Not in Vain

Bellflower Lane was a secluded alleyway.

Outside lay clean, paved avenues flanked by towering, ornate buildings and orderly, bright gas streetlamps.

Yet the moment one turned into the alley, foul sewage ran rampant across the ground. Fresh excrement and mounds of rotting garbage festered together, releasing a sour, rancid stench. The exterior walls on both sides were choked with an ugly tangle of pipes of varying thickness that leaked scalding steam from time to time, their surfaces encrusted in filthy grime.

The pitted flagstone street lay shrouded in pitch darkness, save for the red moon overhead, which cast an eerie, mysterious glow of blood-red light.

8:25 p.m. Three hours and thirty-five minutes left on the countdown.

Lynch appeared at the entrance of Bellflower Lane.

Checking his arm once more, he confirmed it was no illusion—the withering was indeed creeping upward. At this rate, it would reach his heart in just over three hours.

What would happen then?

Lynch did not know, but he could feel death lurking just behind him.

With a sigh, he rolled down his sleeve and looked up. The two-story building before him was an older structure, resembling medieval architecture, lacking even a sign. Behind the glass panes of its wooden door, the dim, yellow glow of a gas lamp flickered.

Lynch figured the first floor served as the shop while the second was living quarters. Since a light was on, someone was inside.

He was plagued by self-doubt, standing before the entrance for a dozen seconds, his hand trembling slightly as he held the door cord.

Forget it. I'm a transmigrator, and transmigrators are thick-skinned. What is there to be afraid of?

Gritting his teeth, Lynch pulled.

The aged door cord rattled the bell.

Yet even after several rings, there was no response from within.

Stepping back a few paces, he saw that the shadows of light across the first and second floors remained utterly motionless.

Not a single change.

His nerves tightening, Lynch pushed against the shop door.

The door swung open.

Tension sent involuntary tremors through his muscles. Lynch pressed a hand against his violently pounding chest, glanced around, gripped his cane as a weapon, pulled down his top hat, and slipped inside the antique shop.

The lighting inside was poor, with various antiquities piled high on wooden display shelves.

The entire house was gloomy and oppressive, reeking of decay.

Several aged black-and-white photographs hung above the counter, each slightly newer than the last, likely portraits of successive generations of shopkeepers.

The shelves were cluttered with old bottles, battered trunks, broken blades...

Everything was steeped in antiquity.

“Anyone here?”

The cramped shop gave no answer. Only an unpleasant strain of music drifted down faintly from the second floor.

Lynch felt as though he had stepped into a horror film rather than a crime investigation drama. His skin prickled with goosebumps, and his hands and feet grew cold.

Only the cane in his grip offered a false sense of security.

Licking his dry lips, Lynch surveyed his surroundings.

The ground floor was an open hall with no partitions; a quick look around confirmed it was empty.

Only the grating music from the second floor continued to drift down, jarring to the ear, like a skipping record.

Gritting his teeth, he climbed the stairs.

A solitary lamp burned on the second floor, its flame flickering dimly. Before him stretched a long corridor lined with at least six or seven rooms.

Almost every door stood firmly shut, exuding a sinister aura.

Only one door was open, and the screeching music was pouring from within.

His lips parted, but he suppressed the urge to call out. Holding his cane ready, Lynch lightened his footsteps and crept toward the room.

Inside, the lights were ablaze.

It resembled a sitting room, with two high-backed sofas facing away from the door. Twisted gas pipes ran along the walls, and a gramophone sat beside the window, its massive horn blasting the awful racket.

From the doorway, he could tell no one was standing there.

Did someone just forget to turn off the gramophone?

The sound was unbearable. Lynch shook his head, glanced behind him to make sure no one was lurking, then stepped into the sitting room and swiftly lifted the gramophone's needle.

The screeching, dreadful noise ceased instantly, plunging the room into absolute silence.

Lynch exhaled and turned around.

There, sitting on the sofa, was a person. Completely soundless, staring straight at him.

Holy shit.

Lynch stumbled back two steps, nearly knocking the gramophone over, his cane instinctively raised before his chest.

Fortunately, there were still several meters between them. Had the person been any closer, Lynch suspected his heart would have stopped on the spot.

Pressing his back flat against the window, he readied himself to leap out and flee at a moment's notice.

Only then did Lynch calm down enough to see the man clearly. He wore a gray suit, his top hat resting beside him, with a pair of spectacles hanging around his neck.

Short and thin, he looked identical to the photographs behind the counter downstairs. It was the shopkeeper, Granville.

Earlier, the high back of the sofa had simply blocked him from view, preventing Lynch from noticing him.

“Why didn't you answer or move? Were you trying to scare me on purpose?”

Clutching his racing heart, Lynch felt his legs go weak.

“Guh-k-k...”

A dry rattling escaped Granville's throat. Then he rose, raised both hands, and stumbled toward Lynch with faltering steps.

Lynch's eyes widened in horror. Only now did he realize that barely anything beyond Granville's head was normal.

His hands and neck were as desiccated as a skeleton's, loose skin hanging slackly from the bone. A low, guttural rattling leaked from his mouth, and his eyes bulged almost entirely from their sockets, glaring relentlessly at Lynch.

“Guh... guh... Levive... the statue...”

A sudden chill rushed straight into Lynch's brain. He wanted to run, but sheer terror paralyzed his limbs, pinning him to the window frame as he watched the shopkeeper shuffle ever closer.

Just then, the mummified shopkeeper's voice suddenly regained clarity, letting out a low growl:

“You will come... You'll be joining us soon.”

He took another step forward, and his body gave a soft poof.

Right before Lynch's eyes, the desiccated corpse shattered like a mound of bone-dry sand, collapsing into a heap on the floorboards.

Only the head remained intact, rolling all the way to Lynch's feet, its eerie, lifeless eyes still staring fixedly up at him.

Witnessing a human die in such a grotesque manner right in front of him left Lynch completely frozen. He slumped to the floor, his body too rigid to move, blood hammering against his temples in waves. His mind went utterly blank, a wave of dizziness washing over his consciousness.

After sitting paralyzed on the floor for a full minute, Lynch felt his chaotic thoughts gradually cool, as though a chilling breeze had swept through his mind, restoring his sanity.

“Ch-ch-ch...”

His teeth were still chattering, but his body could finally manage to move.

Trembling, Lynch skirted the pile of sand on the floor and scrambled to the doorway, his galloping heartbeat only then beginning to subside.

Yet his face remained ashen, for a dreadful realization struck him.

Pulling up his sleeve, he saw that while the withering hadn't progressed much further upward, the desiccated appearance of his arm was nearly identical to that of the shopkeeper just now.

The man had merely been further along.

Which meant this was his own future.

Glancing at the pile of sand on the floor, then turning to look at the mantel clock, the terror of death pressed ever closer.

8:30 p.m. Three and a half hours left.

Yet the second lead he had worked so hard to find was dead too—and in such a bizarre fashion.

Taking a deep breath to rekindle his resolve, Lynch mustered his courage and stepped back into the sitting room.

Circling around the heap of sand, he walked straight to the sofa.

A small notebook lay discarded on the armrest.

A surge of hope washed over Lynch. Treating it like a precious treasure, he quickly flipped through it beneath the room's light.

It appeared to be the antique shop's transaction ledger.

Turning to the final page and taking in the contents, a chill shot straight up from the base of his spine to his skull.

‘The item was already given to Lynch. Why are the effects still continuing?’

‘Bastard, the talisman has shattered. I was tricked by that man.’

‘Damn it, damn it, damn it! I have mystery relics too. I'm not afraid of you.’

As expected, someone was pulling the strings from behind the scenes, and the next target was him.

Closing his eyes, Lynch forced himself to remain calm, replaying every event of the day through his mind.

After a moment's hesitation, he reopened the ledger and carefully inspected the pages from back to front twice over.

The handwriting was hideous and chaotic, difficult to decipher. Only on the second pass did Lynch spot a line of small script amid the dense entries:

‘Special goods, L’

This had to be the record of the transaction. “L” undoubtedly stood for his name. I... hm?

As he turned the page, his hand shook, and a stiff card resembling a business card slipped out.

The center of the card looked as though it had been burned through, leaving a hole the width of a thumb ringed with charred edges.

Was this the shattered talisman? Why was everything in this world so bizarre?

Just as he was absorbed in examining it, he caught a sudden sound behind him. Lynch rose and turned—

A dark shadow flashed before his eyes, and he was hurled through the air once more, his arm twisted painfully behind him as he was slammed flat against the floorboards.

Why did I think “again”?

“You are under arrest for distributing dangerous items and attempted murder of kingdom citizens! You... wait, why is it you?”

“Officer Angel, don't you find this scene a bit familiar?” Lynch sighed, pinned to the floor. “Besides, you're too late.”

“Lynch Levive?” The tall silhouette froze, and the vise-like grip loosened. The female officer grabbed his collar and hoisted him up, staring at him in astonishment. “What are you doing here?”

“Nothing strange about it. I told you I wouldn't wait at home to die. If I'm going down, I'll go down struggling.” Lynch shook his head. “Rather, I'd like to ask how you managed to track this place down.”

“Someone discovered a charred corpse in a club that might be tied to the statue. I had a specialist divine the first person who would see the body, thinking that person might have witnessed the death... Don't tell me that was you?”

“Looks like you've been busy too. That was at the Mole Club—Drunken Peter, my informant.” In the simplest terms, Lynch recounted his experiences of the evening. “In the end, I tracked the trail here and witnessed Granville's death.”

As Lynch spoke, Officer Natalie's striking face darkened and shifted. After a few seconds of silence, she took a slight step back, removed her top hat, pressed it against her chest, and bowed deeply to him.

“I must admit, Mr. Lynch Levive, your will to live and investigative abilities far exceed my expectations.” The female officer sighed. “Though the shopkeeper here is dead and your efforts were ultimately in vain, your conduct tonight earns my respect.”

“I don't think my efforts were in vain at all.” Lynch let out a soft breath, offering an easy smile for the first time. “Quite the contrary—I think I've found him.”

“Huh?” The officer's mouth fell slightly open, her fierce eyes wide with utter shock.