By the time he returned to St. Blaise Street, it was already close to midnight. The attic was freezing, with the wind constantly whistling through the gaps in the old window frames.
Ryan locked the door and checked the windows once more before finally taking off his coat. He lit his kerosene lamp, ate a quick bite of bread, and then retrieved his laudanum. Taking only a tiny sip, he felt his mind gradually begin to relax.
Leaning against the bedside, he closed his eyes and soon drifted into a semi-conscious state between waking and sleep.
...
The Wood.
The grayish-white forest stretched out into the mist.
Ryan opened his eyes, met by the familiar damp air. This was still the Lantern's Wood—quiet, empty, with a faint glow drifting in the distance. Everything was just as usual, or so it seemed.
He didn't notice anything unusual at first. He walked along the path he had previously explored, intending to absorb some of the Lantern's glow before leaving.
But as he walked, he suddenly stopped, his brow furrowing slightly.
Something was wrong.
This wasn't right.
There was an extra light ahead. A gas lamp, old and rusty, stood quietly by the roadside.
Ryan remembered clearly: it hadn't been there yesterday.
Things in the Wood didn't change positions without reason, unless something had altered them.
The Lantern's glow began to ripple gently.
Ryan stood in place and observed for a moment before slowly walking over.
The lamppost was very old, covered in mottled rust, as if it had stood there for years.
At the base of the lamppost, he found a scratch. It was very shallow, looking as though someone had casually carved it with a fingernail.
It was a moth.
Ryan's pupils contracted slightly.
Moth.
Moth again.
He instinctively recalled the woman he had met two nights ago, and his guard immediately went up.
But before he could back away, a wind suddenly rose in the Wood.
It wasn't a strong wind, but it set the surrounding fog in motion. The grayish-white mist slowly spread, gradually blurring his vision.
Ryan immediately turned to leave, but after only two steps, his feet froze.
Behind him, another gas lamp had appeared. Then a third, a fourth, a fifth...
Gas lamps emerged from the mist one after another, like a path that had existed all along, only revealing itself today.
Ryan stood in place, motionless.
His Lantern aspect was warning him that something lay ahead—unknown, mysterious, and dangerous.
At the same time, a strong intuition welled up from deep within him. This path wasn't a trap—at least, not an immediately fatal one. It was more like a door, one that had been casually pushed open by someone.
Ryan fell silent for a long time before finally taking a step forward.
One step.
Two steps.
Three steps.
As he ventured deeper, the surrounding Wood began to change. The trees grew sparser, the mist thickened, the soil beneath his feet gradually gave way to stone slabs, and a strange scent filled the air.
Tobacco, alcohol, perfume, and the distinct smell of coal smoke from the streets of London.
Finally, a blurry silhouette appeared ahead. It looked like a door, standing solitary in the depths of the thick fog. There were no walls, no buildings—just a door.
A pitch-black wooden door, half-open, casting a dim, warm light from within, as if waiting for someone to enter.
Standing before the door, Ryan suddenly noticed an extremely inconspicuous mark in the corner of the frame. It was a moth, identical to the one at the base of the gas lamp.
Seeing this, he finally understood.
The woman had indeed left something behind, but it wasn't a note, a clue, or even an invitation.
She had simply nudged open a door that had originally been hidden.
Whether to enter or not was entirely up to Ryan.
This was very Moth.
No explanation, no guidance, no responsibility. Just letting you see it, then leaving it to your curiosity, your choice.
Ryan stared at the half-open door for a long time. Finally, he reached out and gently pushed it open.
In the next instant, the mist churned, and the entire world abruptly warped, as if he were falling into a deeper dream.
When Ryan opened his eyes again, what met his gaze was no longer the familiar Wood, but a bizarre city built between mist and gas lamps.
Countless masked figures bustled to and fro along the streets. No one looked surprised, and no one stopped. This place had always existed; Ryan was merely another traveler who had wandered in by mistake.
At a street corner in the distance, a crooked wooden sign hung beneath a gas lamp, bearing a name:
Moth Lane.
The sky was a dark gray. There were no trees, no wind—only a massive, twisted “city.”
Narrow buildings overlapped one another, stairs grew directly out of the walls, and countless gas lamps hung suspended in midair. In the distance, floating bridges could even be seen. The architectural structure was completely chaotic, resembling a version of London cobbled together from a madman's memory.
The strangest part, however, was the people.
There were actually people on the streets—many of them.
They wore clothing from various eras: Victorian nobles, workers covered in coal dust, officers in military uniforms, and even figures wearing plague doctor masks.
Yet regardless of their status, they all wore the same thing on their faces.
White masks.
Blank.
Devoid of any facial features.
Just as Ryan found his footing, the sound of a lighter clicked nearby.
Click.
A tiny spark flared in the dim street.
“Newcomer?”
Ryan whipped his head around.
On the steps beside him sat a man in an old dress coat, smoking. He also wore a blank mask, obscuring his expression, leaving only his voice audible.
“Don't be nervous.”
The man exhaled a puff of smoke. Instead of dispersing, the smoke coalesced in midair into several grayish-white moths before slowly vanishing.
“This is Moth Lane. It's also one of the few relatively safe places in the lower levels of the Wood.”
He paused, then suddenly chuckled.
“Of course...”
“...that's assuming you don't go blabbing your name to anyone.”
Ryan didn't answer.
The man didn't seem to mind, simply continuing to smoke.
“True names are worth a lot.”
“Especially here.”
“Some are willing to trade secrets for a name.”
“Some are willing to trade their lifespan for a name.”
“And some make a business out of collecting names.”
“So keep your mouth shut about it.”
Ryan remained silent, merely observing his surroundings.
The street was livelier than he had expected. Someone carrying a kerosene lamp was walking down a staircase suspended in midair; another figure draped in a black robe sat by the roadside smoking; and someone in a crow mask crouched at the edge of a roof, resembling a bird waiting for carrion.
It didn't feel like reality, yet it possessed a strange sort of order.
No one fought, no one shouted, and even their voices were kept low, as if everyone was deliberately concealing themselves.
The man followed Ryan's gaze, scanning the area.
“First-timers are always like this.”
“They always think they've stumbled into a madhouse.”
He paused.
“Well, they're not far off.”
Ryan finally spoke.
“What is this place?”
The man fell silent for a couple of seconds, then let out a scoff.
“A market in dreams.”
“Or rather—”
“—a black market where both the living and the dead can trade.”
He tossed his cigarette butt onto the ground. Instead of going out, it wriggled into the cracks between the stone bricks and vanished.
“Things you can't buy in reality, you can buy here.”
“Things people wouldn't dare sell in reality, they sell here.”
“Knowledge.”
“Rituals.”
“Secrets.”
“Aspect materials.”
“Memories.”
“Names.”
“Identities.”
“Even some people's pasts and futures.”
At this point, the man chuckled softly.
“If you're lucky...”
“...you can even buy living people.”
Ryan's eyes darkened slightly.
But the man had already stood up, brushing off his clothes.
“Consider yourself lucky.”
“Landing near Moth Lane on your first visit.”
“If you had dropped in anywhere else...”
“...you'd probably be mad by now.”
With that, he began walking deeper into the street.
Ryan hesitated for a moment, but ultimately followed.
It wasn't out of trust, but because he didn't know anyone else here. At the very least, this man seemed somewhat hospitable.
Rate on N.U.
