Inside, confusion gripped him. He turned back—but the door was gone.
Through a window, he could see the street outside. He froze.
It had been a corner just moments ago. How did I get here?
He looked around. He was inside a café—empty, silent, abandoned.
Crow walked forward, scanning every corner of the room, but there was no one there.
Cutting through the haze of his confusion came a familiar voice.
"I see… you remember nothing of what happened last night. Very well,
then—thus I shall brief you."
A faint breath of relief escaped him. Maybe I'm running mad… or perhaps something else is at work here.
Cutting through the haze of his confusion came a familiar voice.
"I see… you remember nothing of what happened last night.
Very well, then—I shall brief you."
Quickly, he spun around—no one was there.
Then he turned back. The man from the bench was now standing before him. An umbrella rested in his hand,
his left eye was covered by a patch. He wore a dark, long vest-like robe, his presence calm yet slightly imposing, exuding a quiet, almost gentle authority.
The man spoke in a clear, gentle voice.
"Blackwell."
Crow frowned, confused. "Blackwell… what? What may I do with it?"
The man fixed his gaze on Crow. "You may be quite young to say, but that is my name—Blackwell," he said, his tone calm yet authoritative.
Crow, still uncertain, replied, "Mr… Blackwell… what do I owe your acquaintance?"
Blackwell looked at him steadily. "You have succumbed to the pattern of madness. You have… ascended into insanity."
Crow shifted back, uneasy.
"You may not remember drizzling and weaving laws through madness," Blackwell continued, "you may not remember—but you have twisted and tangled insanity itself."
Crow remained confused, struggling to follow.
Without another word, Blackwell turned away and tossed a paper card toward him. "If you seek answers, this shall guide you. You shall find me here."
Crow blinked, looking at him one last time. All he saw were countless pigeons, fluttering in the air.
Am I running mad… or is this another illusion? he whispered to himself, then bolted from the café.
He was still lost—dazed, still reeling from what had just occurred. Without raising his head, he moved straight ahead, pushing through the crowd as if carried by momentum alone.
Reaching a quiet corner, he bent down, clutching the ground, trying to make sense of what had happened—and what he could not remember.
The words echoed relentlessly in his mind: madness… madness… insanity…
After some time lost in thought, he straightened. His gaze fell on the card. He stared at the address for a long moment, committing it to memory,
before turning and retracing his steps through the city.
Finally, he arrived at a building across the street. He stopped, staring at it—the city library.
How could he have overlooked it? Yet here it was, as if it had always been waiting. Without a second thought, he crossed the street and stepped inside.
Inside, his mind raced with thoughts, but the scene before him caught him completely off guard. A girl in a wheelchair sat near the entrance, a few books placed neatly on the shelves around her.
The girl was positioned directly in front of the door, light pink hair cascading to her shoulders. Fragments of her garment shimmered as they caught the sunlight, giving her an almost divine, ethereal presence. She sat there calmly, as if nothing were amiss.
Crow walked straight toward her, awe and confusion mingling in his gaze. He spoke, his voice formal yet soft:
"Ah, the morn awakens! I wish you a day of tranquility, mirth, and the gentlest of fortunes."
She looked up at him, her gaze calm, gentle, and innocent. Her voice mirrored his in soft elegance:
"Ah, the morn awakens! I wish you a day of tranquility, mirth, and the gentlest of fortunes, sir."
Then, with quiet authority, she added,
"My name is Lily Quinn. I shall be the one showing you the way."
Crow stared at her, astonished and confused, struck by the combination of innocence and quiet authority she exuded—divine yet grounded, moral yet understanding.
The corridor stretched on endlessly. Gas lamps perched at the corners cast a flickering, unconsolable glow, their light crawling along the walls as shadows danced across the floor.
The sound of the wheelchair wheels echoed through the length of the corridor, a steady, hollow rhythm that seemed to follow them.
Crow's attention remained fixed on Lily, confusion tightening around his thoughts. He struggled to make sense of the twist that had just unfolded.
He swallowed, thinking silently, Nothing beats nonsense… but stupidity, Crow Morrow.
Reluctantly, he tore his gaze from her and looked forward.
The creak and hum of the wheelchair wheels faded, leaving only the echo of their movement through the long corridor. At the front, a door appeared on their right, a gas lamp perched above its corner, flickering weakly.
Lily raised her head slightly. Her hair, perfectly arranged, caught every glimmer of light, and the folds of her garment reflected an unusual blend of authority and innocence.
Crow, still disoriented by the present, raised a hand to his temple. Remember, Crow Morrow…
this is not why you are here, he murmured to himself, before reaching toward the handle of the door.
The interior was nothing like the outside. The office held a long glass cupboard in the corner, filled with relics and ancient artifacts, each glinting faintly in the light. In the center of the room,
two long chairs flanked a heavy wooden table, its surface worn but orderly. Near one chair, a window let in sunlight that shimmered through the glass cupboard, casting fractured reflections across the room.
A potted plant rested by the door on his left, and a framed picture hung on the wall closer to the window.
Seated with quiet authority, Blackwell planted his legs wide, exuding seriousness and an almost intimidating presence. Every movement, every breath, carried a weight that filled the space.
Crow stepped inside, moving closer to the chair, his hand resting on its back. He looked at Blackwell, serious and alert, ready for whatever might come.
In response, Blackwell rose swiftly, standing straight and precise, his movements smooth yet commanding.
Crow instinctively shifted back, a flicker of caution passing over him.