"What did you learn from that witch's diary?" Jeanne called up from below.
She dangled beneath Sather, her waist cinched by his tough, chitinous tail, the only thing supporting her as they flew. Honestly, the tail was pretty uncomfortable, but after she'd yanked his tongue and dragged him into the sea, Sather had flatly refused to let her ride on his back ever again.
"What do you want to know?" he asked.
He soared over the ocean, a hundred meters above the surface, his back hunched, two blood-red bat wings catching the razor-cold sea wind. His long hair whipped in the wind, but his gaze—staring toward the swirling maelstrom of storm clouds—was as still as the sea. His pupils, vertical and reptilian, betrayed no emotion. His expression was neither good nor bad—just blank.
"How to get out," Jeanne said.
"We need to wait here for two weeks, Inquisitor," Sather replied. "Two weeks from now, the master of this maze will descend upon this city. That's when its cultists across the world will begin their sacrifices—choosing victims for their god and sending them into this maze. At the same time, in preparation for those sacrifices, a gate connecting directly to the real world will open within the maze."
"So we just need to leave when the gate opens?" Her tone was sour.
"Stop overcomplicating it," Sather said, pointedly. "There's only one thing we need to do—leave when the gate opens."
"…I know."
Her pale cheeks were lit only by the flashes of distant lightning. She looked away, golden eyes falling toward the endless stretch of ocean where sky and sea blurred into one.
Silence fell between them.
Above, the swirling clouds stretched into a churning vortex, darkening the sky even further. The sea and heavens alike were fading into black. Far away, flashes of lightning grew more frequent, illuminating the endless, unchanging ocean in stark white. Each flash cast the sea into their emotionless eyes like a reflection.
A massive waterspout connected sky to sea, drawing black water upward like a twisted, crippled ghost. The rain began—cold and salt-laced, slicing through the air.
Through the flashes, through the impossibly dense network of waterspouts that rose like ancient trees, came the scent of storm—wet and heavy.
The rain soaked Jeanne's clothes. She shivered, her pale face made ghostlier by the lightning, almost waxen.
Suspended between the storm-wrapped sky and the cloaked ocean below, they looked abandoned—adrift between two darkened worlds… or two yawning abysses.
Even the lightning was silent. No thunder, just the soft rhythmic beating of Sather's wings.
"Hey, can you tell me more about the diary?" Jeanne broke the silence.
"…What do you want to hear?"
"Anything. Doesn't matter if it's useful or not. This place is unbearable. If I don't freeze to death, I'll die of depression."
"You really are easy to kill."
"I'm not joking."
"…Fine," Sather said, angling around a massive waterspout. The rain came and went, like it couldn't decide whether to stop or stay forever. He paused for a moment, recalling, then said, "The house's master was a girl plagued by illness from birth—or rather, a born witch. Because of her condition, she wasn't mentally stable. She knew her mother had remarried, so she killed her. Then her father came home and she killed him too. That's basically her backstory."
"Oh, sounds like she gets a few sympathy points," Jeanne remarked flatly. "But damned is still damned. I'm not about to start worrying over redemption just because her little backstory's a tragedy."
"Does your doctrine say she's beyond forgiveness?"
"That's not for me to judge," Jeanne said. "My job is to carry out my duty. The Lord might weep for her suffering, but He'd also mourn for the lambs she slaughtered. What am I here for? I came with sword and armor to bring retribution. I'm here to cleanse the maddened cultists, execute murderers and sinners, wipe out any ill-intentioned heretical scouts. That's my job—not to get sentimental because some sinner had a rough past. Unless you think a tragic madwoman justifies torching villages and spilling blood. In that case, it's probably a sign some dark god's already taken over my mind."
"Well, technically, the dark god's contract is squatting in your head right now," Sather noted.
"If you keep trying to ruin my mood, I'll do something very unpleasant to your tail."
"You want to go for a swim?"
"What do you think?"
"Then quit threatening me," Sather said. "Back to the point—afterward, some kind of lesser demon devoured her parents' souls. In return, it blessed her and the house with an ancient spell. It turned her into a bound spirit—like a cursed wraith tethered to a location—and animated the house itself. Ideally, the place would've stayed remote and untouched for centuries. But unfortunately, the cultists of this dream-maze god were moved by divine inspiration and started looking for suitable dream sources—in other words, contamination nodes. She was one of them. So they dragged her and her house in here through a ritual."
"And the demon?"
"It ran," Sather said. "Not our problem. What matters are a few warnings she left behind in her notes. First—daytime streets are relatively safe. Only harmless bait appears to lure victims deeper into the city. Though exceptions exist—too much provocation, and people just vanish without reason. But at night, the streets become something else entirely. Every creature locked inside these buildings roams free. They wander until dawn, then return to the place they came from."
"Oh, so when you were sneaking around all careful with that stealth spell during the day—you were wasting your energy?" Jeanne sounded way too pleased about that.
Sather loosened his tail just slightly.
"What the hell are you doing?! Are you trying to die?!" Jeanne yelped, nearly slipping.
"I'm warning you to shut up." Sather glanced down at her, then continued, "Second—outsiders who enter the maze through the dungeon, like us, will start dreaming when they sleep. Those dreams? They're the dreams of the house's owner. Most people won't die in the outer maze. They die in the dreams."
"You mean... we're stuck doing a half-month long nightmare expedition now?"
"Yes."
"...Any more bad news?"
"Nothing particularly urgent. The witch herself is locked inside the black-and-white world and can't leave."
Jeanne was about to answer when a light appeared in the distance. The night was pitch-dark, and through the sweeping rain, a glow cut through the fog like a submerged cloud. A flickering flame shimmered there—and in the flash of pale lightning, a thin, pale-gray spire became faintly visible.
It was the light of a lighthouse. And possibly, a small island.
She lifted her head, locking eyes with the black sorcerer.
"Do we keep flying, or check it out?" Sather asked.
"Check it out. I'm freezing."
"I could warm you up a little with fire magic. Bit wasteful, though."
"So you're thinking about running again?"
"You're so perceptive."
Jeanne let out a cold laugh. "And what do you think my opinion is?"
"Fine, fine, have it your way," Sather sighed. "Let's take a look."