Unlike most Auxerine Châteaux, the official residence of S-Class ’Infinitesimal Etymologist’ Hero Alfredo de Miraval was not a primitive attempt at Dungeon Programming, but a true artificial dimension, enclosed within a mansion perched atop the hill that crowned Royal Island. If the Hunter’s Hell was the last Dungeon left unconquered, L’éternel Oubli was the last left to be understood, and no words can truly capture the worlds contained within those oak walls, draped in yellow and red ivy.
To fully comprehend the complexity of the building, one must first grasp the axiom on which its Programming is based—only one room may exist at the same time. What does this mean? L’éternel Oubli contains millions—perhaps billions—of draftable chambers, yet only one can exist within the Dungeon at any given moment, and when a new door is opened, the previous room vanishes completely, making it impossible to go back. Nonetheless, every chamber always contains two equal doors–the Southern Door that always leads outside the Dungeon, and the Northern door, which always opens into Alfredo’s studio, the so-called Hint Room, a place where the player may relax before continuing the game. Any additional doors—whether on the sides, in the ceiling, on the floor, or even concealed within a mirror—lead to Puzzle Rooms, each containing one of the many riddles left by the ’Infinitesimal Etymologist’ before his mysterious disappearance.
The game is simple—the player must solve puzzle after puzzle till the Treasure Room, where, according to Hero Alfredo’s last letter, lies the key to World’s End Secret.
“Looks fun. We should play it together.” After reading the tourist billboard, Jacques made his proposal to the sons and daughters of four of the most powerful people in the Holy Rolandish Empire. Their reactions varied in cadence yet were homogenous in substance, which shouldn’t have surprised him.
“Aheh…Jacques, you probably don’t know, but among many intellectual circles this is a very hot topic. Why? Because the greatest minds of our Empire have tried and failed to conquer this Dungeon for the mind for almost two thousand years.” Chad explained, although his words did nothing to quench the fire in his friend’s eyes.
“Are you afraid, my Emperor?” The ’Javelinist’ extended his hand, daring him to accept the challenge. “If you are truly the hero of prophecy, beating this game would be one hell of an advertisement for your legend.”
The ’Hero’ failed to suppress his smirk. “You always know where and how to strike me, don’t you?” Flashing a smile, he shook Jacques’ hand firmly. “Ok, Bro, let’s do it toge—” But before he could finish, Chad was abruptly yanked away by the ear.
“Are you forgetting why we’re here?!” Astary snapped, her voice and skin hot red with fury. Then, after a loud lecture on his duties as Scion of the Holy Rolandish Empire, the group moved on toward the museum at the foot of L’éternel Oubli’s hill.
***
“Thirty-seven seems like a rather short amount of time to create the entire universe, doesn’t it?” Astary remarked, her large and golden eyes fixed on the flagship exhibit of the museum.
Since several hours still remained before the announcement, the staff granted their future Emperor and his companions a private tour of the building, which was organized by chronological epochs, and the first hall was naturally about Humanity’s first era—the Adamic Age.
This era spanned from The Creation—estimated at approximately thirty-seven billion years before the birth of Hero Roland—to Adam’s Ascension—somewhere between 100,000 B.R. and 10,000 B.R., although the precise dating remained a subject of fierce speculation and debates—and to emphasize how little modern Rolandish civilization truly knew about its roots, the museum chose to turn off the lights and let the chamber be illuminated only by dim Magicbulbs that shone beneath the few relics ever recovered from that age—-mostly broken pottery and fragments of Euralian Marble statues. However, there was one prominent exception. A massive mural about The Creation that sprawled across an entire wall of the room, which, despite how vivid the figures it depicted, was thousands of years old—its age determined through Hydrocarbon Dating.
It had been discovered during a daring speleological expedition into the deepest recesses of the Euralian caves, and transporting it from thousands of meters below ground to the surface had required one of the most extraordinary feats of engineering in recorded history. Afterward, following a chaotic poker match between Rinaldo Di Mario and Admiral Blodmåne, the oldest surviving work of art ever discovered finally found its home in the Miraval Museum.
“Atheist rhetoric is dangerous for people in our position.” Anicet’s inquisitive stare drilled into the mosaic, unearthing its most hidden secrets. “And for the record, recent studies on the Shurapatri’s writings suggest that the number thirty-seven was merely a metaphor for infinity. Hence, a more accurate translation would be—’in an incalculable number of days, Adam created the universe.’ Doesn’t this version sound more logical?”
Astary’s skin shimmered with a greenish hue as she gave him an intrigued look. “Using a number as small as thirty-seven to represent infinity? Sounds a little far-fetched, doesn’t it?”
Anicet met her shining gaze with his usual dead stare without faltering. “A century ago, a very wealthy man was called a millionaire. Today, we prefer the term billionaire. In the following century, people will likely call them trillionaires. Hence, let’s trace this chain backward to start, to a society that had just been expelled from a paradise on earth, only to become slaves of the Chaotic Gods and forced by them to tame the most dangerous of places. Now imagine one of their loyal dogs, rewarded for betraying his kind with thirty-seven houses, wives, and herds. Then imagine the opposite. Imagine being a poor and sick slave. Imagine the empty plate on your table. Imagine the agonized bellows of your starving stomach. Imagine powerlessly staring at the skeletal bodies of your soon-to-be-dead children. Under those circumstances, wouldn’t you agree that thirty-seven is infinitely greater than zero?”
The ’Shining Star’ beamed—in both meanings of the word. “Most of the so-called smart people I know simply accumulate knowledge, treating books like infallible gods and taking every word as divine truth, while forgetting that they were written by imperfect beings called humans. But you’re different, Anicet. You don’t stop at the façade, using these words as clues to uncover the true heart of the author. So…” She played with her fingers. ”Would it bother you if I asked to study together sometime?”
Although a storm of butterflies swirled in his stomach, Anicet’s expression didn’t waver. Instead, he released them all in a single deep breath. “It would be a unique opportunity to strengthen the bonds between our nations. Hence, for the sake of my people, I am willing to do what I must.” Her light shone like the first dawn of spring.
As their ancestors had done thousands of years before, the group migrated from Euralia to Chaotia, discovering the wonders, mysteries, and tragedies of the second era of human history—the Chaotic Age.
This era stretched from the First Landing at the Gulf of Roots of the Twelve Chaotic Arcs built by the Chaotic Gods to fulfill Adam’s Will—approximately 100,000 B.R. to 10,000 B.R.—and ended with the Thousand-Year Requiem—-approximately 10,000 B.R. to 1,000 B.R.. Strangely, historians knew even less about this era than the one before, with one notable exception—the Shurapatri.
“How often do you think about the Shurapatri Triumvirate?” Chad asked as his eyes wandered throughout the hall, captivated by the marvels of a civilization that had furnished almost completely the museum’s displays about the second era. From the first books on philosophy to the earliest siege machines ever conceived, the remnants of a society that felt like a living anachronism—a modern nation flourishing in such an ancient age.
“At least three times a day,” Jacques replied. “Did you know they trained rats to keep their sewers clean?”
“Doesn’t the Miraval Family do the same thing in this city?”
“Trust me, bro—the biggest lie ever.”
Following the museum’s logic, the next section was dedicated to the Twilight Age, which stretched from the founding of the Twilight Madness by Chaotia’s new sole ruler, the Twilight Queen—approximately 9,999 B.R. to 999 B.R.—and ended with her defeat at the hands of Hero Roland, who built the Roland’s Empire upon her Dominion’s ashes—Year of Our Hero Roland. Yet, before reaching the Twilight Hall, one had to walk through a long corridor, adorned on both sides with Chaotia’s most precious gems.
“For having been here for two thousand years, the condition of these portraits is surprisingly good,” Katrina remarked, stopping herself to admire the dozens of life-sized paintings that hung from the walls. Hyperrealistic at the center yet dissolving into abstraction at the edges, each depicted a gorgeous young woman seated on a throne, adorned in gowns that resembled those from a fairy tale.
“So, these are the famous Twilight Dolls. It seems the stories about their beauty weren’t exaggerated,” Chad commented before stopping beneath a painting that stood out from the rest—a young lady upon a diamond throne, her skin glowing with an ethereal light. “As far as I know, these portraits were commissioned after each Doll spent an Adamic Year in the Dollhouse, and I think this one is Heroine Stella. Honestly, Asty, it’s uncanny how much you two resemble each other.”
Anicet was silent, his eyes bewitched by the Doll’s gentle smile—as pure as the white light radiating from her—-now fully believing no shadow had ever stained Heroine Stella’s heart.
“Stella, ugh…” Despite the ’Hero’s’ flattering words, the ’Shining Star’ grimaced at the comparison. “As a woman, I ought to be ashamed to be related to the original damsel-in-distress,” she bitterly admitted, her glow dimming. “Have you ever read the Song of Roland? She existed only to glorify the ’Hero’s’ deeds, and every speech of hers was about how much she dreamed of becoming his wife—utterly pathetic.” Then, she gestured to the painting beside Stella’s, which depicted a muscular girl sitting irreverently on an iron throne—her thick and long braid coiled around the spear she had stuck in the ground. “Heroine Maëlys was strong in power and will alike. A true example of female empowerment in such a primitive age. Oh gosh, I really wish I were related to her instead…just don’t let Ælfgifu know I said that.”
“Meh, Stella’s still hotter. Am I wrong, Anicet?” Chad voiced his gentlemanly opinion, and Anicet, with his eyes still mesmerized by the painting, eagerly nodded in agreement.
“Tsk, men…” The ’Shining’ Star sighed, rolling her eyes before turning to the ’Data Analyst’ for backup, who agreed with her. “Two versus two. Thus, one vote is missing.” She pointed her index and its shimmering nail at the ’Javelinist.’ ”Johan, I’m sure you’ll vote with wisdom—or else!”
“It’s Jacques, my Queen.”
“Uh, whatever. Now vote!”
Jacques scratched his chin, closing in himself for a couple of minutes as he scanned both paintings, and after a long pause, he just shrugged. “Honestly, my Queen, I think both Stella and Maëlys are pretty mid.” He pointed a finger toward the only painting that didn’t depict a fifteen-year-old girl but rather a woman in her early twenties. ”So, my vote goes to her.”
The lady sat lazily upon a throne of smiling skulls, her slender legs crossed and wrapped in a masterpiece of black lace so sheer that, although not an inch of skin could be seen, men would have drowned themselves in the fantasy after just a single glance.
Her head bore a crown of intertwined obsidian thorns, a tangled yet elegant mass that rose upward into two spiraling horns and descended into a mask-like veil, leaving only two narrow slits over her eyes. Embedded deep within the thorny crown, various Philosopher’s Stones and their dark-violet glow projected on the viewer the dreadful power of their owner and the ominous fate of any who dared to oppose her.
That being said, her most beautiful jewel was her face. Skin as pale as snowfall juxtaposed by raven-black hair and lips as dark as midnight, and although the thorned crown concealed them, from its narrow fissures one could glimpse that her eyes were mirroring the same show—white irises set against black sclera. Features that anyone would have associated with a Nixie—if only the inhabitants of Nixieland had even existed back then.
”I know her.” The Scion of the Evernightmare Kingdom stepped forward, unmistakably recognizing the traits he had seen a hundred times across the portraits of Cosmatern Family’s women. ”She’s Hero Nagoe’s sister—Dacia. She lived a tragic life, one that only grew darker. Because, despite all his best efforts, my ancestor failed to save her, and she became infamously known as The Last Reincarnation.” Anicet’s voice carried the weight of his homeland’s history.
”Reincarnation? This means…the real woman depicted here…” Katrina swallowed hard, her eyes widening with a mix of dread and astonishment.
”The one and only, in all her splendor,” Jacques proclaimed, a weird smile stretching across his face.
”The ’Twilight Queen.’”
*CRAAAK-THOOOOOOM!*
Suddenly, a thunderclap erupted outside, shaking the souls and bodies of the ones present in the corridor. Then a tempest broke out, its fierce rain blurring the view beyond the windows as the already dim hallway sank deeper into darkness, and now the ghostly and dark-violet glow of the Queen’s narrow eyes could be shimmering seen over the terrified faces of the ’Hero,’ the ’Shining Star,’ and the ’Nostalgic Reactionary’—despite two thousand years had passed after her death, the ’Twilight Queen’s’ legend still projected the same influence over her former subjects.
All except Jacques, whose expression only grew more thrilled the longer he stared at her portrait. ”She was truly the best girl ever.”
The descendant of the Queen’s nemesis frowned. “Jacques, did you know that when she posed for that painting, the ’Twilight Queen’ was likely thousands of years old?”
Jacques frowned back. “I’ve already told you I like her. Chad, you don’t need to sell it to me.”
“Do you seriously prefer a ruthless mass-murderer who enslaved our ancestors for ten thousand years over Stella or Maëlys?” Astary barked, her skin flaring hot.
“My Queen, please, let me elaborate before you condemn me,” Jacques argued calmly. “First of all, the question wasn’t about which girl had the best morals, but about my personal taste in women. Every girl in these portraits is undeniably beautiful, but there’s just one little thing—a painting, or nowadays a photo, rarely reflects a person’s true nature because everyone wants to appear as the best version of themselves—one that seldom matches reality. So, if everything is propaganda, I won’t judge them by the propaganda itself, but by the type of propaganda they chose to make.” His reasoning left the group puzzled, forcing the ’Javelinist’ to provide an example.
“Please, take a good look at Stella.” Jacques gestured toward the glowing portrait. “If I didn’t know the age of this painting, I’d swear it belonged in some modern fashion magazine. Her posture is flawlessly elegant, yet her body language exudes openness. The colors—a golden gown against the diamond throne, and backgrounded by a dark void—elevate her to divine status. And her eyes are cast downward, as if she fully expected this work to hang high upon a wall, so that her gaze would always meet the viewer’s. Everything about it feels calculated, as if it were designed by a market analyst to maximize her damsel-in-distress appeal. It’s perfect—too perfect—but perfection,” he smirked. “Doesn’t exist!”
He then waved toward Maëlys. “Now let’s take a look at ’Geo Composer.’ She looks more like a general than a doll, as one might expect from her, but unlike Stella, this painting is poorly arranged. Her daring smirk dominates the canvas, yet it oddly contrasts with the hesitation in her eyes, which are fixed on the lance rather than looking straight into the viewer to impose her authority. Then, her posture is too rigid, as if she were straining herself to inflate the size of her muscles. In short, she’s trying so hard to project the strength she is known for, just as the ‘Shining Star’ tries too hard to act as the Queen of the People—both have become parodies of themselves.” He gasped. ”Their insecurity is so evident that it’s almost pitiful to watch.”
Next, Jacques moved from canvas to canvas, pointing his finger at each one like an ace attorney interrogating a witness.
“Oh, why is her dress so much larger than the other Dolls’? FAT!”
“Oh, why is she the only one wearing a hat? Greasy, unwashed hair.”
“Oh, and this one, why is there a white tiger beside her throne? To hide her crooked feet!”
On and on he went, each remark more ruthless than the last. “The more I look, the clearer it becomes that all these Dolls are afraid of being themselves…” His tone lowered as his gaze returned to the ’Twilight Queen’s’ portrait. “All of them…except her.” He stepped closer, tone almost reverent as he caressed the frame. “Look at her right foot, placed over the other so casually. Look at how her left shoulder is slightly higher than her right. And look how her eyes are not staring at the painter but out the window, lost in thought. Roland’s Rebellion was shaking the entire status quo, and this painting could have been the perfect piece of propaganda to showcase the strength of her regime, but…she simply didn’t care—for her, that moment was nothing but a waste of time. Jacques’s expression was utterly bewitched, his soul stolen by the woman in the painting. “To conclude, the ‘Twilight Queen’ might have been the most wicked being who ever lived, but I’m sure we’d have had a lot of fun together.”
“Ahah!” Katrina drowned in her own laughter. “Let me guess, Senator Dreux—you think you could’ve fixed her?”
“Fix what? She was already perfect!
