Chapter 23: Cognitive Poison

Chapter 23: Cognitive Poison

Ever since she decided to attend that secret gathering, Dorothy had been grappling with a pressing question—What would she trade if she actually found a mystical manuscript she truly wanted?

Sure, she had some money on hand, enough to make most kids jealous. But would it really be enough in an underground market where the extraordinary was currency?

After much thought, Dorothy concluded that trading supernatural items for supernatural items was the most logical route.

And among the rare items in her possession, she had a few surplus pieces—spiritual fingers, soaked in potent spirituality.

She figured she could reserve one finger to recharge her Corpse Marionette Ring—after all, each finger could provide three charges. The remaining two could be put up for sale. Together, they’d power the ring for quite a long while.

But that plan came with its own problem.

At secret gatherings like these, it wasn’t uncommon for members of the Crimson Eucharist to be lurking around.

Trying to sell their property in the open? That was just asking for trouble.

If anyone recognized the source, the sellers wouldn’t just walk away with a profit—they might not walk away at all.

So then came the next challenge—how to deal with the Crimson Eucharist agents once they inevitably came after her.

Dorothy’s solution?

Leverage the fact that she still looked like a little girl.

If she played the part well enough—naive, clueless, a puppet for someone else—then no one would suspect she came to the gathering of her own volition.

People always underestimated children, especially in places like this.

And then, using her corpse puppet, she could stage a little skit—pretend to hand the real manuscript over to a mysterious, adult "handler."

Let the pursuers think he was the mastermind.

They’d shift their attention from her to the corpse puppet, and that was when she’d lose them—by diving into the river and vanishing into the shadows.

Afterward, she’d use her surveillance crow—a cleverly crafted undead scout—to track her would-be hunters in reverse, tracing them all the way back to their base.

Now, Dorothy had their hideout.

She could simply leak some intel to her big brother and let the Serenity Bureau do what they did best.

Wipe them out.

But… she wasn’t planning on doing that just yet.

“This place probably isn’t their headquarters. Just a relay point at most,” Dorothy muttered softly as she took a sip of her explosively sweet coffee.

“Wouldn’t be worth it to act now. I’d just be alerting them for nothing.”

There was no real benefit in hitting a minor safe house. If anything, it’d just spook the bigger fish back into hiding.

No, she had to wait.

Wait for the perfect opportunity.

A moment when she could deal a blow they wouldn’t recover from.

Setting her cup down, Dorothy reached into her small shoulder bag and pulled out a thin, tattered book.
The one she had just purchased from Grayhill—the mystical manuscript titled “Dream Seeker's Chronicles.”

According to Grayhill, it was a guide to dream mastery, a key to stepping into the world of dreams.

“A book of dreams, huh? Interesting... I wonder how much spiritual essence it contains?”

Dorothy was just about to crack it open and skim through the contents when a stray memory flickered in her mind.

Something she’d heard repeatedly during the gathering—

“Cognitive poison.”

Many of the items being traded that night were specifically meant to defend against it.

Even that old crone’s powdery concoction at the start was said to be used for this exact purpose.

Dorothy found herself intrigued.

What exactly is this ‘cognitive poison’? Why is everyone so obsessed with it?

Is it some kind of curse or affliction?

Why is it so common that almost everyone needs protection from it?

She tapped her finger against the manuscript’s cover thoughtfully, eyes narrowing in interest.

Whatever it was, one thing was clear—It wasn’t just a myth.

That wealthy man, the one with the codename “Shepherd Dog,” had actually given Dorothy a pretty useful clue.

He had refused to purchase the mystical manuscript from Grayhill, and his reason was rather unexpected:

He hadn’t finished studying the one he bought before.

Trying to study another one, he said, might cause a buildup of something called “cognitive poison”—Which, according to him, could lead to contamination and eventual loss of control.

So… studying these manuscripts would expose you to cognitive poison contamination?

That realization made Dorothy’s heart skip a beat.

Because she had already finished studying the incomplete volume of “The Art of Sacred Anatomy.”

If that’s how it worked, then she had already been exposed!

But… she felt perfectly fine?

To her, The Art of Sacred Anatomy was little more than a grotesque illustrated manual—morbid, yes, but not mind-breaking.

She had read it mostly out of curiosity, and while it was vivid and perhaps a bit disturbing, it certainly hadn’t driven her to madness.

If just that much counts as mental contamination, then what about all those cadaver dissections in med school back in my last life?

Are we just canceling surgeons now?

And that was what puzzled her the most.

Everyone at the gathering had seemed so cautious—insisting on defensive measures, warning about the dangers of cognitive poison.

Yet she had read a mystical manuscript herself and felt nothing.

Was it just because she hadn’t read enough?

Or had she already been contaminated… and simply hadn’t noticed?

Was her consciousness already being rewritten, bit by bit, without her knowing?

The thought made her shiver a little, but she shook her head.

No, that didn’t make sense.

If she really had been contaminated without realizing it, then surely someone around her would’ve noticed.

Gregor, for one—her brother—was a captain in the Serenity Bureau.

There was no way he hadn’t seen cases of cognitive poison before. If she were showing symptoms, he would’ve acted immediately.

Plus, if cognitive poison worked silently, in ways no one could detect, then there’d be no point in the antidotes and resistances everyone talked about.

The very fact that people tried to guard against it meant that its influence had to be perceivable.

So that left only one explanation—It’s a matter of dosage.

Which gave Dorothy an idea.

She’ll run an experiment.

After finishing her coffee, she took a carriage out of the city and headed toward a quiet riverside in the countryside.

The afternoon sunlight spilled warmly across the grass.

Dorothy sat on the wind-kissed meadow beside the riverbank and gently pulled out the “Dream Seeker's Chronicles.”

She would read it here—alone, undisturbed—and monitor her mental state as she went.

If she felt the slightest sign of discomfort, she’d stop immediately.

She had chosen this remote spot specifically in case something went horribly wrong.

If she really did lose control… at least no one else would get hurt.

And with the river nearby, she could throw herself in and cool off—literally and figuratively.

She settled down under a broad, leafy tree. The soft grass cushioned her as she flipped open the old book.

Page one… read.

Nothing happened.

Page two… read.

Still fine.

Page three… read.

No change.

And so it went. One page at a time, she kept reading. Slowly. Carefully. Watching herself for any signs of the dreaded cognitive poison.

The riverside was peaceful.

A gentle breeze rustled through the trees.

The girl beneath the canopy—quiet, beautiful, focused—sat reading intently in the shade.

The leaves danced around her. Her hair swayed in rhythm with the wind.

The trickle of water and whisper of leaves became her only companions.

If you swapped the forbidden manuscript in her hands for a classic novel, this could’ve been the opening shot of a coming-of-age school drama.

A solitary literary girl on her first appearance.

But of course, that was impossible.

Because what she held was no ordinary book.

. . . . . . . .

Elsewhere... in 22 Western Elmwood Street.

In an elegantly furnished study, the air hung heavy with the scent of smoke and aged wood.

A balding, middle-aged man with sagging skin and a silk nightrobe lounged in an armchair, a lit cigarette pinched between his fingers. His expression was stern, almost carved in stone.

Before him, two men knelt on one knee atop a thick, plush carpet, their heads respectfully bowed.

“You're telling me... a severed Finger of the ‘Chalice’ appeared at Grayhill’s gathering?”

“And it was clearly one of our creations?”

The study, cloaked in dim light and swirling smoke, seemed to grow heavier with the question.

The two men immediately responded.

“Yes, Mr. Burton. Even Grayhill himself confirmed it—it was undoubtedly something from the Society!”

“The seller didn’t show up in person, sir. He used a kid—a little brat to conduct the trade. In the end, he swapped the relic for a mystical manuscript. We followed him, but... he leapt into the Ironclay River and vanished!”

Burton fell silent.

Smoke curled from the tip of his cigarette as he stared at the two kneeling men, lost in thought.

After a moment, he drew in one last breath of smoke and exhaled slowly before speaking again.

“Did you get a good look at the seller?”

“Yes, sir. Looked to be in his twenties, dressed pretty sharp. Tall and a little skinny, pale as a ghost—sickly, even.”

The two tried their best to paint a clear picture.

During the chase, they had gotten close enough to memorize his features well.

Burton’s brow furrowed deeper and deeper as he listened.

Then, without a word, he stubbed out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray and rose from the chair.

He walked to a large desk, opened a drawer, and after rummaging for a moment, pulled out a photograph.

With slow, deliberate steps, he approached the kneeling men and handed it to them.

“Was it this man?”

The two men looked up—and immediately straightened in shock.

“Yes! That’s him, Mr. Burton! That’s definitely him!”

Burton paused for a heartbeat… then let out a cold, sharp snort.

“Hmph…”

Without another word, he returned to the desk and picked up a teapot. But instead of tea, a thick, dark crimson liquid poured into the porcelain cup—dense and reeking of copper and rot.

He handed the cup to the two kneeling men.

“Split it between yourselves.”

“Thank you, sir! Thank you for your grace!!”

The two men beamed with elation, clutching the foul liquid as though it were divine nectar. They left the study swiftly, closing the door behind them.

Now alone, Burton looked down at the photo in his hand again.

He flipped it over.

On the back, written in red ink, was a name:

Edrick.

Burton’s lips curled into a grim line.

He turned toward the towering bookshelf on the far wall and reached for the iron candle sconce beside it.

With a twist, a series of mechanical clanks and clicks echoed through the room as the bookshelf slowly slid open, revealing a hidden chamber.

Behind the shelf lay a blood-streaked altar of bone—no taller than a grown man’s waist.

It had been built entirely from human remains, still wet with fresh crimson stains.

Four thick candles flickered around it, casting a hellish glow across half-gnawed bones and glistening sinew.

At the center of the altar sat a gruesome relic:

A blood-drenched skull, still caked with muscle and tissue—And on its crown, grotesquely embedded into the bone, twitched a human ear.

Yes—an ear.

Veins pierced through the skull like roots of some parasitic plant, burrowing deep into its structure, feeding on its marrow.

Burton reached out and stroked the ear.

It twitched slightly at his touch, as if alive.

He leaned in and began to speak in a low, cold voice.

“Gentlemen… I’ve uncovered the truth about Albert’s demise.”

“I know who leaked our secrets to the Serenity Bureau.”

“It was Edrick—that ungrateful, wretched little rat!”

“He didn’t die. He wasn’t secretly captured. He betrayed us!”

“It was he who got Albert killed in Vulcan! And now that thieving bastard is walking free in this city… holding what he stole from us!”

“We’re going to make him suffer. No— We’re going to make him wish he’d died in Vulcan.”

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