificed my life, my family, and my friends. In the end, I lost everything, but maybe that’s why I was able to find her---the Mold.
She offered that hopeless soul a deal---the knowledge I needed, in exchange for chaining our destinies for eternity. A fool I was, shaking her hand, thinking that selling my soul would be worth a couple of decades of hard work. Nevertheless, the Mold upheld the agreement flawlessly. She guided me step by step, helping me see the flaws in my calculations and leading me to the coronation of my dream. I’ll never forget the expressions on my detractors’ faces as they witnessed the discovery of the Imperfect Temple. From outcast to cornerstone of the scientific academy in mere weeks---all thanks to the Mold.
My newfound success brought me men, resources, and the connections I needed to proceed to the second step of my dream---founding a society of gentlemen who shared my vision. Yet, the more I uncovered, the more problems surfaced, and each time, instead of facing my flaws, I turned to the Mold for guidance, sinking deeper and deeper into her warm embrace. At first, I felt uneasy if I was away from her for three or four hours, but within a few years, I couldn’t bear to leave her side. I locked myself away in this lab, and now, I can’t even remember thelast time the sun kissed my skin. She is killing me, but I can no longer live without her.
Don’t get me wrong---I would gladly immolate myself inside the 'Golden Bull' for the sake of my dream. However, everything I sacrificed for has now been desecrated. The more my project grew, the more it attracted parasites---men who saw my discoveries as nothing more than tools for profit.
Priceless relics were auctioned off, the jamming system I built to protect our operations was repurposed to mask their crimes, and worst of all, the experimental explosive I developed to safely dislodge stone from the sacred ruins is now killing millions of innocents across the 'HRE.'
When I tried to stop them, they murdered my loyal men and shut down my operations, blackmailing me to cooperate if I wanted to see my dream realized. I refused, and now, I have nothing left but the Mold. So why endure life…when I can join her in the eternal sunshine of the Mold Kingdom?
If you, dear guest, are one of those pieces of shit, then you’re wasting your time---all my atoms now belong to her. If you’re not, do what you came to do, and then run as fast and as far as you can, but most importantly---DON’T OPEN THAT DOOR!
*THUMB!*
A heavy sound echoed through the underground shelter, causing all three young men to turn around abruptly. The source of that sound was at the other side of the room, a massive tungsten door sealed with thirty-seven different locks, each engraved with glowing runes, and written across its surface in fresh blood were the words—DON’T OPEN. MOLD INSIDE.
“W-was…was that door there…the whole time?” Casimir stammered, pointing at it with a trembling hand.
“I-I inspected the e-entire room three t-times, but…I swear that I’ve never seen that,” Derserk’s heart pounding like a war drum.
“Are you two blind?” Jacques replied, confused by their expressions. “Sure, the design is a little edgy, but it’s a perfect way to break the ice for guests.” He shrugged at their frightened faces. “Anyway, since there’s only one bed, we need to figure out who gets it.”
“No thanks…I pass,” Casimir spoke quickly, still keeping his distance from the door that was calling for him with such intensity.
Derserk, if what’s behind that door is who I think it is, tomorrow might be the last day we ever hear about Jacques.
“You can have this room. Your old one is destroyed, after all.”
“Thanks, guys. You two are truly my best friends,” Jacques beamed at them.
Eheh…fucking idiots.
***
The first sleep in his new room was also the first decent rest Jacques had enjoyed since leaving the Free City of Maria. Although the bed, pillow, and sheets were decades old, they were clean, soft, and warm—an undeniable upgrade from the old roach fortress—and the quality of his rest was well-reflected in his dreams. The 'Javelinist' dreamt of becoming the God President of Maria—just being a mere dictator for life simply wasn’t enough to satisfy his ego—and his first executive order was to eliminate his cousin Valentino in a very vicious way.
From the grand balcony of Palazzo del Popolo, overlooking La Piazzetta Bella, thousands of Marians sang hymns in praise of their new ruler. Jacques waved to the crowd, breathing in his newfound power as he proclaimed Valentino a Persona Non Grata. In modern diplomatic terms, it was merely a diplomatic ban. However, in the old good days, it meant something a little different—the total abolition of a person’s rights within a nation’s domain. In short, any crime, including murder, could be legally committed against the designated outcast by any citizen who wished to.
Valentino’s desperate screams, his pleas, and his sobbing cries for mercy as the mob descended upon him only made Jacques’s satisfied smile grow wider—both in the dream and in reality. Without a doubt, it was the best dream he had ever had.
*CRACK!*
One of the thirty-seven locks on the sealed door snapped open, flying straight into Jacques’s face. The impact rattled through his skull, reflecting in his dream as a failed assassination attempt on the God-President.
*CRACK* *CRACK* *CRACK*
More locks burst free, each one slamming into the head of the sleeping wannabe dictator, and after the thirty-sixth failed assassination attempt, the tyrant was finally killed—abruptly waking him.
”What the fuck!” The ’Javelinist’ shouted, staring in disbelief at the broken locks now scattered across his blanket. Then, a grimmer doubt arose in his mind—the light was off, so how could he see them? As he raised his sight, he got his answer. From that blood-stained door emerged what could only be described as a concert of colored lights.
Aurora Borealis!? Before the Imperfect Winter, without the Romantic Moon in the sky, and localized entirely within this bunker!? I must take a photo, or Kaz and Jellyserk will never believe me.
However, as soon as Jacques placed his feet on the ground, he was stopped by a voice coming from that door.
”Jacques. Rinaldo. ’Javelinist.’ Whoever you are—I’M COMING FOR YOU!” A heavy thump echoed through the room as a massive black handprint appeared onto the ceiling right above the door, its shadow claws tearing into the tungsten as if it were paper. Another print followed, then another, each one closer, forming a trail of distorted stains now headed toward Jacques. ”Kneel, beg, and swear everlasting obedience to the Mold Kingdom, or only your body will become part of me, while your consciousness fades into oblivion.” As the Mold spoke, the vault door rocked back and forth in rhythm, simulating lips, giving the ’Javelinist’ a brilliant idea.
“[BasicJavelin].” She shrieked as a bluish and roughly-shaped javelin slipped through the narrow opening of the ajar door. Then, Jacques heard his weapon strike something inside, followed by a thud, and then just silence—the handprints vanished, the unnatural glow dissipated, and the door shut closed—night had returned.
“Waaah! Waaah! Waaah! You hit me, it hurts—YOU MONSTER! ” The sobs of the Eldritch Abomination echoed through the room, mimicked by the erratic and trembling movements of the door.
“No one disturbs me when I sleep,” Jacques growled, raising his middle finger toward the door. “Especially not some dumb squatter who doesn’t pay her rent.”
“…W-why aren’t you a-afraid of me?” The Mold whimpered.
“Paranoid? Absolutely. Insecure? Always have been. Anxious? It’s called having a job. But afraid? Nah…that’s completely irrationaaaaaal.” Jacques yawned. “Now shut the fuck up—I’ve got to sleep.” However, no matter how tightly he shut his eyes or how deeply he buried himself under the blankets, sleep wouldn’t come. “Are you happy now? I’m going to be a zombie at work tomorrow, and it’s all your fault—shame on you.” He turned on the light, looking for something to help him fall asleep, and his eyes landed on a dusty book sitting on the shelf beside the bed.
Better than nothing, I guess.
The cover was bizarre, a true oddity in the current age. It wasn’t printed but painted, in the archaic style of the Dark Century, when flat 2D shapes reigned and depth was nonexistent, looking almost cartoonish to the modern eye. It depicted thirty-six humanoid figures—humans with beast heads—marching like pilgrims while enduring gruesome tortures. On the far right of the cover, three prominent figures led the procession—a burning man-bull carrying a portrait of a beautiful woman on his back; a lion-skeleton waving a flag adorned with a radiant red sun; and a headless figure standing on a rock, pointing resolutely ahead like a general. However, there was also a thirty-seventh figure, lust-eying at his prey on the far left of the cover—a big bad wolf.
Jacques frowned as he read the book’s title. It was infamous, one of the few true anathemas left in the modern world. A text so dangerous that mere possession could lead to execution without trial—Hunter’s Paradise.
”Looks interesting. Can you read it to me?” The Eldritch Abomination implored from behind the bloos-stained door.
”You can’t judge a book by its cover. Besides, I’m not reading anything to you until you start paying rent like everyone else.”
”Please! Pleaseeeee! PLEASEEEEEEEEEEE!”
”Ugh, fine! But only if you promise to let me sleep afterward.”
”YEAH!!!”
