Bellflower Lane was a remote, narrow alleyway.
Outside, the main streets were clean and pristine, lined with tall, magnificent buildings and rows of neat, bright gas street lamps.
But once one turned into the alley, foul smelling sewage flowed across the ground, and fresh excrement piled up alongside old refuse, emitting a sour, putrid stench. The outer walls on both sides were covered in ugly, gnarled pipes of varying thicknesses, occasionally leaking jets of scalding steam, their surfaces coated in filthy grime.
The pitted, uneven bluestone pavement was shrouded in darkness, save for the red moon overhead, which cast a mysterious, blood colored glow.
8:25 PM, three hours and thirty five minutes remaining.
Lynch appeared at the entrance of Bellflower Lane.
He checked his arm again; it was no illusion. The withered state was indeed spreading upward, and he estimated it would reach his heart in a little over three hours.
What would happen then?
Lynch did not know. He only felt that death was lurking right behind him.
He sighed, pulled down his sleeve, and looked up. The two story building was an older structure, similar to medieval architecture, lacking even a sign. Dim, yellowish gaslight flickered through the glass panes of the wooden door.
Lynch thought to himself that it was likely a shop on the ground floor with living quarters above. Since there was light inside, it meant someone was home.
Is it really here? Did I track them correctly?
Anxiety and hesitation were the most accurate portrayals of his state at that moment. He stood at the door for over a dozen seconds, his hand trembling as he gripped the door cord.
Forget it. I am a transmigrator; transmigrators are thick skinned anyway. What is there to be afraid of?
Lynch gritted his teeth.
Ding-ling.
The old door cord rang out.
However, after several attempts, there was no response from within.
He stepped back a few paces. The light and shadows on the first and second floors seemed frozen.
Nothing changed.
Lynch’s heart grew increasingly tense. He tried pushing the shop door.
The door opened.
Hiss.
Tension caused his muscles to twitch involuntarily. Lynch pressed a hand to his wildly beating heart, glanced around, and, using his cane as a weapon, lowered his top hat and ducked into the antique shop.
The lighting inside was poor, and wooden shelves were piled high with all manner of antiques.
The entire house felt gloomy and oppressive, filled with the scent of decay.
A few old black and white photographs hung on the counter, each newer than the last; they were likely the various generations of shopkeepers.
The shelves were packed with old bottles, broken boxes, and snapped blades...
Everything was so ancient.
"Is anyone here?"
There was no response in the narrow shop, only a discordant, unpleasant melody drifting faintly from the second floor.
Lynch felt as though he had walked into a horror movie rather than a detective drama. His skin prickled, and his hands and feet felt ice cold.
Only the cane in his hand provided a semblance of false security.
Is no one here?
Licking his dry lips, Lynch swept his gaze around.
The first floor was an open hall with no partitions; one glance around was enough to know it was empty.
Only the music from the second floor continued to drift down, quite jarring, as if the record were skipping.
Gritting his teeth, he climbed the stairs.
The second floor was also lit by a single, solitary lamp, its flame dancing in the gloom. Before him lay a long corridor with at least six or seven rooms.
Almost all the doors were closed, exuding an evil aura.
Only one door stood open, and the discordant music was coming from within.
His lips moved, but he suppressed the urge to call out. Holding his cane aloft, Lynch lightened his steps and slowly approached the room.
The room was brightly lit.
It looked like a living room. Two high backed sofas faced away from the door, and the walls were covered in twisted gas pipes. A phonograph sat by the window, the unpleasant music blaring from its massive horn.
He could tell from the doorway that no one was there.
Did they forget to turn off the phonograph?
The sound was too grating. Lynch shook his head, checked one last time that no one was behind him, and stepped into the living room, quickly lifting the needle from the phonograph.
The horrific, screeching noise cut off instantly, and the room fell into complete silence.
Phew, finally some peace.
Lynch let out a breath and turned back around.
He saw a person sitting on the sofa, silent and motionless, staring straight at him.
Damn it.
Lynch recoiled two steps, nearly knocking over the phonograph, his cane instinctively raised in front of him.
Fortunately, the figure was still several meters away. If they had been any closer, Lynch suspected he would have dropped dead on the spot.
Pressed tightly against the window, he prepared to jump out and flee at a moment’s notice.
Only then did Lynch calm down enough to see that the person was wearing a gray formal suit, his top hat set aside, with spectacles hanging around his neck.
Short and thin, he was identical to the photos on the counter downstairs. It was the shopkeeper, Granville.
It was just that the angle of the sofa back had blocked his view earlier, and Lynch hadn't noticed him.
"Why didn't you answer or move? You’re trying to scare me on purpose."
Lynch pressed against his frantic heart, feeling his limbs go a bit weak.
"Gurgle..."
A dry, rasping sound emanated from Granville’s throat. He then stood up, arms held level, and stumbled toward Lynch.
Lynch’s eyes widened instantly. Only then did he realize that only Granville’s head could barely be considered normal.
His hands and neck were withered like a skeleton’s, his skin hanging loose and slack. His mouth emitted a low, guttural gurgling, and his eyes were nearly bulging from their sockets, staring fixedly at Lynch.
"Gur, gur, Levive... statue..."
A sudden chill rushed to his brain. Lynch wanted to flee, but extreme terror left his body limp. He remained frozen by the window, able only to watch as the shopkeeper drew nearer.
Just then, the mummy-like shopkeeper’s voice suddenly became clear, growling:
"You will come. You will be here to join us soon."
He took one more step forward, and his body made a 'poof' sound.
And so, right before Lynch’s eyes, the mummy disintegrated like a pile of sand dried to the extreme, collapsing into a heap on the floor.
Only his head remained intact, rolling to Lynch’s feet, a pair of eerie, lifeless eyes still staring at him.
Seeing a human die in such a bizarre fashion before his eyes left Lynch feeling as though he had been frozen solid. He collapsed to the floor, his body too rigid to move. Blood pounded against his brain, leaving his mind a blank slate, his consciousness even spinning with vertigo.
He sat slumped on the floor, dazed, for a full minute before his chaotic consciousness gradually calmed, a cool sensation rushing to his brain and restoring his reason.
"Gurgle, gurgle..."
His teeth were still chattering, but his body was barely capable of movement.
Lynch stumbled past the 'sand' on the floor and ran to the door, his heart pounding like a racehorse, which only gradually began to settle.
But his face was pale, for he had realized one thing.
He pulled back his sleeve; the withered state on his arm had not spread significantly upward. However, the appearance of his arm was almost exactly the same as the shopkeeper’s had been just moments ago.
Only his was even more severe.
In other words, this was his own future.
He looked at the sand on the floor, then turned to the clock; the fear of death drew ever closer.
It was 8:30 PM; three and a half hours remained.
Yet, the second target he had worked so hard to find was dead, and he had died so bizarrely.
Is this truly my final end?
No, it is not over yet. I still have a chance.
Every action leaves a clue. There must be something I haven't realized.
Now is not the time to give up.
Lynch took a deep breath, mustered his resolve, and braced himself to re-enter the living room.
He circled the pile of 'sand' and walked all the way to the sofa.
A small notebook lay on the armrest.
Lynch felt a spark of joy and, as if he had found a treasure, quickly flipped through it by the room’s light.
It appeared to be an inventory ledger for the antique shop.
When he opened to the last page and saw the contents, a chill shot from the base of his spine straight to his brain.
‘The item has been given to Lynch; why does the effect still persist?’
‘Bastard, the amulet is already shattered. I was deceived by that person.’
‘Damn it, damn it, damn it. I have a mystery relic too; I am not afraid of you.’
Sure enough, someone is manipulating this from behind the scenes. I am the next target.
Lynch closed his eyes, trying his best to regain his composure, and went over everything he had experienced today in his mind.
After a moment of hesitation, he opened the ledger again and meticulously searched through it twice, starting from the back.
The handwriting was ugly and messy, making it hard to read. It wasn't until the second pass that Lynch found a line of small text among the dense records.
‘Special cargo, L’
It seems this is the cargo record. L must be my name. I... hmm?
As he flipped through, his hand shook, and a hard paper card resembling a business card fell out.
The center of the card looked as if it had been scorched, leaving a thumb-sized hole with charred edges.
Is this the shattered amulet? How is it that even this aspect of this world is so bizarre?
Just as he was absorbed in looking at it, he suddenly heard movement behind him. Lynch stood up and turned around...
A dark shadow flashed before his eyes, and then he was hoisted up, his arm twisted, and he was pressed firmly against the floor.
Why did I use the word 'again'?
"I am arresting you on charges of spreading dangerous items and attempted murder of a Kingdom citizen. You... why is it you?"
"Officer Angel, don't you find this scene a bit familiar?" Lynch sighed as he lay on the floor. "Besides, you are late."
"Lynch Levive?" The tall figure paused, her iron-like grip loosening. The policewoman grabbed him by the collar and hauled him up, looking at him in surprise. "How did you get here?"
"Nothing strange about it. I said I wouldn't just wait at home to die; if I’m going to die, I’ll die on the path of struggle." Lynch shook his head. "On the contrary, I want to ask, how did you manage to track them here?"
"Someone found a charred corpse at a club, possibly related to the statue. I asked a professional to predict who would see the body first; they said that person might be able to see the death of the corpse... that person wouldn't happen to be you, would it?"
"It seems you are continuing your efforts as well. That was the Mole Club, and 'Drunken Peter' was my informant." Lynch used the simplest words to recount his experiences from the night. "Eventually, I tracked it here and witnessed Granville’s death."
As Lynch recounted the story, Officer Natalie’s beautiful face shifted between emotions. After a few seconds of silence, she took a slight step back, removed her hat, pressed it against her chest, and bowed deeply to Lynch.
"I must admit, Mr. Lynch Levive, your desire to survive and your ability to investigate far exceed my expectations." The policewoman sighed. "Although the shopkeeper here is dead and your efforts were ultimately in vain, your performance tonight is worthy of my respect."
"I don't think my efforts were in vain at all." Lynch let out a soft breath and, for the first time, revealed a relaxed smile. "On the contrary, I think I have found him."
"Huh?" The policewoman’s mouth hung slightly open, her fierce eyes filled with surprise.
Rate on N.U.
