Seeker of Truths

Clutching his head, Claude winced, struggling to recover from the sharp pain that assaulted his mind. His breath came in ragged bursts, his heart racing as if trying to escape his chest.

What... what was that...?

He hesitated, reluctant to glance at the page he still held, even though it was now just the blank backside of the parchment.

Something about it—the whispers, those haunting whispers—clung to his consciousness like shadows, refusing to dissipate. They had felt so familiar.

"...The subspace," he muttered under his breath.

He had heard whispers like these before. Twice, in fact. Once when he encountered those "ghosts"—or whatever they were—and again when he approached that red portal-like anomaly.

Both incidents were unmistakably linked to the subspace.

A pit formed in his stomach. He already knew the answer to the question that had been gnawing at him for days.

Are these disappearances linked with the subspace?

Absolutely.

Gritting his teeth, Claude forced his gaze back to the page, even as his body braced for the torment that awaited. This time, he was prepared.

When the pain came, he gripped the edges of the desk tightly, grounding himself against the onslaught. A muffled grunt escaped his lips, but he refused to let go.

Through the haze of agony, the words began to form in his mind, clear now, though filled with malice:

"Controlling life and death. The finite and infinite. He is coming. Bearing all the plagues of the world, He is coming. Trapping this world with his dominance of time, He is coming. So come, mortal. Come join his embrace. Fall into the embrace of The Afflicter, The Eternal One."

Claude's heart raced as he ripped his eyes away from the cursed script. He blinked, forcing his mind to steady itself, while his thoughts churned with the weight of the message.

The Afflicter. The Eternal One.

Was this another god?

Could this be connected to the writing he had found in that ancient temple? One of the four subspace Gods?

If so, everything was slowly beginning to make sense.

The people disappearing—Mr. François, Miss Marie, Mrs. Margaret—none of them had shown signs of struggle. No broken doors could be seen. No screams were heard by neighbours.

It was as if they had simply vanished into thin air, leaving no trace of resistance. The city guards had chalked it up to accidents upon their investigations.

But no. Claude now understood the terrible truth. This wasn't just a coincidence or some mundane crime.

The writing, the whispers... it was a method of subjugation, of bending people's wills. These words—they weren't just a message; they were a lure, a trap.

Why was this strange thing hidden in a book like The Little Knight? A children's story, of all things. Mrs. Margaret, a childless widow, had no reason to buy such a book.

But now he understood. The script called to those with weaker wills, ensnaring their thoughts.

The book was merely the medium, an inconspicuous cover.

After all, who would ever suspect something sinister inside such an innocent tale?

Claude's fists clenched. He cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. This was why none of the disappearances made sense—why there were no signs of struggle. The victims had simply willingly followed the call of this so-called Afflicter.

Yet another question sprung up.

Why hadn't the note been found earlier? The Little Knight had been in the city library for years. Had no one else stumbled upon this? Or had they, too, fallen victim to the whispers, vanishing without a trace?

Claude considered telling Mr. Pierre, the old librarian who had shown him the book in the first place. But he stopped himself.

What good would it do to involve a normal man like Mr. Pierre in something so dangerous, so utterly beyond his understanding?

The man had spent his life among books, managing the library, not unravelling the secrets of the subspace. Involving him might only end in tragedy.

Claude carefully folded the page and placed it back into The Little Knight. His hands were still shaking slightly from the encounter, but his mind was made up.

Whatever force was behind these disappearances, whatever god the Afflicter was, he would find a way to stop it.

One way or another, he would uncover the truth.

He wouldn't allow tragedy to strike such a peaceful little city if he had the power to prevent it.

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Strolling under the brilliance of the noon sun, Claude paced steadily down the cobblestone street, his mind focused on the task at hand.

The warmth of the day and the gentle breeze did little to calm his growing unease. He was getting closer. His heart thudded dully in his chest.

Stopping abruptly, Claude looked ahead. His gaze settled on a lonely little house tucked at the end of the lane. It was small, with stone walls worn by time and weather, its façade coated in a faded cream colour that had long since lost its vibrance.

Its high-pitched roof, lined with wooden beams darkened from age, gave the building an almost skeletal appearance. Narrow, arched windows sat like sunken eyes on either side of a wooden door that looked as though it hadn't been opened in days—if not weeks.

Claude exhaled softly, a twinge of guilt flickered within him as he considered what he was about to do.

Sneaking around felt underhanded, but he had little choice. Whoever—or whatever—had taken Mrs Margaret was clearly dangerous, and her house could hold answers.

Glancing around to ensure no one was watching, Claude extended his arm, palm upward.

A thin whip of water condensed from the air, swirling and shimmering in the sunlight. He flicked his wrist, sending the water lashing upward.

The whip latched onto a sturdy iron drainpipe attached to the house. With a swift pull, Claude hoisted himself off the ground and over the low fence surrounding the yard, landing lightly on his feet on the other side.

The yard was overgrown, with wild grass and weeds sprouting in all directions. The small path leading to the front door was cracked and partially covered by creeping vines.

Claude stepped cautiously to the door, pressing it open with a soft creak. The house welcomed him with an empty silence.

The interior was as lifeless as the exterior suggested. The furniture was plain, wooden, and functional—chairs with high backs, and a table with legs carved in a simplistic style. Sunlight filtered through the dust-coated windows, casting long, ghostly beams across the floor.

His eyes were drawn to the plants. Pots of them were scattered around the room—what should have been lively bursts of green. But every plant, without exception, had withered to blackened husks.

Leaves curled inward as though poisoned, and brittle stems that would easily under the faintest touch.

Odd, Claude thought, frowning. He'd seen the same plants blooming in the neighbour's windows. There was no reason for them to be dead. It wasn't winter, and no disease was spreading among the crops.

Even if Mrs Margaret had gone missing, there wasn't enough time for these plants to end up like this.

Everything here—every breath of air, every darkened corner—felt wrong.

He moved carefully through the house, inspecting every nook and cranny. But there was nothing out of place, no sign of a struggle or any clue that someone had recently lived here.

No papers, no notes, nothing that might explain what had happened. The entire place felt as if it had been frozen in time, untouched for far too long. A thin layer of dust coated everything, except for the plants, whose decay looked almost deliberate.

Claude felt a prickling sense of embarrassment creeping over him. Am I wasting my time? He had combed through the house and yet found nothing.

What was he even hoping to discover?

Still, there was one place left unchecked.

With a sigh, he made his way to the bedroom. As soon as he opened the door, an uneasy chill ran through him.

The bedroom was darker than the rest of the house, the curtains drawn tightly over the windows, letting in only slivers of light.

A large bed sat against the far wall, its sheets rumpled and unmade, as though someone had left it in a hurry. But that wasn't what caught his attention.

His eyes were immediately drawn to the wall above the bed.

Scrawled in dark red, broken letters, a message had been etched into the plaster. The writing was jagged, and uneven, as if done in a frantic, feverish hand. The words were smeared in places, trailing downward like dried blood.

Claude squinted, straining to make out the barely legible words, as a cold dread crawled up his spine, its icy fingers tightening around his chest.

"He shall ris... Plagues b...ring thi...s rot. Eter...nal su...ffering... His grasp in...escap...able... Kneel, mort...als, bef...ore his domi...nion..."