Within Osmond's heavily guarded estate, beneath the dim night sky, a woman with bone-white skin stood with her back to the mansion's master. Dogs barked frantically, a small hound's leash stretched taut around its collar as it dug at the ground, straining to lunge toward the translucent shadow ahead.
"Who are you?" Osmond bellowed.
He was past the age of tossing and turning over lives taken, and he feared no vengeful spirits—no such all-powerful specters existed. Otherwise, how would his busier predecessors still be alive and well? Violent men died only by time, disease, or more vicious hands. Ghosts and monsters simply didn't exist in this world... or at least, not anymore.
Erian had indeed once been home to all manner of strange beings, but the powerful ones had long since vanished, and the weak ones were no longer a threat. Osmond had seen the tricks used by charlatans to play at being supernatural, knew what frightening wonders could be conjured with light and certain expensive techniques. He assumed the intruder was some sneaky trespasser. Countless possibilities flashed through Osmond's mind as he cautiously raised his blade and stepped back, ready to call for help.
The woman turned her head, revealing a blank face.
A mask, Osmond thought calmly, trying to ignore the faint, swirling mist of light on the blank surface. His gaze drifted downward to her feet... where none existed. The skirt billowed like a curtain caught in a breeze, revealing nothing beneath. The faceless woman began to move. Her hair and skirt fluttered, yet her body remained perfectly steady, showing no hint of the rhythmic rise and fall of walking.
She was gliding toward Osmond.
"Guards!" Osmond shouted, maintaining his forward stance as he scrambled backward several steps. He unfastened the collar around the small hound's neck. The hound lunged at the figure, crashing straight through it as if passing through light.
Osmond's voice grew louder. "Someone! Guards!" he yelled, silently reciting the military academy textbook's ghost entries. Ghosts, spirits—the fact the little hound remained unscathed proved she wasn't some life-draining breed. Most ghosts were harmless, visible yet intangible, posing no threat. Nothing to fear. Damn it, why was this ancient, long-vanished monster here?
Torches flared around them. The courtyard gates swung open as guards poured in. They brandished their weapons menacingly, scanning the area like headless flies. What the hell are you looking for? Are you all blind? Osmond wanted to bark at them, but when he turned back, he found himself standing alone in the brightly lit courtyard. In the brief moment his gaze had been fixed on the open gate, the ghost drifting toward him had vanished.
"My lord?" The leader, having scanned the area fruitlessly for a while, cautiously inquired, "What's wrong?"
There was no trace of the ghost anywhere. She had vanished as mysteriously as she had appeared, leaving no sign behind. Only the small hound darted about the courtyard like a cannonball, leaping aimlessly and snapping at the air, its teeth making hollow clicking sounds mid-air. No one paid it much mind. The spoiled, dim-witted dog, pampered by Osmond's wife, could go mad chasing a butterfly all afternoon.
"Nothing," Osmond said with a forced smile. "I must have imagined it."
The guards who had swarmed in began to leave one by one, their torches carried outside, and the courtyard grew dim once more. Osmond scanned his surroundings warily, his gaze sweeping every corner. He remained on guard for a long while, until his eyes grew dry and his arms ached, and even the frantic hound slunk back to its kennel. "Darling, what are you doing?" his wife's voice called from above. A woman in nightgown stood on the second-floor balcony looking down. "Did someone come just now?"
"Nothing at all," Osmond replied, sheathing his knife and rubbing his temples wearily.
I must be utterly exhausted, he thought. Damn this job. Shaking his head in self-mockery, he headed toward the bedroom.
Let the things that can't be finished right away wait. That's the advantage of bureaucracy—you always have plenty of breathing room. His wife began droning on about some "everything will be fine" nonsense. Osmond ignored her, burying his head to feign sleep. After a while, her voice finally stopped.
A pleasant silence settled in, but just as Osmond was drifting off, the sound returned.
"Nothing will be fine," she whispered in his ear. "The moment we fall from the tightrope is near."
This struck a nerve. All sleep vanished instantly. He bolted upright, glaring at his wife, who was spouting nonsense. In the dim light, he could only make out her blurred silhouette. But that didn't matter. Osmond was ready for a fight. His mind clouded with frustration over their dire circumstances and this all-too-accurate ominous pronouncement, Osmond only belatedly realized something felt off when his hand already rested on his wife's shoulder.
That voice... it seemed to come from his left ear.
His wife slept on his right.
Osmond turned his head with extreme slowness, his shoulders and neck so stiff he could almost hear his spine creak like some long-neglected, rusty part.
The bedroom window faced the side closest to his wife, now covered by thick curtains. Even the brightest moonlight outside shouldn't cast such a pale, luminous glow indoors. So what was that fluorescent light by the bed? Osmond glanced sideways, his gaze piercing the translucent gauze. He lifted his head and saw a face pressed very close.
If a face required defined features, this was not one.
Every hair on Osmond's body stood on end. He roared, swinging a book from the nightstand toward the unwelcome visitor. The thick volume passed right through, thudding onto the floor. He hurled pillows, blankets, and slippers in a frenzied flurry. The damned apparition emitted a breathy chuckle before fading into the air, just before his wife awoke with a groan.
She vanished like that—fading rather than dissipating, like a cockroach scurrying into the shadows of the nightstand. Ghosts were harder to trace than cockroaches, more silent. "You're just too tired," his unsuspecting wife said, drifting back to sleep within minutes. Osmond sat at the bedside, staring into the vast darkness before him, sleepless all night.
The next day, before dawn had fully broken, Osmond rose from his bed and fled the haunted mansion. He spent the day immersed in the bustle of the crowd, and when he returned at dusk, a talisman was tucked into his coat pocket.
This wasn't some common trinket; it came from... certain channels. Colonel Benson wouldn't approve. He'd always dismissed the traditional paraphernalia carried by the "Circus" as superstitious mumbo jumbo. See, narrow-minded and stubborn people always label anything beyond their understanding as nonsense. Osmond couldn't care less what the Major thought. He wasn't the kind of aide-de-camp Benson imagined, someone to be ordered around at will.
The Governor had assigned Osmond to Benson to assist and monitor him. "Because I trust you," the Governor had said. Any other man—some more loyal, less intelligent fool—might have been moved to tears by such words. But what good was that trust to Osmond? Oh, never mind. The Governor's trust did have its uses. But if that trust meant Osmond was banished to serve as secretary to a lieutenant colonel, it was worthless to him.
The longer he was forced to stay by the lieutenant colonel's side, the worse it became. Who would have thought earlier that he'd get tangled up in such a mess beyond his capabilities?
"The moment of falling from the tightrope draws near."
Osmond shuddered, clutching the talisman in his pocket. It wasn't a trinket. With this, even harmful spirits couldn't touch him, couldn't harm him.
But the spirit seemed to have no intention of touching him.
She appeared anywhere, anytime—distant as a white shadow at the end of a corridor, close as a face pressed against Osmond's in confined spaces. In empty places, she locked eyes with Osmond. Even when he lingered in crowded venues, she appeared in every blind spot only he could detect. The ghost never lingered long, emerging just as Osmond was about to forget her—now near, now far, sometimes a shadow, sometimes a voice.
From within that head devoid of visible eyes, ears, mouth, or nose, words like curses emerged from some unseen place.
"The time has come to fall," she said.
Osmond's hands trembled as he looked into the bathroom mirror, unable to see his own reflection. A white specter replaced his image, and the mirror's banshee spoke softly: "You are about to fall."
Without that hazy shadow, the mirror would have reflected a face worn to exhaustion. Pressure from all sides and days of utterly terrible sleep were crushing him.
He had sought help, had yelled and cursed at the apparition—all to no avail. Osmond had to stop calling his subordinates, lest he lose their loyalty at such a critical juncture. He refused to be seen as a nervous, helpless madman. Exhausted, he gritted his teeth and said, "I don't know what you're talking about."
He didn't expect a reply. Didn't harbingers of doom, like ravens, merely repeat a few syllables endlessly? Yet, to his surprise, the faceless specter answered him.
"Of course you know what I'm talking about," she said. "You're forced to dance on three tightropes, with knives below."
Osmond's skin crawled. He stiffly repeated, "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Then cover your ears and wait for the fall," the specter said calmly. "Mr. Double Agent."
The final veil was torn away.
This was no longer cryptic babble. He could no longer cling to wishful thinking, dismissing the phantom's whispers as the vague, ambiguous pronouncements of a charlatan. She truly knew. An illogical nightmare had suddenly materialized, seeping into Osmond's life.
Osmond was more than just the Governor's pawn.
He was a top graduate of the Erian Military Academy, quickly recognized by General Norman shortly after graduation. Norman placed him alongside the Governor of Tasmalin Province—a supporter of General Cyril. Osmond successfully earned the Governor's trust, but in all his calculations, he never anticipated that the Governor, like General Norman, possessed an equally keen eye for talent. The Governor had placed Osmond near his own brother as a trusted spy.
The situation became a tangled mess, forcing Osmond to navigate between all parties. For men like them, once they ceased to be useful to their superiors, becoming disposable pawns was only a matter of time. The governor's foolish actions only heightened Osmond's peril. He found himself unlucky and compelled to participate in the smuggling of airships. Knowing too much and possessing an impeccable cover, he seemed to have countless avenues—yet every path led to a dead end.
Osmond could report the matter to General Norman, who would undoubtedly use it to undermine General Cyril. But Osmond, existing in the shadows, would either be silenced or, under his official rank, convicted alongside the Major. Osmond could attempt to pledge allegiance to General Syril, but such a leap in loyalty would likely earn him a direct execution by the Governor—a man not easily dealt with. A double agent faced multiple dangers; the odds of being silenced or made a scapegoat were alarmingly high.
What could he do? What options remained?
"Perhaps you should find yourself a new safety rope," the specter suggested.
"Like you lot?" Osmond sneered.
Ever since the nightmare entered reality, it had become predictable. The monster urging his surrender undoubtedly belonged to the alien faction whose assault they'd failed. Osmond just couldn't fathom why they'd come for him—he wasn't exactly a high-value target.
"You'd best decide quickly, before the fall," the faceless specter said. "You're insignificant to all of them, but on the other side, you'll find greater respect and security."
"With just you lot? A few druids and some flying dragons?" Osmond retorted coldly. "If you think that's all Erian has to offer, you're sorely mistaken."
The ghost didn't grow angry. She merely nodded calmly.
"Precisely," she said. "Erian couldn't possibly have only this much capability. Such a small-scale, covert attack could only come from a localized force. Gamblers repeatedly place bets, staking only what they can afford to lose, so they can keep the winnings entirely for themselves without sharing. Only when you've lost everything down to your underwear do you hesitate about exposing the embezzled funds used for betting, about reporting this gambling ring to the higher-ups."
Her words were precise, and Osmond found it unsurprising. Any ghost capable of such sophisticated concealment could undoubtedly gather ample intelligence covertly. Clearly, this particular specter possessed intelligence akin to a human's.
"You should pray this remains concealed longer, not come here to intimidate me," Osmond said. "Once the capital takes notice of you, destroying a dungeon will be as easy as sweeping away dead leaves."
"We are indeed hard-pressed to oppose all of Erian at present. " the specter replied. "That's why I didn't go to the governor or that stubborn major. I came to you. Erian may win—after paying a heavy price. But you, a small pawn caught in the cracks, are destined to be among the first cannon fodder in this war."
"We'll see about that!" Osmond declared with feigned confidence. "You underestimate our loyalty to Erian!"
He was lying, or at least not telling the whole truth. A spy's loyalty had a price tag; refusing to switch allegiance was simply a matter of insufficient bargaining chips. Osmond waited for Ghost to raise the stakes—to reveal more about the dungeon's strength, to offer more generous terms. But Ghost said nothing. She gave a meaningful smile and vanished.
"Fine," Osmond said. Clenching his fists, he stared at his bloodshot eyes in the mirror and thought: he wasn't yet cornered.
He still had one chance—the day after tomorrow. The key figures from Tasmarin involved in this mess would meet then, convening a conference to settle the matter. Osmond was prepared to face certain people, rehearsing countless scenarios in his mind. He had connections, favors owed, and the meeting venue itself was under his responsibility—the guards and all were his men. Osmond had made up his mind: if he couldn't find a way out, he'd find a way to escape, to slip away for good.
By the third day, Osmond had finally tidied himself up, looking once more like a reliable professional. The ghost hadn't appeared. Perhaps it had finally given up on Osmond. Lucky for you it didn't show up, Osmond thought bitterly. If it had come back to haunt me, I'd have made sure it never returned.
The morning meeting proceeded smoothly—meaning arguments, wrangling, compromises, backtracking, and endless repetition. But who expected everything to be wrapped up in a single morning? There was a whole unspoken science to it. Lunch arrived amid eager anticipation, but Osmond had no appetite. Using a cigarette break as an excuse, he stepped outside. He was once again reviewing the order in which he should visit certain people when a flash of white caught his eye.
The ghost no longer appeared with dramatic flair, nor did her presence unsettle Osmond as it once did. He stubbed out his cigarette and stared at her impassively, wondering what persuasion she would attempt this time.
The faceless specter stood unabashedly in place, tilting her head toward the conference hall. "If I walked in right now and presented evidence of your treason," she said, "what would they do?"
"What?" Osmond scoffed. "You think that threatens me?"
"You're mistaken," the ghost replied, a hint of amusement in her voice. "Since you refuse our offer, you're of no use to us. I merely intend to find some amusement before I leave."
Osmon stared at her in disbelief, unable to fathom why she would expose herself for such a reason. What did she gain from this? But she wasn't human at all. Who knew if she followed any logical reasoning—she'd even tracked and terrorized Osmond for all these days! Without reason!
"They won't believe you," Osmond said numbly.
"We'll see about that," the ghost replied lightly. "I know where you keep your secrets, Mr. Spy. Once they find the evidence as I instructed..."
This was the breaking point.
Osmond had endured so much pressure, pushed beyond his limits for so long—working like a beast of burden under a pack of savages, deprived of proper rest by the ghost's harassment. Beneath his calm exterior, a volcano had been suppressed for too long. At this moment of renewed provocation, the taut nerves snapped clean through.
He drew his military knife with a flash—its blade etched with patterns resembling the talisman. These days, he'd discovered a way to drive out spirits, waiting only for a real test. Come on! You bastard who wants to destroy my life! All the anger others had brought was now focused on the instigator. Osmond swung his blade at the ghost. It dodged to the side but still got hit.
She let out a shrill scream as her ashen form scattered slightly.
It worked! A savage joy surged through Osmond. The ghost fled in panic, Osmond hot on her heels, his bayonet raised in a savage grin. Had his sanity not already snapped, he might have wondered why the ghost didn't simply vanish on the spot, choosing instead to drift ahead and dodge.
But Osmond had no energy left for such thoughts.
He slashed relentlessly, closing the distance. As the ghost hurried into a small hut for cover, Osmond's blade was nearly upon her. He yanked the handle impatiently—good, the door wasn't locked!—and swung with all his might the moment it swung open.
He struck something.
A ghost's form could be severed, the sensation akin to slicing through mist. Yet this blow felt obstructed, the blade catching mid-air. Despite Osmond's full force, it sliced cleanly through. Warm liquid splattered his face, followed by a scream—a man's voice.
A very familiar voice.
This was supposed to be a small storage room, empty of people. Osmond, who had arranged the scene, knew this better than anyone. Yet now the Governor lay on the floor, clutching the wound in his chest, glaring furiously at Osmond who had swung the blade. Behind him stood Colonel Robert.
What a coincidence—stopping the Governor and the Colonel in the middle of their private conversation.
Was it really a "coincidence"?
The ghost had vanished without a trace, leaving Osmond's mind blank. Before he could react, the colonel stepped forward, seized Osmond's knife-wielding hand, and thrust it diagonally into the governor's chest, twisting it at the heart.
It happened too fast—the colonel advancing, reaching, releasing, retreating. Then came a gasp from behind. Osmond turned to see Major Benson and the Mayor of Lake Rebe running out. They had just chased the ghost to this spot and were now staring in stunned silence at the scene.
"I have made my choice," Colonel Robert said, his voice low enough that only Osmond could hear it. "Now it's yours."
In Erian, where military rank generally held greater prestige, Colonel Robert might have been an exception. He was a demoted failure. Osmond had heard he'd chosen the wrong side in internal power struggles, angering his superiors, and had been reassigned here to keep a low profile and save his career. He never challenged the Governor's authority, even tolerating the Governor's brother, the mere Lieutenant Colonel Benson, occasionally stepping over his rank. He was a rather spineless colonel, a minor figure among Tasmarin's important people. Yet Osmond always kept his guard up. A worm with a hundred legs dies but does not break; even as a failure, Colonel Robert still possessed considerable strength.
Osmond understood.
"What have you done?!" Major Benson screamed hysterically. "You murderer! Traitor!"
"Guards!" Osmond shouted.
The rage had vanished entirely, and the bone-chilling cold had receded. When only one path remained, Osmond found himself strangely calm. He tossed aside the knife, wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand, and called for the guards.
"What are you doing? He's the murderer!" shouted Lieutenant Colonel Benson as the guards seized him.
The guards stood motionless. They were Osmond's most reliable men. He had come today prepared to flee if his plan failed. Now escape was impossible, but issuing orders remained within his power.
"Colonel Benson killed the governor in the struggle," Osmond declared gravely. "With enemies at our doorstep, this must never be revealed."
"Indeed," Colonel Robert replied tersely.
"The act of killing his own brother appears to have driven the colonel mad. He's lost his mind." Osmond nodded to the guards.
Someone stuffed cloth into Benson's mouth, reducing him to muffled wails. Two pairs of eyes appraised the Mayor of Lake Rebe, who was drenched in sweat. Straightening instantly under their icy stares, he nodded vigorously. "Indeed! A terrible family tragedy!"
The mayor's quick thinking spared him from becoming another victim of the deranged Major Benson.
With the governor assassinated, the major must answer for it. Tasmalin's military representatives made their choice. Osmond, with his secret channels to higher powers, could no longer jump ship. After prolonged observation and brief turmoil, the underground city gained time to rebuild—without losing a single soldier.