The city of Trier was a place of contrasts—gleaming steeples scraping the skies while soot-stained children ran through fog-choked alleys. To Ayanokouji, it was neither strange nor unfamiliar. It was a world both foreign and mapped out in the corridors of his memory. He walked through it now, not as a reader but as a player—a participant in a grand game designed by madness and fate.
He had taken the Spectator potion.
And survived.
Now he had to live.
His name in this life was Lucien Carter—a common-enough name to avoid attention, but distinct enough to remember. The name had already been registered at the local Civil Affairs Bureau in Trier's East Borough, arranged by the vague benefactor whose memories he had inherited upon awakening. Whoever Lucien Carter had been—a failed university student, an orphan, a recluse—he was gone now. In his place stood a mind sharper than any blade.
Ayanokouji—Lucien—was currently residing in a rented room above a clock repair shop nestled in a back alley of Sprenger Street. The room was modest: a single bed, a wooden desk, a stove for winter. The owner, Mr. Stratz, was a silent, stiff old man who cared more about punctuality than conversation. Perfect.
From this base, Lucien began constructing his life. He bought old newspapers, gathered rumors in the taverns, listened in markets, and—more importantly—read. He read extensively, particularly anything related to the Beyonder pathways, local cult activity, and major events across Loen. Every whisper of fog, every symbol on an alley wall, every shift in public mood held meaning.
His first Spectator ability—Calm Analysis—proved immensely helpful. With a glance, he could detect the subtle microexpressions and tone shifts in people, making it almost trivial to tell truth from lie. His second passive trait, Detached Observation, allowed him to retain emotional neutrality even in situations designed to provoke.
But Lucien knew these were only the beginning.
He needed to grow stronger.
He needed to gather resources.
He needed connections.
His first real encounter came on the fifth day after his rebirth.
It was at Red Apple Inn, a small, smoky establishment near Trier's university district. Lucien was nursing a cup of bitter tea, silently observing the chatter of young students and tired laborers. His eyes fell on a man in a dusty brown trench coat—a journalist, judging by the ink stains on his cuffs and the pile of newspapers under his arm.
A name rose in Lucien's memory: Dunn Smith—no, that wasn't right. Too early. But someone connected.
Then he saw her.
A woman in a modest black dress, her brown hair tucked into a simple bun, and a silver cross glinting at her throat. Her features were delicate, but there was steel in her posture.
Melissa Moretti.
Klein's younger sister.
Lucien watched as she entered the inn, exchanged polite words with the innkeeper, and handed over a small parcel. Likely food—perhaps Klein was staying here? Or someone else she knew? This might be before Klein's "death" and resurrection as The Fool.
Fascinating.
Lucien made a note of her presence, but did not act. Spectators did not interfere recklessly. They watched. Calculated. Prepared.
Later that week, Lucien wandered into the Trier Antiquarian Market. It was a treasure trove of secrets—old manuscripts, broken relics, symbolic trinkets. It was here he encountered his first true lead.
A stall run by a one-eyed woman with silver rings on every finger displayed an old diary bound in black leather.
"From the Fourth Epoch," she claimed, eyes gleaming. "Filled with the ramblings of a mad priest."
Lucien flipped through the pages, noting symbols he recognized—some from the Spectator pathway, others from the Seer.
He bought it immediately.
That night, back in his room, he read through the diary with meticulous care. Most was incoherent, but between the lines were references to potion formulas, divine names, and warnings about a "laughing fog."
And then, a name.
Zaratul.
Lucien's eyes narrowed.
So even here, in the fringe whispers of Trier's underworld, the true puppetmasters left traces. The Zaratul family, one of the hidden hands behind the scenes, were already playing their games.
But so was he.
On the seventh night, he returned to Red Apple Inn. This time, he wasn't just watching.
He approached the bar and spoke to the innkeeper, a middle-aged man with tired eyes and quick hands.
"Has a young man named Klein Moretti visited recently?" Lucien asked smoothly.
The man frowned. "Why?"
Lucien offered a practiced smile. "I'm an old classmate. We lost touch after graduation. I heard he moved here recently."
The innkeeper relaxed slightly. "He did come around here. Didn't stay long. Quiet type. Something about preparing for a civil service exam. Haven't seen him in a few days."
Lucien nodded politely. That confirmed it.
Klein was here.
Which meant the events of the main story were about to begin—his suicide, his resurrection as a Beyonder, his first séance.
And Lucien would be ready.
Two more days passed. During that time, Lucien quietly began cultivating a public identity. He visited bookstores, donated coins at the Church of the Evernight Goddess, and even attended a few public lectures at Trier University. People began to know his face—Lucien Carter, a quiet, well-mannered youth with an interest in theology and ancient languages.
By the tenth day, he received an invitation.
From a man named Vincent Wood, an amateur scholar and collector who had taken a liking to Lucien's insights during a public discussion.
The meeting was held in Vincent's personal study, lined with tomes and strange artifacts.
"I believe you're more than you seem," Vincent said, offering Lucien a glass of red wine.
Lucien said nothing, only sipped the wine.
Vincent leaned forward. "Tell me, Mr. Carter. Do you believe in the supernatural?"
Lucien met his gaze. "Belief is irrelevant. Only results matter."
Vincent laughed. "You'll do well. I'm part of a small society. We study forbidden texts. If you're interested, there's a gathering tomorrow night."
Lucien nodded. "I'll be there."
He had found it.
His first step into the murky world of Beyonders, cults, and hidden knowledge.
And as the fog rolled in that night, Lucien Carter stood at his window, staring out into the gaslit dark, a smile barely touching his lips.
The game had begun.