Chapter 21: The One Behind the Curtain

Chapter 21: The One Behind the Curtain

The moment Grayhill’s words fell, a heavy silence blanketed the room. All eyes among the assembly locked onto the box before him—eager, longing, confused, anxious…

A secret manuscript that could teach someone how to control their dreams? A guide to stepping into the dreamscape… with the chance to gain forbidden knowledge from within?

To be honest, this so-called Dream Seeker’s Chronicles offered by Grayhill stirred something in everyone present. These were seekers of the arcane, individuals with ties to hidden worlds. They all thirsted for more—more secrets, more knowledge, more keys to transcend the ordinary.

But… 500 pounds? That was outrageous.

For context, a full-sized standalone house in the outskirts of Igwynt would cost barely 300 pounds. For 500, you could get one with a garden and proper furnishings.

Was this truly the price of knowledge?

The figure caused quite a stir. 

Most of the attendees were decently well-off, sure—but not all were nobles or tycoons. 

Up until now, the largest transactions at these gatherings rarely exceeded 100 pounds. Grayhill suddenly throwing out a price five times that amount? It made many hesitate. 

Even those who could afford it had to weigh the risk: was it really worth it? 

After all, the book only taught how to enter the dreamscape. 

Whether one could actually gain anything inside… was entirely uncertain.

In short, it was an investment steeped in risk. And even those with the money found themselves daunted.

This kind of thing… probably only the truly rich could afford.

At that moment, the room's attention collectively shifted to a particular masked gentleman. 

His code name was Shepherd Dog, and he'd purchased quite a few rare items in the past. Most regulars knew him as a heavy spender.

Feeling the weight of so many gazes, Shepherd Dog gripped his cane in both hands and spoke slowly.

"My apologies, Mr. Grayhill. As tempting as this manuscript is, it also comes with the price of 'insight poisoning.' I haven’t even finished digesting the last one I bought. If I recklessly start another… I fear I may lose control from the buildup."

He looked up at Grayhill with a trace of regret, his voice sincere.

Grayhill gave a quiet nod in understanding. He let his gaze sweep across the assembly once more. When no one else made an offer, he raised his hand.

"In that case, this session shall—"

“U-Um! P-Please wait just a moment~!”

A high-pitched, almost childlike voice suddenly cut through the quiet. Everyone turned toward the sound in surprise.

Sitting among the crowd was a small figure, hand raised high.

The entire room froze, startled.

A kid? That voice… that body… wasn’t that a child?! How the hell did a child get into a gathering like this?

“M-Mr. Grayhill, I’d like to make an offer—on your manuscript!” the small figure said, raising her voice, trying to sound as delicate and high-pitched as possible. It was Dorothy.

"Where the hell did you come from, brat?! This isn't a place for kids—get lost!" one of Grayhill’s masked attendants barked, stepping forward. 

Up until now, they’d assumed Dorothy was just a particularly short adult… but now, it was clear. She was really just a child.

Just as the masked servant moved to remove her by force, Grayhill held up a hand to stop him.

A tense stillness filled the air.

Then, under the weight of many confused stares, Grayhill finally spoke.

"It does not matter who it is. If she is seated at this table, then she is a part of this assembly. She has the right to make a trade."

With those words, the masked servant stepped back reluctantly. Grayhill’s eyes, hidden behind his stone mask, slowly turned to focus on Dorothy.

“Well then, little miss,” Grayhill's deep, masked voice echoed through the quiet hall, “you say you wish to trade for my manuscript… but do you even have 500 pounds to your name?”

“I-I’m terribly sorry, Mister Grayhill,” Dorothy replied in her deliberately cutesy, high-pitched voice, putting extra effort into sounding younger than she was. “I don’t have that much money… b-but! I do have something else! We could trade!”

“Oh? Something else? You mean… something worth the price of this manuscript?”

“Yes! Just take a look at this…”

With that, Dorothy reached beneath her long cloak and pulled out a small cloth pouch, placing it on the table. She carefully opened it, revealing a glass vial filled with a thick, dark red liquid. Floating within were two ghostly pale, severed fingers.

The atmosphere in the hall shifted instantly—tense, heavy, frozen.

Even Grayhill leaned forward ever so slightly, intrigued.

Those who had moments ago been smirking, waiting to see the child make a fool of herself, now found their breath caught in their throats. 

At that moment, everyone understood—this girl was not playing games.

“Th-this is… mm, wait a sec…”

Dorothy pulled the vial out slowly, as if she had something to say but couldn’t quite remember it. She scratched her head, then fished out a crumpled slip of paper from her cloak and began to read aloud.

“These fingers were created through an occult ritual. They are spiritual limbs imbued with potent Chalice spirituality. If consumed in full, they will grant a significant boost along the path to transcendence. With just a little more supplementary Chalice spirituality, one could meet the threshold for becoming a ‘Thirster.’”

As she finished reading, Dorothy looked around the room.

Silence.

The crowd was now utterly still—no whispers, no shifting chairs, no scoffs. Dozens of eyes were fixed on the vial before her, and this time… they weren’t just intrigued.

They were hungry.

It was essence. Pure, high-grade spirituality.

To these occult seekers, this wasn't some obscure trinket or cryptic text—it was power, real and immediate. Something they could consume and feel themselves grow stronger. A shortcut toward the extraordinary.

A wave of longing swept through the crowd, thick and suffocating. If Grayhill hadn’t been present, someone might’ve already lunged for it.

But among the dozens of greedy eyes, two gazes stood out—not because of desire for the item, but for something far darker.

Their attention wasn’t on the vial.

It was on Dorothy herself.

The air in the hall grew heavy and tense. A sense of unspoken dread wormed its way into every heart. As Dorothy displayed her offering, a cold unease settled over the room.

Then, from the head seat, Grayhill spoke again, voice low and deliberate.

“Little miss… are you aware of what it means to openly sell something that once belonged to the Crimson Eucharist within this city? Do you understand what kind of consequences that brings? Do you dare sell this?”

Crimson Eucharist.

The name alone sent a chill down every spine.

Gasps echoed through the hall. The hungry looks vanished in an instant, replaced by fear. Once they knew where the item had come from, no one dared make a move.

Even the attendees seated closest to Dorothy subtly shuffled their chairs away from her, as if distance alone might protect them.

But Dorothy? She only tilted her head and smiled, voice still sweet as honey.

“Ah-le-le~ Crimson Eucharist? What’s that? I’ve never heard of it before…”

She tapped a finger against her chin in a cartoonish show of innocence, then glanced back at the paper in her hand as if checking again.

And then, she continued.

“Well,” Dorothy chirped, voice still sweet and carefree, “I don’t know what this ‘Crimson Eucharist’ is, but I believe someone like Mister Grayhill wouldn’t be afraid of them. So as long as you’re brave enough to take it—then I’m brave enough to sell it!”

The moment those words left her mouth, the room fell into dead silence once again.

And then—Grayhill burst into hearty laughter.

“Hahaha— You’ll sell it if I dare take it? What a bold little thing you are!” he chuckled, clearly amused. “Tell me, girl—who taught you to say something like that?”

Startled, Dorothy jumped a little, then hurriedly hid the slip of paper behind her back, eyes wide in fake panic.

“N-No one! I came up with that myself!”

Grayhill narrowed his eyes behind the stone mask, but the corners of his mouth curled in a wry grin.

“Heh~ Fine, fine. You came up with it. Sure you did…”

With a wave of his hand, one of his masked attendants stepped forward, gently placing the box containing the manuscript in front of Dorothy and retrieving the vial of severed fingers in exchange.

“The trade is complete,” Grayhill declared, his tone shifting to a rare note of seriousness. “You may take the item and go. But let me give you a piece of advice, little girl: don’t come to places like this again. No matter how much someone offers you, your life isn’t worth the price.”

As he stood from his seat, his voice echoed throughout the room:

“The gathering is dismissed.”

. . . . . . .

The meeting came to a quiet close. One by one, cloaked figures rose and gave respectful nods toward Grayhill before filtering out into the shadows of the underground hall.

Cradling the manuscript box in her arms, Dorothy ascended the stone steps and exited through the heavy wooden doors, disappearing into the winding alleys of the city’s underbelly.

But from the shadows, two pairs of eyes tracked her every movement—cold, silent, and relentless.

Once outside, Dorothy stepped into the gloom of Darkwater Alley. She paused only briefly to glance around, then darted off down a narrow lane, her cloak fluttering behind her.

Unseen, her pursuers followed.

Still cloaked, still running, Dorothy wove through the maze of alleys like a fox through a forest. She turned corner after corner, never looking back, but always aware of the presence tailing her.

A smile began to curl at the corner of her lips, hidden beneath her mask.

They’ve taken the bait… Those Crimson Eucharist’s dogs…

Without slowing, she slipped a hand into her cloak and pulled out the manuscript, tucking it securely away. Then, after one final turn, she dashed into a narrow, dimly lit alleyway—where a figure stood silently with his back to her.

Dorothy slowed as she reached him.

And when she sensed the pursuers nearing, she stopped, raised the now-empty box, and called out in her sweetest, most childlike voice:

“Mister! I did everything you asked! I bought the item just like you said! Look, it’s right here!”

The cloaked figure slowly turned to face her.

Deep-set eyes. Hooked nose. Skin pale and thin as parchment. A gentleman’s crimson suit, a top hat, and a cane gripped in long, skeletal fingers.

His gaze was piercing, void of warmth.

This was Edrick Grandi—Dorothy’s corpse puppet.

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