Chapter 36: Identity

Chapter 36: Identity

Night had fallen over the western outskirts of Igwynt—St. Amanda’s School lay bathed in darkness.

After dinner, the boys were supposed to head into their evening classes as usual, but just as they settled into the routine, a sudden, sharp sound echoed from somewhere deep within the campus grounds.

Gunfire.

The unmistakable crack cut through the stillness of the night.

Curious murmurs immediately rippled through the classrooms. Students rushed to the windows, crowding against the glass, trying in vain to see through the pitch-black distance beyond the school buildings. Speculation ran wild.

"What was that?"

"A robbery?"

"A duel?"

The boys chattered excitedly, theories piling up, until a strict teacher slammed his hand on a desk and barked for silence, ordering them all back to their seats.

Above ground, the classrooms remained lit and orderly.

But deep beneath St. Amanda’s School, in a vast and hidden underground chamber, a different kind of light burned—one of gas lamps and secrets.

This underground space was massive, its ceiling supported by stone beams. Rows upon rows of large gas lamps hung from above, casting bright light that banished every shadow.

Tables, cabinets, and shelves filled the room, all of them laden with stone sculptures—busts, torsos, full statues, heads large and small. They stood on every available surface: desks, stools, even the floor. Each piece was exquisitely carved, so lifelike it felt as if their eyes might suddenly blink.

Along the walls stood unshaped blocks of raw stone, and high above, several large ventilation ducts whirred quietly, their fan blades turning from some unknown source of power. A fine layer of white dust covered the stone floor, and scattered throughout were stools, hammers, chisels, and half-used easels with sketchboards still clipped in place.

On those sketchboards were unfinished pencil studies—portraits, geometric figures, light-and-shadow compositions. Not a drop of paint could be seen. Only graphite and linework.

It was, unmistakably, a sculptor’s workshop.

And at the center of this strange atelier stood Dorothy.

She looked around in quiet awe, eyes taking in every detail.

Not far from her, the elderly janitor, Mr. Dean, was hard at work—sculpting a bust of a stern-faced man. He had several black-and-white photographs laid out beside him, and he was carefully translating their angles into stone. The soft clink of chisel on marble echoed through the room.

Nearby, in a clear patch of floor, five bodies lay in a row, each one neatly covered with a white sheet.

“Thank you again, sir… You really saved me back there,” Dorothy said, turning her gaze from the eerie surroundings to the old man.

Dean didn’t look up. He kept chipping away, his tone casual and light.

“Haha~ Those lackeys from the Crimson Eucharist broke the rules. Stirring up trouble so close to my turf? Naturally, I couldn’t let that slide. But honestly, Miss Mayschoss, you should be thanking yourself.”

He paused to glance at the five corpses lined up on the ground, then gave a small, approving nod.

“You took down four of them all by yourself. I only stepped in at the end to tidy things up. When I got your puppet’s message, the carriage was already long gone. If you hadn’t forced them to double back, I wouldn’t have made it in time, even with my speed.”

Then he looked over at Dorothy with a smile that held a touch of curiosity and something else—respect.

“Well then… shall we talk about who you really are?”

“This composure, that decisiveness, and your analytical thinking… For someone your age to possess all that—frankly, it’s astonishing,” Dean said with a faint chuckle, eyes not leaving the sculpture he was shaping. “I must say, it’s a real relief to know St. Amanda has a student like you. And a girl, no less. Far more promising than those pompous little lords who do nothing but squawk all day.”

“You flatter me, sir…” Dorothy replied humbly, offering him a polite bow. Then, straightening up, she continued, “I’m still far from excellent. There’s much I have yet to learn, and many questions I hope to ask you… if you’re willing.”

Dean finally paused, looking up from his carving to meet her gaze, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“Questions for me, hmm? Very well. But before that—I have a few of my own,” he said with a spark of interest in his eyes. “Let’s start with this: how did you realize I’m not an ordinary man? Do you possess some sort of sense for the supernatural?”

Dorothy’s expression didn’t shift, but her mind briefly replayed the events from earlier that night.

After she’d boarded that crimson carriage—belonging to the Crimson Eucharist—she had secretly sent her gecko corpse-puppet racing back to the campus. It had scrawled urgent letters in the dirt right in front of Dean, who had still been quietly tending the garden. She’d taken a gamble. She knew this old janitor wasn’t as simple as he seemed.

After a short pause, Dorothy began her answer in a calm, analytical tone.

“My initial suspicion came from the very first time I met you. That day, you fell near my brother and me, knocking over two statues. My brother caught them all without breaking a sweat. And what did you say then? ‘Good reflexes, young man.’”

Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“At the time, it might’ve sounded casual, but the way you complimented him specifically for his reflexes—that caught my attention. Just a little. I brushed it off, of course… I thought maybe I was just overthinking.”

Dean gave a small nod, lips curling slightly in approval. “Go on.”

“Later, I became interested in the school’s statues. That lingering suspicion drew me back to you. When I found you again, you were cleaning them. And it wasn’t just how carefully you were doing it—it was how methodical you were.”

Dorothy started pacing the underground chamber slowly, hands clasped behind her back as if lecturing a class.

“You didn’t clean the statues haphazardly. Every stroke followed the structure—guided by form. Even areas a cloth could’ve wiped down in one sweep, you cleaned multiple times, carefully—targeting subtle details, like under the eyelids. Nothing was overlooked.”

She stopped and turned to face him again, her voice sharper now.

“But what struck me the most… was your technique.”

“You never wiped back and forth like most people would. Instead, every stroke was in a single direction. Then you’d return to the starting point and begin a new one. Again. And again. Like a sculptor carving stone—where the chisel only moves one way. I thought… that’s no random habit.”

She paused.

“That’s the hand of someone who’s been sculpting for years. Maybe decades.”

“Heh… To be honest,” Dorothy said, halting her steps and fixing her gaze on Dean, “the way you cleaned those statues—it didn’t feel like cleaning at all. It was more like… you were reconstructing them. Recreating the act of sculpting itself. I don’t believe a normal janitor would do something like that.”

Dean had already put down his tools. He let out a soft laugh and gave her a slow, appreciative round of applause.

“Haha~~ Such meticulous observation. Yet another rare quality to add to the list.”

Dorothy didn’t pause. Her voice was steady, her momentum unbroken.

“From that point on, you had my full attention. I began watching you very closely. And the more I watched, the more certain I became. Your physical condition, for example—remarkably sound. You didn’t move like a man your age should. There were no signs of frailty or stiffness. So when you ‘tripped’ in front of us on flat ground? That felt… intentional. Like a test.

“Of course, up to that point it was all just intuition. Conjecture. I needed something solid. So I decided to dig.”

She raised a hand and lightly tapped her temple, a glint in her eyes.

“I sent one of my smaller puppets into the school archives. The staff records. Eventually, I found my way to the finance department—specifically the payroll records. There, I confirmed something strange: the name ‘Dean,’ listed as a janitor, had never once drawn a paycheck from this school.”

“And that was when everything clicked. You’re not some humble groundskeeper… You’re the School Principal. Principal Aldrich. At that point, I knew for sure you weren’t ordinary. Though I still wasn’t sure if you were extraordinary, either. But in a moment of desperation, I decided to take the gamble and reach out to you anyway.”

Having concluded her analysis, Dorothy fell silent. Dean—no, Aldrich—burst into warm, hearty laughter.

“Hahahaha~~ Impressive. Truly impressive, Miss Mayschoss. You’ve far exceeded my expectations.” He stepped away from the half-finished bust, setting his tools aside and settling comfortably into a nearby chair.

“You’ve got a brilliant mind, and I’m genuinely pleased with your answer. Now then, Miss Mayschoss… it’s your turn. Ask away.”

Dorothy nodded slightly, her tone calm but serious.

“Thank you for your praise, School Principal Aldrich. Then—my first question is this…”

She met his gaze unflinchingly.

“Why did you test us on the very first day? What did you see in my brother and me that caught your attention?”

The question hung heavily in the air.

Aldrich didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took a slow sip of tea from a ceramic cup resting on the table. Then, setting it down with deliberate care, he turned to her with a smile—not soft, but sharp. And when he spoke next, his voice was no longer the calm, gruff tone of an old janitor.

It was deeper. Resonant. Commanding.

“What do you think, Miss Mayschoss? Or should I say… brave little girl?”

Dorothy’s eyes widened slightly.

She recognized that voice.

It wasn’t Aldrich’s usual tone—it was the voice she’d heard during the secret gathering she’d snuck into just days ago.

The voice of Grayhill.

If you want to see more chapter of this story and don't mind spending $5 monthly to see till the latest chapter, please go to my Patreon:

Latest Chapter in Patreon: Chapter 197 : New Script

Link to the latest chapter: https://www.patreon.com/posts/136848278?collection=1481191

https://www.patreon.com/collection/1481191?view=condensed