Chapter 4: Nightmare

Dreams are a mirror and a sanctuary for mankind.

Within that sacred space, a person becomes truly alone—confronting their innermost self by gazing into the mirror, redefining their own existence.

That is precisely why nightmares are so terrifying.

The mirror is shattered, the sanctuary is brutally violated, and terror envelops the isolated soul. In the defenseless realm of dreams, people have no means to resist the horrors that assail them.

The incident that occurred on April 2, Imperial Year 1915, is believed to be intimately connected to such nightmares.

On that day, multiple cultists committed mass suicide.

They had long been suspected of worshipping a heretical deity, sequestered in an insular community that unsettled their neighbors.

Several names have been attributed to the aberrant god venerated by this cult:

"The Queen of Rot," "The Lord of Chaos," "The Dark That Writhes Upon the Throne," "The Great Blasphemy."

It is presumed that these are but different epithets for the same entity, though confirmation remains impossible at present.

Days before the mass suicide, a number of cult members had caused violent disturbances, leading to their arrest by the Imperial Gendarmerie.

Under interrogation, their testimonies were incoherent and devoid of meaning. The gendarmes’ psychiatrists deemed them a danger to themselves and others, confining them to a mental asylum.

Then, on April 2, the incident occurred.

Thus far, newspapers and radio reports claim only cult members took their own lives—but this is not the full truth.

Among the deceased were renowned artists, theologians, and philosophers. Without exception, their suicide notes contained the phrase:

"In a hideous nightmare, I beheld the end of the world."

Every note made mention of nightmares.

What kind of nightmare had they seen?

Suicides also took place within the asylum where the cultists were held. They employed every conceivable method to end their lives—though, fortunately, some survived.

From one such survivor, we gleaned insight into the nightmares they had witnessed.

Among the failed suicides was a former instructor at the Imperial Academy of Fine Arts. Once his condition stabilized, he began to paint.

At first, he used his own blood and excrement to scrawl upon the walls of his padded cell. But once the hospital confirmed his safety, they provided proper materials, and he transferred his visions onto canvas.

The resulting imagery was chilling.

Upon a canvas smeared in a grotesque, bloody crimson—reminiscent of rotting flesh—stood the gates of a manor-like structure. Before them, a girl.

Amidst the painting’s unsettling depiction of viscera seething with countless squirming insects, the girl alone was rendered with inhuman beauty—like an angel descended into hell.

If this was indeed a glimpse of their nightmare… what could it signify?

And in this abhorrent painting, so evocative of blasphemous worship, which is truly more terrifying—

The swarming, writhing horrors that surround her?

Or the girl who stands among them, unshaken?

—From the April 9, Imperial Year 1915 morning edition of the Nortland Tribune.

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