Archive of Our Own ^beta

Reckon a new cycle of pilgrimage is about due to begin, though who can say for sure? In this dyin' kingdom, dates have long since lost their meaning. Hah, makes me chuckle just thinkin' what them pilgrims are gonna see when they finally crawl their way up here. They endure a thousand hardships, wadin' through rivers and climbin' mountains, reachin' the gates fancyin' themselves cloaked in glory and joinin' the grand Song. And the result? Naught but dusty webs and hollow shells littering the ground to greet 'em. Ho ho! The look on their faces will be somethin' else! Dyin' on the road almost seems like a mercy by comparison.

But if'n you ask me, they only got themselves to blame. What good comes from expectin' things that ain't promised? Hope's like a poison, rottin' the host from the inside out. Lifts you up high only to dash you against the rocks. My chum here knows all about that. Don't ya, chum?

For a corpse, my chum's kept pretty well. Nary a spot of rot on him. Well, he was a sergeon in life, I s'pose. Dunno when he just dropped dead right by my doorstep—of all the sights in Pharloom to perish at, he sure picked a prime location! Don't know the bug, but fate is fate. It ain't so bad havin' a chin-wag now and then to pass the time. Besides, he doesn't answer back. That alone makes him better company than most livin' bugs.

Note to self: Best steer clear of Cogwork Core when I'm out stretchin' my legs. Nearly ran smack into that evil mushroom today. Lucky for me, she had all her attention focused on some poor sod she'd plucked from who-knows-where.

Hah, folk say we're wicked, just 'cause we siphon a bug's Soul for power reserves. At least we don't go carvin' patterns into victims with a pin whilst screechin' like a psycho. Ah, truly, that laugh of hers... If she ever catches me, before I croak, I swear I'm gonna scorch that throat of hers out so she never laughs again!

The Citadel remains silent as the grave. Even the li'l bell on my staff manages to kick up a string of echoes down these empty halls. Whatever grand anthems once rang out endless 'round here, the last wisp of 'em has long since faded. Lost to the one above still slumbering deep—and her evil mushroom, of course.

Normally, I'm one to enjoy the quiet, but stickin' around here too long starts to give a bug the creeps. Might just head out for a couple o' days, catch a breath of air. Reckon you won't have any objections, eh, my dear chum?

Went to see my sister down in Moss Grotto today. Still gigglin' away like a loon, same as ever. No surprises there, she's still guardin' our family's old ruined chapel—reckon she wouldn't change even if the Haunting took 'er! Seems she's found herself a side gig though, the unpaid sort: gravekeeper for Bonebottom. Callin' that place a 'town' is flatterin' it. Just a ragtag camp of pilgrims, a few tattered tents thrown together... ain't got a lick of defense. Wouldn't surprise me one bit if some beast from the Marrow smashed it to smithereens one day! Eh, but then my sister's business would be boomin', wouldn't it?

Anyroad, with the pilgrimage season startin' up, Sister's numbers are shootin' up without Bonebottom needin' to be wiped out. Big ol' graveyard growin' behind the chapel now, buryin' those pilgrims who kicked the bucket before they even properly started. I said dyin' on the road might be a mercy, but croakin' before you even hit the road? That's just pathetic. Sister's got some fancy excuse for it: givin' a final rest to these poor sods tricked by the Citadel's lies to die for naught. I bet she's snickerin' in private though! All them fresh shells, still stickin' with Soul... waste not, want not, eh? Ends up in her pockets eventually.

Of course, all these chats invariably turn into her preachin' about freedom, change, and "subjective agency." She actually has the gall to ask me: are we just gonna sit here waitin' for the one above to wake up? Well, what else we gonna do? The three of us gonna climb up there, summon the Void, and drag her down into the Abyss? Do we look like we got the power for that? Pff. I reckon the endin' to that story is simple: the one above takes a look, thinks "Oho, free delivery," and snatches us up to melt down into three big Soul pills in a blink. If she wants to throw her life away, let 'er. I ain't stupid enough to pick a fight with a higher being. I'll take livin' another day, thank you very much.

Before I left, she tried to shove a bowl of Mossberry Stew in my hands, said it's a "local speciality." Took one look and flat out refused. Who's got an appetite for green, slimy slop like that? I'd rather go gnaw on roaches down Sinner's Road than drink that muck!

On the way back to the Citadel, I must've been possessed by a moment of madness, 'cause I decided to drop in on my uncle, who spends all his years holed up in the bellveins. Predictably, I regretted it the moment I stepped inside. Callin' me "slave" every other breath—he's really got that stuck in his vocab now, hasn't he? Even to his own nephew! Talk about spoiled rotten. Bellhart should've kicked him to the curb ages ago, just like they did with that quack doctor who cured her patients to death!

But, heh, reckon Bellhart won't be gettin' the chance to do that anymore. Who woulda thought? That town was once the tightest fortress around, and now it's all wrapped up in cursed thread. And the culprit is none other than that already-mad last Weaver. That old bastard could've protected Bellhart from this fate if he'd wanted to. He's got the power. But no! In the end, he just sat there underground, hidin' away like a shrinking Imopa. A complete waste of all that Soul he's hoarded up! And then he has the gall to ask me why I didn't go break the curse! Is it the same thing? I don't live in that blasted town!

Though, he did get one thing right: whether we interfere or not, all of Pharloom is gonna end up like this sooner or later. And I can understand his need for isolation and quiet. But that ain't no excuse to tell his nephew—who came all this way just to see him—to scram!

Pah! Old geezer!

I'm back, chum! Never should've left ya in the first place...

There's no place like my own li'l nest. If only my shell were like the old geezer's, big enough to let me shrink all the way inside. Rot away quietly like that, until the end of time...

Is it just me, or is the one above gettin' more restless lately? At the very least, the Silk bindin' First Shrine seems tighter. Somethin' provokin' her? Doesn't matter, I s'pose. The Song's been gone for ages, so the seal failin' completely is just a matter of time.

Makes me think back on my poor cousin... tried to plan ahead, actually indulged in some wild fantasy of unitin' with the swamp natives to overthrow the Citadel. And the result? Wasn't the Citadel that stuck a knife in his back, but the very allies he chose! That's the price of trustin' folks in Pharloom!

Maybe he was smarter than all of us. In a way, I actually envy him: he gave his life in his (not exactly glorious) rebellion, died (not exactly heroically), and just left it all behind. Didn't have to scrape by in this desolate world, sufferin' like this.

Then again, thinkin' it over... rather than dyin' in a cesspit crawlin' with maggots, I'd prefer to wait for the one above to wake up and melt me down into a Soul pill.

Alright, I admit it, I broke my rule. Heard a rustlin' sound comin' from the core areas while I was out stretchin' my legs today, so naturally, I had to go take a look. Curiosity, eh? It's just bug nature. My good chum understands that best, right? After all, if it weren't for their vigorous curiosity about Silk, Pharloom might've wheezed on for a few more years yet. Besides, everything was under control: not runnin' into that evil mushroom is proof enough.

In a Citadel this dead and silent, locatin' a sound—no matter how faint—is child's play. In a dimly lit room, I found a bug skulkin' about, rummagin' through piles of husks. Hardly surprisin': thievery's a boomin' career path in this day and age. But this bug was gettin' on in years, clothes tidy, pack bulgin' with loot... clearly not scavengin' out of desperation. Truly disgraceful for her age!

Seein' I still had my wits about me, this old swindler immediately slapped on a fake smile: "My dear, care to cast an eye over old Jubilana's latest goodies? Guaranteed to have something you need!"

Hold on a minute. Just 'cause you picked this stuff up, it's yours now? And sellin' it at those prices?! And who are you callin' "my dear"?! Disgusting! Shameless! Brazen old hag!

I turned to leave in a huff, but she had the nerve to grab me, askin' if there was any safe spot nearby. There is, sure, but expectin' me to tell ya? Dream on! If I led this corpse-lootin', bag-lickin' old swindler back, my chum surely wouldn't be safe from her grubby mitts either!

The first bell's been rung. Hah, looks like the Haunting can't keep a leash on every bug after all!

Ain't exactly a feat worth crowin' about, mind you—seein' as that first bell is just a stone's throw from Bonebottom. But considerin' the Haunting turns an already treacherous trek into a death trap, it's rare enough a pilgrim managed to ring it at all.

...Aye, even with savage beasts roamin' wild on the roads, them pilgrims still march blindly toward a certain death, all for the sake of false promises. That poison called hope... reckon it corrodes and breaks a bug's mind worse than the Haunting ever could.

STAY AWAY FROM COGWORK CORE!!! Nearly ran smack into that evil mushroom again! I can't wrap my head 'round it. Usually, whenever she shows up, it's accompanied by chaotic screamin' and that ear-gratin' laugh of hers. So why was it dead quiet this time? Not a peep.

That mad white knight was just sittin' there, not movin' a muscle, head hangin' low, thinkin' about who-knows-what. I ain't gonna pity her, no sir: for the damage she's done to my eardrums alone, she deserves to be sliced and diced, dropped in boilin' oil and fried 'til she's golden brown on both sides. But right then... she looked so fragile, so lonely. Just like a helpless child.

...Child. Ain't that exactly what she was made to be? Hah. The puppeteer enslavin' all livin' things, and her broken, silken creation. Compared to that mother-daughter pair, even my broken-down family seems to have a bit more warmth to it.

Oh, almost forgot to mention: the second bell's been rung.

The third bell's rung out from the heart of Pharloom. Means some bug's gone and slain that crippled Weaver perched above the town, severin' the haunted threads bindin' the locals, eh? Must be a mighty warrior amongst them pilgrims to drive a first child into such a corner.

Ho ho! That old geezer's in for it now! Just picture it: him nestled nice and cozy in his shell, only to find all that racket from the bugs upstairs crashin' back down. The look on his mug must be somethin' exquisite! I'd pay a hundred rosaries just to see that up close!

The fourth bell's rung out from Greymoor. Never had much love for that damp muck. Endless rain feels like needles on the back for a bug without a crust, let alone them local gangs always hoverin' overhead, squawkin' away.

Gotta admit, I'm startin' to see this lot of pilgrims in a new light. Most efficient batch I've ever seen. Is it 'cause the kingdom's on its last legs that their wish to restore Pharloom burns hotter, makes 'em act sharper?

Wasn't long after the fifth bell in Shellwood rang that I heard the rumble of Grand Gate openin'. Meant to go take a peek at what kinda prodigy climbed the Citadel this time, but spotted that evil mushroom already waitin' in the entrance hall from afar. Sorry, don't mind me. I'm off.

Honestly, what was I expectin'? Of course the white knight would be waitin' there, ready to snuff out any new sound! Won't be long 'fore those fresh faces join the ranks of my chum here: hollow eyes, stone-cold bodies—the current Citadel's latest fashion trend.

Lord of Shades! Just what in the blazes is happenin'?! Woken up by the one above's caterwauling, opened my eyes and near thought I'd travelled back in time! Them corpses that were layin' on the ground, all yanked up by Silk and pumped full o' false life. Patrollin' the Citadel non-stop... that thump-thump-thump of footsteps has utterly ruined the peace I need to survive. Lucky my chum wasn't swept up in it—or else I'd have to personally put 'im back to his eternal rest.

Anyroad, who's all this fuss for? What kind of guest warrants such a grand reception? Looks like it ain't a good time for a stroll. Best I stay put in my li'l nest, keep my head down and go nowhere. But I got a bad feelin' about this. A very, very, very bad feelin'...

Blast that Bellringer!!! No wonder they say there ain't a good Weaver among 'em! Thought they'd all kicked the bucket ages ago, yet here comes another one poppin' up from nowhere! Is she addicted to ringin' bells or somethin'? Why can't she keep her itchy hands to herself?! And askin' all them funny questions! A bell-ringin' lout, disturbin' my sweet dreams!

As it stands, she best be comin' back to clean up her mess like she said! I ain't dealin' with that incomin' horde of fools on my own!

When the first lost pilgrim showed up tremblin' at my door, I knew: I was done for. My peaceful life of seclusion? Ruined. Completely and utterly. And it's all thanks to that reckless Bellringer!

This nervous wreck of a bug was shakin' so bad he couldn't even speak straight at first. I dragged a chair over for 'im, shoved some food and water down his gullet, and only then did he start to come round. His eyes were dartin' about, exhausted and clueless, checkin' for hidden dangers. Looked like he hadn't slept in days. Truly irritatin'. If you think it's dangerous, don't come! Did I invite ya? What, you want me to sing you a lullaby? Tuck you in? I ain't your nursemaid! I couldn't be bothered with 'im. But a moment later, I heard faint snorin'—the poor sod had leaned his head against the shrine wall and passed out cold.

But that was just the start of the nightmare. One after another, pilgrims started poppin' up like mossgrubs in my sister's basement. Some had just survived the perilous climb up to the Citadel; others had somehow lucked out wanderin' this ghost town for years. But they all share the same traits: weak bodies, dim minds, dead weight the lot of 'em. Leave 'em wanderin' alone out there and most wouldn't last minutes—especially considerin' the Citadel is now crawlin' with reanimated puppets.

And so, all manner of riff-raff crowded into this once-peaceful sanctuary, circlin' the shrine like a shabby, dirty refugee camp. Look at what you've done, Bellringer! Maybe they don't know the logic behind it, but the ringin' of First Shrine tells 'em instinctively that the Haunting can't touch this place. So they huddle together, clingin' to life, enjoyin' a moment's borrowed peace.

"Thank you, Mr. Caretaker," they say to me. "Drifting so long in a world gone insane... we finally found a haven to rest our feet."

Hah, it's someone else they oughta be thankin'. If I truly had a choice, I'd never want to lay eyes on 'em for the rest of my life.

Quiet refugees mean mischief brewin'.

Still hear the occasional cough and groan wherever I walk, but compared to the cacophony of yesterday, it's a vast improvement. Now and then a new addled fool finds their way here, but others help tend to 'em, savin' me the trouble. Just as I was gettin' ready to relax, I spot a cluster of pilgrims gatherin' 'round the shrine entrance, whisperin' and chatterin'. I lean in for a closer look, and there it is—the very essence of Pharloom's depravity right in front of my face: a wishwall.

"Mr. Caretaker, do you perhaps have a wish as well? We could inscribe it upon the wall for you!" one of 'em chirps.

My greatest wish is for you lot to scram!

I held my temper and told 'em: wishes are just naive fantasies for fools who want somethin' for nothin'. 'Specially in this day and age, if you need somethin', you gotta fight for it yourself, not rely on the whimsical charity of others.

The pilgrims looked at one another, then back at me. "But did you not answer our wish for a sanctuary? Surely that proves that prayer is effective!"

I was speechless. A flock of incurable idiots! They deserve to be scammed and exploited by the Citadel's lies, drained of their last scrap of song, then shipped off to Whiteward to be drained of their last thread of Silk, then eaten alive by them twisted monstrosities! Let 'em be!

Speakin' of Whiteward...

With the numbers risin', this already cramped camp is gettin' even tighter. Need to tweak the layout a bit. That means I gotta discard some things that obviously ain't of use...

Sorry, chum. You're just a corpse.

I must've been possessed to believe that Bellringer's nonsense about comin' back to help! Higher beings got a different view of things than us mere bugs. To them, just passin' through, takin' a stroll, and havin' a look-see counts as "helpin'". Yet managin' this heap of trouble in the camp still falls to me, and me alone! Pah, whatever. What she does ain't my business, long as she don't drag these refugees into it. These fragile fools can't take much more tossin' about...

Still, she really don't treat herself like a guest, does she? Walks right in, plops down to check her maps, fix her tools... reached a level of arrogance where she acts like no other bug exists! Is that chair for her to sit on? Don't even say hello, just rests straight away like she owns the place. Only when she's done does she remember there's a livin' bug next to her, and feigns a bit of chit-chat. And then—she starts playin' that needle of hers! That wicked trick of them old venomous Weavers! Manipulatin' the Silk inside ya, forcin' you to sing out what's in your heart! Vile! Wretched! Shameless!

Before she left, Bellringer stood 'fore that wishwall for a long while, even took down a few boards. That sanctimonious actin' makes me sick. Someone with noble blood like hers, how could she possibly spare a thought for the humble pleas of us lowborn wretches?

Too damn loud! Ever since them Citadel husks got dragged back to work for a second shift, every time I get near the door, I can hear that vaultkeeper downstairs yappin' away at their sermons. Blah, blah, blah. If I weren't so tied down here, I swear I'd go down there and blast 'im to kingdom come with a Vengeful Spirit!

Food stocks are holdin' up for now, but keepin' on consumin' without resupply is like drainin' a pond to catch the fish. Lookin' at this lot—one more spineless wimp than the next—expectin' them to go out foragin' is clearly a pipe dream. I remember the old geezer mentionin' somethin' about a delivery service in Bellhart, but how to place an order again?

Asked around the camp. Though everyone's heard of the couriers, few had actually used the service. That is, until one bloke who looked like he used to have a few rosaries to rub together pulled out a farspeaker—obvious li'l gadget left behind by the Architects of old. Accordin' to him, you just punch in the number, leave a voice message, and wait for the delivery to show up at your door.

One glutton jumped right out, eyes lightin' up at the mention of couriers, highly recommendin' their signature rasher. Others who'd tasted it chimed in, and then even those who hadn't started makin' a fuss. Just as these fools were daydreamin', actin' like they were already feastin', a pilgrim fresh from the climb through Bellhart crushed their fantasies: The delivery bugs went and got themselves lost.

The mob wilted like dry moss instantly. See? Gettin' your hopes up never ends well!

Meddlesome Bellringer! Which unlucky sod wrote the wish that lured that old swindler here?!

In less than half a day, relyin' on her glib tongue and her "legendary encounters with the little red-cloak" as a sellin' point, that oil-slicked Jubilana has fleeced the whole camp! Half the bugs couldn't resist her sweet talk and emptied their already shrivelled pockets, and the other half only resisted 'cause they had naught left to give. Keep goin' at this rate, and every rosary in the vicinity is gonna end up in that old swindler's waistband!

Only after she'd squeezed every refugee dry did she pretend to finally spot me. She waltzed over, beamin' with a fake smile, countin' her earnin's as she came.

"Oho, what a turn-up! Fancy meeting you again, dear one. Why didn't you tell me about such a prime piece of real estate before, eh?" Her smug grin made me sick. "So, had a change of heart? Interested in doing a little business with old Jubilana now?"

"I ain't givin' you a single bead." She best remember those words!

Today, when Bellringer returned, I was right in the middle of listin' her crimes for lurin' that old swindler here. But before I could get a word in, she pulled a handful of choirbug pins from her cloak and threw 'em down in front of me with a great clatter.

"Sir, bugs within your encampment wished that I hunt the choirbugs to acquire their armaments. I have deposited them here."

Droppin' those words, she marched straight off to attend to her "serious business."

I fought back the urge to curse, shook the bell on my staff to gather the lot of 'em. "Alright! Whichever one of you made that wish, step forward and own up to it! Now!"

A scrawny li'l pilgrim raised a hand. "I-I only thought... though our camp is safe enough, the haunted puppets still roam outside. If they were to attack, or if any of us needed to venture out... it would be best to have some means of self-defense..."

Jubilana chimed in: "Ambition is a fine thing in a young bug, dear one. But next time, just ask old Jubilana. No need to bother the little red-cloak. If you know where to look—and I am an expert in such matters—there's no shortage of goodies scattered about this Citadel!"

"N-no... rosaries..." the pilgrim replied.

The old swindler shut her trap instantly.

I picked up a pin casually. "So. You know how to use this?"

The li'l pilgrim shrank back instantly, shakin' his head like a fan.

"Right then. Anyone here knows how to use 'em? Someone who can organize some drillin' or somethin'?"

The bunch of fools looked at each other, then turned to look at me in unison.

What? What are you all starin' at me for? Expectin' me, a mage, to teach you how to swing a pin? Is there no justice left in this world?!

Picked out a few bugs who were recoverin' alright and looked sturdy enough today—and that instigator wasn't gettin' away, neither!—and made 'em pair up for sparriin'. These pilgrims ain't never touched a weapon in their lives; they were clutchin' those pins, shakin' so bad they could barely hold 'em steady. Kept glancin' my way with those helpless flea eyes, until I glared back harder, signalin' 'em to get on with it now. Only then did they take a deep breath and swing at each other.

Callin' this spar "dull" would be a compliment. Their moves were stiff, slow, weak, flinchin' away... terrified of accidentally scratchin' themselves or their partner. Fresh-hatched grubs scrap harder than this. Next to them, a drapemite looks like a fencin' master. But then again, what guidance can these old bones of mine offer? Just let 'em keep at it. Whatever happens, stretchin' their limbs is better than curlin' up in tents sighin' and moanin' all day.

By the by, heard those fools chatterin' in the camp today about some "performance". "The great stage master Trobbio presents..."—and that old swindler seized the chance to peddle some "themed merchandise" she must've dug out of a rubbish heap. Hah! That narcissistic butterfly is still kickin', is he? Makes sense, though. With his state of mind, wouldn't be surprisin' if he ended up controllin' the Haunting instead of the other way round!

Hah, knew my gut wasn't lyin'! Bellringer admitted it straight out: she was "invited" here from some far-off land by the one above, and now she's lookin' to return that "hospitality". Typical. These ancient clans are always squabblin' amongst themselves, draggin' us common bugs into their mess.

Cogwork Dancers' eternal performance has finally ground to a halt; the lonely soul within that twin shell can finally rest. Once Bellringer gathers the Threefold Melody, she can ascend to the Cradle, become our new Queen, and keep right on squeezin' us dry. One craw is as black as the next. After all, how could these higher beings ever truly give a toss about whether us lowly bugs live or die?

Maybe the only thing that'll be slightly better... if this Bellringer still holds a shred of sentiment for old times' sake, she might refrain from meltin' me down into a Soul pill. That's about the highest mercy I can hope for.

Reckon I'd seen my fill of pilgrims in this shabby camp. But him... never has a pilgrim chilled my shell quite like him.

Got a pot lid stuck on his head, clangin' away with a pair of beat-up bells, beltin' out a tune so cheerful it puts my teeth on edge. He oozes an aura of innocent optimism that makes a bug want to retch. He goes up to everyone, repeatin' the same thing: "Hoy there! I am Sherma, a pilgrim just like you!" Then he launches into the tale of his pilgrimage with that "Red Maiden"—of course, Bellringer's got her hands in every mess!

In that instant, I had a mighty urge to boot this bug out right then and there.

One pilgrim kindly warned 'im: "Little brother, surely you have climbed this far and witnessed the Citadel's decline?"

But he just replied: "True indeed! But I believe these trials are but fleeting! So long as our faith holds firm and our voices rise as one, we shall surely overcome!"

And with that, he started singin' even louder. No. Steady on. Steady on. Caretaker, eh? Since when did your resolve get so flimsy? You've been hidin' away in this Citadel for ages, ain't you heard enough choir chants? Can't handle one singin' grub?

Alas, this energetic li'l brat burnt out fast. Before long, he sat on the ground and passed out cold. Lord of Shades! If he kept on singin' like that, I'd have dived headfirst into Bilewater and gone to join my cousin! It's him or me!

Daft kid!

I don't recall ever settin' an alarm clock—not that I could afford one of them fancy little gadgets left by the Architects ages ago. But turns out some bug volunteered to be a livin' alarm—talkin' about that new kid!

Honestly, wakes up and starts beltin' it out straight away, never mind folks still restin'! Even with nary a refugee joinin' in, didn't stop 'im havin' a grand ol' time singin' to himself! Maybe I really oughta just boot 'im out?

I took my staff and gave that pot lid on his head a good bonk, laid down a few ground rules. Most important one being: NO SINGIN' WHEREVER YOU PLEASE!!!

"Brothers and sisters are in low spirits! I only wished to hearten them!" he explained.

Well thanks a bunch for that, but why ain't it workin', eh? I mean, these poor sods definitely haven't spent their whole lives tricked by the Citadel, barely survived the climb only to find this is where the Haunting started, right? So why wouldn't they be jumpin' for joy hearin' songs praisin' the Citadel's eternal glory?

Just as I was about to blow my top, Jubilana cut in: "Ooh, dear one, what a truly enviable, sweet voice you have! Why not wait until everyone is feeling a bit more lively, so they can properly appreciate your talent?"

Gotta admit, that old swindler has a way with kids. Charmed 'im instantly: "You speak the truth, madam! Holy songs are indeed meant to be sung together when spirits are high!"

Don't know why, but Jubilana seems to have taken a shine to Sherma—proof bein' she hasn't even tried to flog 'im any wares yet. Of course, that old miser ain't gonna give 'im anything for free neither! She watched with a motherly gaze as the little runt skipped off, then turned to me, beamin', and held out a hand: "Sixty rosaries. Intervention fee."

I swallowed the thanks right back down my throat. Pah! The absolute cheek of her!

Bellringer popped up out of the floor today—plain as day, to save herself some travel time, she smashed right through the ceiling of Whispering Vaults. And in the end, it was me who had to go 'round tellin' all these dimwits in the camp, one by one, just so they wouldn't walk blindly into the pit she left behind. Why am I not surprised in the slightest?

Thanks to her, though, that vaultkeeper downstairs finally quit their yappin'. Jubilana was complainin' to Bellringer too, sayin' even before the Haunting spread, those Keepers were nothing but "jealous hoarders." Sounds like they got a lot in common with a certain bug around here, eh?

Sherma was dozin' off when he spotted Bellringer standin' right in front of 'im. He sprang up instantly, chirpin' "Red Maiden this" and "Red Maiden that"—so intimate, it was sickenin'. If Bellringer had a shred of mercy for these old eardrums of mine, she'd have taken the brat with her to keep 'im safe; they get along well enough. But no. Stayin' true to the malice inherited from her vile Weaver bloodline, she told the kid to stay put in the camp. Even told 'im singin' alone ain't enough, said if he wants to help he's gotta do somethin' real. Fair play, she ain't wrong about that, but then she just upped and left! Real breezy-like, leavin' me alone to deal with the bitter fruit she planted: "Mr. Caretaker, Red Maiden says I should share the burden for everyone in the camp. Is there anything you see that I might help with?"

Aye, what can you help with? That's the question I wanted to ask! I took my staff and gave that pot lid on his head a bonk, sent 'im off to ask around the camp see if anyone needed fetchin' water, servin' tea, or bandagin' up small scratches—that sort of thing. He nodded, skipped off to do his duty—hummin' that blasted song of his the whole way, naturally.

Daft kid.

Only had a day's peace, and now the chantin' downstairs has started up again? No, wait... this sound's livelier, younger than before... Which bastard let vaultborns loose?! Hah, need I even ask? Definitely that itchy-handed Bellringer again!

Forget it, ain't in the mood to deal with that now. Those spineless wimps... complaints they daren't say to my face, they spill 'em all the moment Sherma goes 'round for a casual check-in! Reckon that's the advantage of a pretty face—most pilgrims see that sweet, cute li'l mug and just instinctively open their hearts, blabberin' out everything they should and shouldn't say. Hah! Bet they'd jump out of their shells if they knew the brat was repeatin' every word back to me, chapter and verse!

But I ain't that petty. Some of their grievin' makes sense: with numbers goin' up, this already ragged camp is gettin' messy. Basic facilities can't keep up. Most bugs are sleepin' on the cold floor; it'd be stranger if they didn't get sick. We need more supplies, or this shelter is gonna go belly up sooner or later.

But where to procure 'em in this day and age? Sure, there's an old scoundrel standin' right nearby who claims to be the grand master of Citadel scavenging, but I really don't wanna ask her unless I absolutely have to...

Roach-hearted old swindler! I feed her, I house her, and this is how she repays me?! Hoardin' goods, hikin' prices on the spot! Forget about my pockets, could this whole refugee camp scrape together enough rosaries to satisfy her ductsucker's gaping maw?!

I even tried sendin' that little brat to haggle with her, but that old swindler talked circles 'round 'im and sent 'im packin' somewhere else in seconds. I am truly... WHO IS IT?!

...I'm back. Just now, a pilgrim saw I looked troubled and asked if I needed to post a wish. Fine, fine, fine! The wishwall, is it? I'm gonna see today just how long that meddlesome Bellringer can keep satisfyin' these idiots' wishes! Since she rang this camp into existence, if she don't donate some cash, it ain't my business if this shelter collapses! Like playin' the hero? Then empty your pockets!

Wait, where does this out-of-towner get all that money? Even if she killed a few haunted puppets on the way and popped a few beads, in this hellhole where maps cost money, stations cost money, lifts cost money, even benches cost money—how did she save it up? Besides, don't she have better places to spend it? What's she after?

Doesn't matter. If she's addicted to playin' the saint, let 'er. Ain't my loss anyway. That old swindler took the heavy bag of rosaries with a smug look, sayin': "Ooh, my dear, I am truly flattered. Thought you said you wouldn't give me a single bead?"

"Make no mistake, these ain't my rosaries. All belong to Bellringer," I emphasized.

"Right, right, right, whatever you say. As long as there's rosaries to be earned, old Jubilana doesn't ask where they come from."

She patted her bulgin' waist-purse with satisfaction, left Songclave, and went back to her old scavengin' trade. Part of me hopes she just dies on the road, never to return; but then, all them rosaries I just gave her would be for naught!

That old swindler actually knows her stuff. Vanished for a night, and by the time she showed up at Songclave the next day, she'd somehow scrounged up a pile of tents, soft cushions, bandages, dry rations, and even a few spools of Silk—though who's gonna use that stuff? That lifeless lot of refugees lit up the moment they saw the supplies, crowding 'round her, bowing and scraping with thanks. Hah, bunch of fools, actually thinkin' she's runnin' a charity! Without enough rosaries, nobody's getting a lift of a finger from her! And she had the nerve to reply with "It's the least I could do." That old face of hers didn't even crack a blush!

Anyway, it did solve our immediate problems. I organized some hands to rearrange the camp. Meanwhile, Sherma was singing the whole time to "cheer them up." Even worse sign: some refugees started joining in. We're done for. Done for, I say! If this plague spreads to the whole shelter, it'll be scarier than the Haunting itself. Is it too late to kick 'im out now?

Sigh, daft kid.

Woke up today to find a gaggle of bugs chirpin' away, hotly discussin' somethin'. Took me ages to figure out what they were on about: seems a few death-defyin' refugees sneaked down to the theatre below and witnessed a "Grand Performance" put on by Bellringer and Trobbio. Though if you ask me, it sounds more like that drama queen got in Bellringer's way and got a sound thrashin' for it. Hah, serves 'im right! I've never had much patience for that show-off; back when the Citadel was barely functionin', I could hear his flashy movements from floors away.

But clearly, these fools were moved to tears, claimin' they saw the "dawn of Pharloom's restoration"—reckon they were just blinded by the flashy stage effects. Mentionin' his "Red Maiden" got Sherma all fired up, vivid-like, retellin' their arduous pilgrimage again, endin' with that nonsense about "keeping faith, singing loud, and overcoming together." The guard, who'd been slackin' off for days, got all inspired. Declared they'd take Bellringer as their role model, finally picked up their pins and started trainin' again.

Hah, that's some ambition. They prob'ly think Bellringer is still young, deludin' themselves into thinkin' if they work hard, they can reach a similar level. Little do they know, her "youth" is worth several lifetimes of a common bug. I had nothin' better to do, so I watched their trainin' for a bit: their combat skills are still unsightly, but at least their spirit is startin' to look the part.

Bellringer dropped off a pile of white choir robes today. Guess she scavenged 'em as war trophies while huntin' on the road. I ain't got much of an eye for weapons, but I get the vague feelin' that Needle of hers is sharper than last time. Compared to her, this lot of refugee trash are just frail softies—though comparin' 'em to a demigod is a bit unfair, I s'pose. But hey, they're the ones who said they wanted to make her their role model!

Bellringer even tried to make excuses for 'em! Said they were "more scared than weak", and had the gall to say it's "heartening" they survived thanks to my care. Pah! That's her work, Bellringer! Not mine. Ringin' and helpin'! She rings the bell then washes her hands of it, tryin' to shove all the responsibility onto me while she romps around outside! I ain't providing much, and I ain't one for fighting if the Choir and their pins ever come callin'!

Didn't bother askin' who made the wish this time; we do need the stuff. That old swindler looked none too pleased: another chance for profit slipped right through her fingers. I went 'round handin' out the robes. When I got to the last tent, Sherma happened to be in there, givin' water to a frail pilgrim. After drinkin', she coughed violently, grabbin' Sherma's hand in despair: "Little brother, my voice is gone... I do not know how much longer I can last... Were we not the chosen ones? Why has this befallen us?"

"Take heart, my sister." Sherma gently placed his other hand over her tremblin' fists. "These trials are but transient. So long as we hold faith in our hearts, the Citadel's grace shall surely descend upon us in the end."

More of that incurably stupid superstitious drivel. I couldn't be bothered to listen to the end, dropped the robes and walked out. A moment later, Sherma followed me. "Mr. Caretaker, thank you for delivering the clothing. With its warmth, that sister may finally rest peacefully."

"Oi, nothin' to do with me," I corrected. "It was sent by your 'Red Maiden'."

"Is that so? Then my thanks to you and Red Maiden both. May the Citadel bless you."

Don't lump me in with Bellringer! And I don't want the Citadel's blastin' blessin'!

"However... some of our brethren are long plagued by illness. Warmth and food alone may not suffice for their recovery. If only we had medicine..."

Yeah, and if only pies fell from the sky! Anyone can make wishes!

Daft kid.

Oh ho ho ho ho! Talk about meetin' your match! Bellringer tried to do a bit of business with Jubilana today. Took one look at the price list, turned 'round silently, and walked right off. Though her face showed naught, that frustration in her heart couldn't escape my keen eye! Oh ho ho! Cracked me up, it did. Gotta say, that old swindler's heart might be black as pitch, but she's kept at least one virtue: Fairness. Doesn't matter if you're her savior or not, she fleeces everyone just the same!

Maybe to vent her annoyance, Bellringer chatted with me a bit about Whiteward. Seems she's already descended into that horrific laboratory, found the start of this dyin' kingdom's obsession with Silk. Don't know why, but Sherma was listenin' mighty close nearby. We kept our words vague; no way his little noggin could've grasped what we were on about.

After Bellringer left, he actually came over specially to ask me what kind of special place Whiteward is. I took my staff and gave that pot lid on his head a bonk, brushed 'im off with a few careless words: "Just an abandoned infirmary, nothin' special. Don't ask questions you shouldn't."

Speakin' of Whiteward, got me thinkin' of my chum again. Sigh, chum, you don't know the misery I'm livin' through now. Thinkin' back on our time lyin' dead together... how carefree we were...

Sherma's gone missin'. Left a note on the wishwall, sayin' he went to Whiteward to find medicine.

…………

What in hell is goin' through that thick skull of his?!!

I stormed over to ask Jubilana, and guess what she spouted? "To survive in this Citadel, dear one, a child needs to cut his teeth. He said he was seeking medicine, so naturally old Jubilana pointed the way."

I said, BUT IT'S WHITEWARD HE'S GONE TO!!! Any other place and I might've held my tongue, but if he's daft enough to go there, then you, you miserable old hag, are daft enough to let 'im!!!

"Whiteward? I know the place, though never ventured inside meself. Just an abandoned infirmary, is it not? If one seeks medicine, surely that's where one goes. Why the fuss, dear one?"

I... I... Nay, even thinkin' back on it now makes my chest tight. In this shabby camp, every last one of 'em is a prize-winnin' moron!!! Let me just keel over from rage right now!!! Be a relief, it would, save me worryin' over this bunch of dimwits!!!

Maybe... I should go down and find him?

…………

Have I got nothin' better to do?! What's that brat to me?! Since his bond with that "Red Maiden" runs so deep, let her go save 'im! He's made his own stupid bed, I ain't gettin' dragged down with 'im! Even if he dies out there, ripped to shreds by haunted beasts, I don't care one bit!!!

DAFT KID!!!

Why's the camp so quiet? Must be my imagination.

What happened today again?

Jubilana looked a bit on edge, tried to catch a word with me from morn 'til dusk, but I ignored her. Oh, Bellringer came by, took Sherma's wish board down. But what's the use? Couldn't see a flicker of change on her face, just walked off breezy as the wind, same as always. After all, Bellringer's got a heap of "serious business" to attend to; satisfyin' wishes is just somethin' she does in passin' to build a good name, gettin' these naive fools to sing her praises. Who knows where that brat ranks on her priority list?

Seriously, Caretaker, you gotta stop thinkin' about 'im. Is the kid dead or alive? What's it to you? After all, ain't this exactly what you always wanted? He's gone, the song's gone, Pharloom granted a miracle, and your wish came true! Shouldn't you be jumpin' for joy?

Is that your conscience naggin' you? You actually got a conscience?! Hid away in this Citadel for so many years, how many times you watched bugs die without liftin' a finger? Why act the righteous saint now?!

Didn't you always say, for these idiot pilgrims, death is a release? Or did that stupid song wash your brain out, make you as soft in the head as them? Then you should be countin' your lucky stars you don't have to hear it no more. A godsend, this is. Cherish it!

Hah, exactly. Just so. Couldn't be a better outcome.

Sherma's back. Obviously the work of that meddlesome Bellringer again! Would it have been so bad to just perish out there? Why struggle back to the land of the livin' just to suffer more?

Strange thing is, he came back silent as a ghost; I didn't even notice 'im return. It was only when Jubilana hauled two massive bundles over to me—stuffed with the medicine Sherma had carried back—that I knew. Scattered beside the bundles were two objects. His... "Lucky Chimes"? I picked 'em up and stared at Jubilana, perplexed.

The old swindler let out a long sigh. "Ah, the poor little mite. Don't know what horrors he saw down there, but he's shaken to his core. And yet, even in that state, he still brought the medicine back... look at this mess, truly heart-breaking! My dear, perhaps you should go and offer him some comfort?"

"Me? Comfort him?" I pointed at myself. "Have you finally gone senile?"

"Actually... well." Jubilana hesitated, then softened her voice. "You know, dear one? Perhaps you possess more warmth than you give yourself credit for."

Argh, what a bother! Does this camp cease to function without me turnin' the crank?

Took me a fair bit of effort to find which nook and cranny the brat was hidin' in. He was curled up, knees to chest, tremblin' uncontrollably. Looked like he'd taken quite a hit. The fact that the bug is sittin' here at all is a miracle of fortune. Seems he's annoying enough that even the ghosts of Whiteward didn't want to keep 'im!

"Comfort him," she says. Easy for her to say, but how exactly does one do that? I sighed and sat down beside 'im. "Saw the medicine you brought. Good work."

He kept his head down, didn't answer. After a long silence, he opened his mouth, voice tremblin': "Mr. Caretaker... d-down below... I saw..."

"I know what you saw." I cut 'im off sharpish. If he starts recallin' the gory details and has a breakdown, I ain't equipped to deal with it. "That's why I told you not to ask questions. But no, you had to be hard-headed, runnin' off to see for yourself."

He went quiet again for a while, then turned to look at me. "What... what did we do wrong? Were we not devout enough?"

Since he asked so earnestly, I finally seized the chance to say the thing I've been holdin' back: "Hah. If you ask me, maybe you were too devout."

"So... 'tis all a lie? Our pilgrimage... was it meaningless from the very start?"

Oh, great. Existential crisis. What's next? Phenomenological deconstruction?

"If you put it that way, what is meaningful?" I stood up. "Look at your brethren around you. Listless, bodies and minds tormented... you think there's meanin' in their lives right now? And yet, these fools are still tryin' their hardest to scrape by, clingin' to every extra moment of breath. Why do you think that is?"

He thought for a moment, then buried his head again. "...I do not know."

"Hah. Neither do I."

I crouched down and placed his pair of Lucky Chimes right in front of his eyes. He looked at the chimes, then looked at me. His body was shakin', and so was his gaze.

"The answer to that question, you gotta find for yourself," I said. "Same goes for me."

As if makin' up his mind, he took the chimes and started clinkin' 'em again. His voice was still waverin', laced with the hint of a sob, but the tune... it was that same familiar melody.

"That's more like it." I took my staff and gave that pot lid on his head a bonk, breathin' a sigh of relief.

Ah, finally sorted that out. Truly, this little brat baffles me. Wasn't he just preachin' about "unwaverin' faith" the other day? How's he changed his tune so fast? If he gave up that easily, what was all my sufferin' for? Would've meant I tolerated 'im all this time for nothin'!

Daft kid...

My dear chum: Despite my long-standin' belief that you're far more agreeable dead, today I realized you might've been alright alive—at least compared to these idiots who don't know a salve from a soup!

Woke up to find a queue stretchin' out from Sherma's tent—camp's full of spineless softies, runnin' to beg for the comfort of drugs at the slightest ache or pain. I chased away a few malingerers, then ducked into the tent to have a look-see. Nearly blacked out from the sight: that little brat was just scrapin' some ointment and smearin' it over whatever spot the patient claimed hurt! Call that treatment? While it ain't completely useless, he's cuttin' the potency by seventy percent right there. If it's gonna be that rough and ready, why not just hand the meds out and let 'em slather it on themselves? What's the point of a sergeon? Hah, reckon even if you were alive, seein' this would've killed ya on the spot!

I shoved the kid aside and demonstrated personally: how to apply pressure for different wounds, how to bandage, and how to mix the balms to get the best effect. The fool I used as a dummy started whinin' and squirmin' at first, but a sharp glare from me settled 'em down quick. Luckily, the brat learns fast enough; after a few rounds, he grasped the basics. When he went back to his post, I could distinctly hear the next patient heave a sigh of relief.

Just as I was gettin' up to leave, Sherma looked up at me: "All of these marvellous healing supplies... Surely they, at least, are some proof of the Citadel's holy nature?"

I couldn't be bothered to answer. Gave that pot lid on his head a bonk with my staff.

The kid might be clumsy, but at least those meds are safer in his hands than in yours. Right, chum?

Felt my ears were strangely clear today. Listened close—no, that ain't it, Sherma's still beltin' out that rubbish song. So what's different? Pondered it for ages, then it finally hit me: the distant wailin' of the pipe organ beneath the Citadel has stopped. Forever. Reckon I'd gotten so used to that mournful tune hidden in the background racket that I didn't even notice when it vanished. Just like my attention's always been on that evil mushroom, so much so that I forgot she's got a forsaken sibling, hidin' away in the Mist spun from industrial fumes.

Speakin' of that evil mushroom, seems she ain't shown her face since that annoyin' Bellringer arrived? What's the deal with them two?

Thanks to the meds, a few more bugs joined the guard's clumsy drillin'—voluntarily this time, mind you, I didn't force 'em!

Those with just scratches and scrapes should be hoppin' about in a few days. Now we're just left with a few consumptives needin' extra lookin' after. Seein' as the brat was still dozin' off, I had to step in myself again. I ground three powders, mixed the ratio, added water, and carried the brew into a tent.

"Little brother, you co—" The moment this pilgrim saw me, the light in her eyes died instantly. "Oh."

"Meanin'? I ain't welcome?"

"No, no!" Facing my glare, she waved her hands frantically. "It's just... I thought it would be the little brother coming to deliver the medicine..."

"You ain't happy it's me?"

"Happy! Happy! I am truly flattered that Mr. Caretaker came personally!"

Couldn't be bothered to waste words. Shoved the bowl at her, told her to drink up. She hesitated a moment, then tipped the bowl and gulped the concoction down in one go. That's more like it.

Her face twisted into a knot. If I were in a better mood, I might've been amused. "Mr. Caretaker, this potion... is it more bitter than usual?"

"Improved the recipe. Works faster."

I was turnin' to leave when I caught a flicker of inexplicable expectation in her eyes. I sighed. "What now?"

"Er... nothing!" She seemed shocked I'd spotted her little notion. "It's just... usually, when the little brother brings medicine, we sing a song together before he leaves..."

Took me a second to process what I'd just heard. Then the rage boiled over. "Are you a hatchlin'?! Need someone to sing you a lullaby before bed?! Have you no shame?! Cut the nonsense and rest, now!"

The pilgrim shrank into the corner, silent as a mite. I shook my head and stormed out of the tent. Look at how that brat has spoiled this lot of softies! Daily greetin's, food delivery, medicine service... and now they're requestin' songs? Do they think they're on holiday?! Never mind their fellow pilgrims, which Conductor lives a life this lush?! Absolute liberties!

Ever since Grand Gate swung open, more and more fools—dunno if they're lucky or cursed—have crawled their way up to the Citadel, bringin' all sorts of rumours with 'em. Most of 'em about that annoyin' Bellringer! Apparently, she donated a heap of shell shards to Bonebottom to fix up the place. Even built a "lifesaving bridge" or somesuch, to stop blind idiots from fallin' to their deaths before they even start. Sigh, my sister's business ain't gonna hold up at this rate! As for Bellhart, she's been dartin' about collectin' some silver bells for who-knows-what, and tracked down those two useless couriers.

Honestly, feel like "boredom" doesn't cover it anymore. Is she that desperate to build a good name for herself, smoothin' the way for the transition of power when she kills the monarch? And then what? Just go right back to exploitin' the poor sods who lifted her onto the throne? Givin' folk hope only to snuff it out... that sort of hypocrisy is more vicious than all the old Weavers put together.

Put that aside for now. As refugees pile up, food stocks are hittin' rock bottom—and I'd rather die than ask that old swindler for help this time! If the rumours about couriers bein' back are true, maybe I give orderin' a shot? Er, where did I throw that blasted farspeaker ? ...

Got a message from the couriers. But what in the world does "Terribly sorry-sorry, due to unforeseen circumstances, we have suspended delivery-delivery services! But worry not, your ordery-order will arrive shortly" mean? What are those two babblin' about?

Also spotted a scrawny bug skulkin' around Songclave today, lookin' left and right. Thought it was a wanderin' haunted puppet at first, but his movements seemed too... intentional. Hard to say, though. Only caught a glimpse before he vanished. Hope I'm just overthinkin' it.

Sherma's organized some sort of trauma support group." Regular gatherin's before bed, claimin' bugs "strugglin' with shared sufferin' and shaken faith deserve a warm space to open their hearts in trust and respect." In plain bug speak: a bunch of idiots gatherin' to swap notes on bein' idiots. I ain't an idiot, so naturally I turned down his invite. But I was strictly curious how these fools planned to admit they were fools out loud, so I watched from a distance.

Just as I expected, these spineless cowards were shrinkin' away at first, layerin' their words with endless caveats—"I am but dull-witted," "dare not guess the Citadel's will"—scared stiff that one wrong word would bring divine thunder crashin' down on their heads. Just as I was gettin' bored enough to leave, Sherma spoke up. He didn't ramble on about his pilgrimage with Red Maiden like he used to. Instead, he talked about his time here in Songclave, and especially his descent into Whiteward to find medicine. He didn't leave out the blood-soaked details hidden in the dust of those operatin' rooms. His voice was steady, tinged with a faint sorrow. I expected him to try and patch it up with excuses, sayin' findin' the medicine proves the Citadel's blessin' remains, or some such. But he didn't. Just a narrative without judgement, hangin' heavy over the group like an unsolvable question, leavin' a long silence. Dunno which part shocked these pilgrims more: that this shiny holy land hid a profane lab crawlin' with twisted monsters, or that such blasphemous words fell from the mouth of the most devout bug among 'em?

Others started speakin' up, one by one. Their stories were all the same old drivel—the Haunting runnin' wild, perilous journeys, losin' kin, believin' the Citadel was salvation only to find it's the eye of the storm. Heard it all a thousand times; my ears are calloused. But somehow... suddenly felt like these fools weren't quite so foolish after all.

Jubilana stood beside me, watchin' the scene with satisfaction. "See? Told you it's good for a child to cut his teeth. Though, truth be told, the state he was in when he came back from Whiteward gave old Jubilana quite a fright! All thanks to your guidance, dear one."

"Nothin' to do with me," I corrected. "It's just 'cause he's daft enough to still be smilin' after witnessin' such horror."

"Alas... Back in the day, meself and them were exactly the same. Devout pilgrims, all. Later on... a pity..."

The old swindler trailed off, but after a few seconds turned back to me. "My dear, according to basic social etiquette, is this not the part where you ask what happened?"

"Not interested," I said bluntly.

Jubilana paused, like she couldn't believe her ears. "Hah! No wonder everyone in the camp is terrified of you. If you'd only pretend to be a little kinder, that good heart beneath your temper wouldn't be so easily buried."

"You don't know me at all." That was my reply followin' "social etiquette." Here's my internal reply without it: Pah! This shameless old swindler, actin' all chummy after knowing me five minutes? If it weren't a waste, I'd blast my collection of Soul right in her face, see if she still thinks I have a "good heart"!

The discussion was windin' down. Just as they were about to disperse, a pilgrim suddenly suggested, "Little brother, could you sing for us? Somehow, hearing your song lately makes my heart feel strangely steady."

Others chimed in. Seein' this, Sherma didn't shy away. He stood up decisively. "We should all sing together! Whether your voice is loud or raspy, whether your faith is firm as ever or facing doubt, whether you believe grace awaits at the end of this trial or that we are sinners fallen beyond saving—all are welcome to join the melody. In this moment, let our different voices rise as one."

Right, time for me to scram.

Unluckily, the brat called out to me instantly: "Mr. Caretaker! You should join us too!"

I sighed. "Don't even think about it."

"Why? Whenever Red Maiden comes to play her needle, you seem to cooperate well?"

Yeah, why indeed? You wanna ask your "Red Maiden" how she uses wicked Silk spells to force others to submit to her bad taste? Even if it ruins a bug's character?!

"Perhaps it is indeed too late today. When will you sing with us then?"

"Never."

Sherma tilted his head, then realisation dawned on 'im. "I know! It must be because Red Maiden's music is heavenly, and we cannot compare! Brothers and sisters, let us work harder from now on, to hone our voices until they are worthy of Mr. Caretaker's approval!"

He knows nothin'! Truly, this little ancestor will be the death of me! To stop 'im from committin' such a crime against nature, I quickly gave that pot lid on his head a bonk with my staff and brushed 'im off: "World's in chaos right now, who's got the mood? Let's talk about it when there's peace across the land!"

Sherma paused, a flicker of doubt crossin' his eyes, gone in a flash. "Then it is a promise! When peace comes, Mr. Caretaker must sing a song with us!"

Before any more nonsense could happen, I turned and walked away fast. The group's chorus started up behind me. Hah, "when peace comes"... is there any substantial difference between that and "never"?

Daft kid.

The couriers' shipment arrived. Guess who dropped it off? Naturally, since I'm askin', the answer's starin' you right in the face: that meddlesome Bellringer again! clearly those two cowardly sods didn't have the guts to run the route themselves, so they deputised her as the new delivery bug. I truly don't get it. What is she after? If she's just fishin' for adoration from the masses, does she really need to go this far? She could just slay a few beasts, no extra effort needed, and a flock of fools would still sing her praises. Unless... she actually intends to help?

...What are you thinkin'! Caretaker, you're gettin' senile! Someone with noble blood like hers is destined to never be on the same level as us. Sure, sure, some higher beings play nice, pretendin' to be benevolent, but in the end, it's all just to enjoy the offerings and worship of common bugs. Would they ever look us in the eye? A casual display of divine power is enough to keep those country yokels down below moved to tears for years. Actually gettin' her hands dirty to understand the plight of the people? That'd be way beneath her station!

Whatever Bellringer's true intent, this batch of goods is a lifesaver. Shellwood gnats, pond skippers—all local specialties from Shellwood! Finally, don't have to gnaw on dry rations every day! If I didn't get a change of taste soon, I was gonna retch. Unsurprisingly, Jubilana didn't look too pleased. She muttered away whilst helpin' me tally the stock: "Ooh, that little red-cloak, snatching away even old Jubilana's business now."

Oh ho ho! Just for that sour look on the old swindler's face, I gotta make sure Bellringer gets paid in full! Wait a minute... she donated money before, and now she's earned it back through delivery fees... doesn't that amount to not donatin' at all?

Didn't see the guard trainin' today, thought they'd gone back to slackin' off. But near mealtime, I heard a cling-clang-clatter comin' from the entrance—the crisp sound of pins smackin' together. The leader of the bunch—that instigator who asked for the weapons in the first place—hopped in front of me, eyes shinin' with excitement he couldn't hide, chest puffed out with pride: "Mr. Caretaker! Look!"

I wanted to tell 'im that usin' pins like tunin' forks drastically reduces their lifespan, but since he wished for the heap in the first place, whatever. Even if they break, we can just send Bellringer out to gather more; she loves stickin' her nose in things anyway. Behind 'im, a few burly members hauled in a massive carcass and dropped it in the middle of the camp: a giant drapemite.

This poor beast truly met a pack of clumsy hunters. Riddled with holes from head to toe, every single jab perfectly missin' the vitals. It must've bled out from sheer exhaustion. The guard stood by it, lookin' at me expectantly. What, want a pat on the head? For that butcher's work? Still, fair's fair. Considerin' they started with negative skills and learned it all higgledy-piggledy, the fact that no one came back missin' an arm or a leg is decent progress.

After gettin' a nod from me, the instigator puffed up even more and shouted his declaration: "Brothers and sisters! Today, the Songclave guard has besieged and slain this savage beast! We shall continue our hunt, contributing all we can to the camp! May the great Citadel protect us!"

The crowd cheered. Very rousin', though I ain't sure what they're fired up about. I'm fairly certain drapemites aren't on the higher-ups’ menu for a reason, but in the end of days, beggars can't be choosers. Expand the diet diversity, eh? Better than gnawin' on roaches. I ordered two guards to haul the carcass away and followed 'em to the storage area—not 'cause I worried they'd steal a bite, just had a rough guess of what was comin' next.

Sure enough, didn't get far before the song started up behind me. Sherma led the tune, and then the whole camp joined in. For a split second, felt like the old choir's presence had returned. Sigh. What I feared has come to pass. Should've hardened my heart and kicked 'im out back then! Now look at this mess, the whole camp's infected! Gone are my quiet days, faded into a distant dream, leavin' me stranded with this bunch of dim-witted burdens.

And yet... don't know why, but I didn't find it as repulsive as I imagined.

"Thief! Stop thief!"I was jolted awake by Jubilana's screechin'.

Groggily, I crawled up, ready to curse someone out, but the chaos in front of me froze me in my tracks. Jubilana's hollerin' hadn't scared the lurkin' mites away; instead, seein' their cover blown, they dropped the sneakiness and started robbin' us blind in broad daylight! Screams, wails, and roars filled the air instantly. The night watch had been knocked out by sleepin' gas ages ago; the guard, fresh off huntin' a beast, froze up when faced with sentient bugs. The few who dared swing their pins were runnin' in circles, baffled by the thieves' slippery movements.

Hah, aye... First Shrine wards off the Haunting, but it can't block sober malice. The haunted choir puppets outside never breached our walls, but this pack of petty thieves has turned the place upside down first!

Don't know how long I stood there, dumbstruck, until a fire seized my chest. I looked at the mess: overturned racks, torn bundles, trampled tents, smashed medicine cabinets. The sheer, cold fury shot right to my brow. Do these blasted thieves have any idea how much effort it took me to get this dump organized?!

"Get! Your! Mitts! Off!" Jubilana's voice rang in my ear. She was usin' every ounce of strength she had, tryin' to wrestle her bulgin' pack back from a thief.

Any other day, I'd have paid good money to see that old swindler eat dirt. But rage had hijacked my head. Instinct took the wheel. And actin' on instinct—especially the instinct of my kind—is usually the worst decision a bug can make.

I swung my staff. The ringin' of the bell morphed into a pale vortex, hoistin' the thief into the air, greedily devourin' his Soul. The thief twitched, struggled, but in vain. Only when I'd drained the very last drop of vitality did he go stiff and drop, a cold, empty husk.

I have to admit... that familiar sensation... felt good.

I heard every bug in the camp suck in a sharp breath, all at once.

"NO!!!" A blood-curdling roar erupted from a distance.

I looked over. A wiry, agile thief was glarin' at me—looked to be the ringleader of this rabble. His eyes overflowin' with rage, he let out a shout and charged straight at me. Wait... ain't that the bug I saw sneakin' 'round Songclave days ago? So he was casin' the joint!

Fine! Let's see whose rage burns hotter!

The ringleader wielded a pair of short hooks. He hurled one at me. I held my staff across my chest to block; the hook bit into the wood, and he yanked the rope attached to it, flyin' through the air to land right in my face, the other hook slashin' for my throat. The freshly harvested Soul surged and boiled between my palms, explodin' into a twisted scream. Seein' things go south, the ringleader did a backflip to put some distance between us. But the scream didn't fade; it morphed into a wall of pale fire, severing the space between us.

The other thieves rallied to their boss, draggin' the corpse of their fallen mate with 'em. The ringleader spat, furious: "We only got a few lucid snitchbugs left, and now you've broken another one! We didn't want no killin', we just wanted to pilfer some goodies and go!"

Bargin' into my turf, causin' havoc, and you have the gall to play innocent?!

A small thief whispered somethin' in the ringleader's ear. His face turned even uglier. "That red-cloak bully said there was a 'Safe House' here! We thought it'd be a fancy club for the Sitty-dell lords! But it's just a nasty hole full of poor bugs! Only that old hag's got any goodies worth squeezin'!"

Knew it! Everything leads back to that Bellringer!

Jubilana jumped out to argue: "Old Jubilana may be a swindler, but I only strip the dead! You lot are robbing the living! Have you no conscience?!"

She admits she's a swindler?!

"Conscience? O-hohoho!" The ringleader and his gang looked at each other and burst into laughter. "In this world? If we lose rosaries, we earns them back. If we lose conscience? We earns even more! Heh heh!"

Even through the wall of fire, I could see he hadn't given up. So I gave 'im a warning: "If you or your cronies dare step foot in this place again, there'll be more than one casualty next time."

Thinkin' back on it, I must've been too angry. Cause when I said that, the Soul fire leaped forward a few inches, forcin' the ringleader back.

His shifty eyes darted around, still tryin' to find a weak spot, but finally, he gave up, unwillingly. "Pah! A waste of ol' Grindle's time! Come on, let's scurry!"

The gang shrank back into the shadows. The fire receded with my tension. I turned around. The refugees in the camp were staring at me, wordless. Hah. I know that look. Know it all too well. Bet their heads were replayin' those horror stories from childhood—evil shamans luring innocent travelers into traps, hangin' 'em up to drain 'em dry. And, to be fair, those stories ain't entirely false...

I walked straight past the crowd—who didn't dare breathe a word—marched into the shrine, slammed the door shut, and slapped a seal on it for good measure. Let's see 'em try to kick me out now!

"Open the doooor! Open uuup!" Once again, jolted awake by Jubilana's caterwaulin'.

I didn't want to pay her any mind, but that old swindler pushed her luck: "If you don't open this door right now, dear one, I'll drag little Sherma over here to sing until you do!"

Groggily, I climbed up from the bench, walked straight smack into the seal I'd set myself—well, at least that woke me up proper. I undid the seal, cracked the door open a sliver. "Accordin' to basic social etiquette, after witnessin' what happened last night, you should be tremblin' in fear, worried I might suck your Soul dry, not come bangin' on my door like nothin' happened!"

"Ooh, is that how you see etiquette?" Jubilana squeezed her way in shamelessly as she spoke. "My, look at this! Such antique decor! Old Jubilana's never taken a proper peek inside here before! The soundproofing is exquisite too! Er, at least compared to those tents. Slept soundly, I trust?"

"What do you want?" I asked, impatient.

"I just wanted to say, about last night..." Jubilana sat herself down on the bench, paused. "You could have stood by, dear one, saved your own shell. But you didn't. You stepped up and helped me. I gather that speaks volumes."

"I'm startin' to regret it already."

"We both know you don't truly mean that." With that, Jubilana fished a list out of her pack. "By the by, I tallied up the camp's losses meself. But that can wait! Why don't you take a stroll outside? Everyone's eager to see you."

I scoffed. "Your lying skills are abysmal."

"Ooh, my dear, while peddling goodies often requires a bit of exaggeration, I promise you this is not the case. And I can also promise you this: little Sherma is especially eager; if you don't go to him, he'll surely come sing at your doorstep later!"

Argh, why won't they just let me be, even after all this?... I let out a long sigh and stepped out of the shrine. At first glance, the camp looked same as always, like the raid never occurred. Everyone goin' about their business orderly. None made a fuss about my appearance; a few even greeted me like normal. Yet, the slight aversion in their eyes couldn't escape my senses. If that's the case, why bother? What's the point of pretendin' everything's fine?

Sherma was sittin' in front of his tent, tendin' to bugs injured in the attack while directin' the reconstruction. Don't know who put him in charge, but pilgrims were flockin' to him with questions, and he was dishin' out advice. Hah, this bleedin' heart brat, I can guess exactly what he's gonna say. "Stealing is wrong, but we shouldn't kill freely!" That's what he'll say, right? So why? Why were my feet carryin' me toward him on their own accord?

When my shadow fell over him, Sherma spun around, eyes wide with surprise. "Mr. Caretaker! You're here!"

"You look busy."

"Oh, I've just finished treating this brother, so I'm free now!" Sherma waved his hand behind his back at the pilgrim, shooing him away so I wouldn't see. "Shall we go for a walk?"

"...Fine." Don't know why I agreed.

We walked out of Songclave in silence. Other pilgrims tried to approach Sherma, saw us together, and wisely steered clear. The empty halls trapped our lonely echoes; dim cobwebs sealed away the ghosts of the past. I stopped walkin' before we woke the sleepin' elite squads further ahead.

"By the way, Mr. Caretaker, did I ever mention passing a hot spring before I reached Songclave?" Sherma said. "Wonderful place to wash away fatigue! You look heavy-hearted... shall we go for a soak?"

"No," I shot down instantly.

"Oh, quite right! The camp needs rebuilding; we shouldn't wander too far! Perhaps another time?"

I sighed. "Sherma, why did you want to see me?"

"I just wanted to ensure Mr. Caretaker was well! After the attack, everyone is shaken. Songclave cannot function without you as our leader!"

"You... ain't blamin' me?"

"Eh? Why would I blame you?" His question caught me off guard.

"Well, like, the thief I killed wasn't exactly the devil incarnate, or somethin' like that?"

"Oh, yes, true..." Sherma paused, lookin' up at the ceiling with a hint of melancholy. "Those thieves, what did they do wrong, truly? Driven by hardship to choose such a path, were they not? Did they truly deserve to have their lives taken?"

Hah, knew it!

"But then..." Sherma suddenly turned back to me. "What wrong did we commit in defending ourselves?"

That... I admit, I didn't see that comin'.

"That loss of life is tragic, certainly. But perhaps it was unavoidable. It is this world that placed us on opposing sides." Sherma paused for a bit, glancing at the roof with slight sorrow, "So, Mr. Caretaker, please do not blame yourself! I was thinking... if Red Maiden were in your shoes, I predict she wouldn't have stayed her hand either."

Hah, "Red Maiden" again. Why's every bug obsessed with her?

"Best if you think that way." I sighed lightly. "But what about the others? You think they all share your view?"

"Our brothers and sisters need time to process. But have faith! We all know deep down you did it to protect us!" Sherma tapped his pair of chimes together. "If you still have doubts, I hope our song can convey our feelings to you!"

Oh no. A chill crawled up my spine.

Before I could stop 'im, he started beltin' it out. And like a signal, the pilgrims at the Songclave entrance heard it and joined in. Then the whole camp's singing exploded in my ears. I finally understand how terrifying those children's stories truly are. Except I've switched from the evil Shaman to the innocent traveler, lured step by step into this vicious trap. I plugged my ears and bolted back to the shrine, slammed the door, and only then did the world return to some semblance of peace.

Daft kid!

Stepped out of the shrine today and caught a flash of crimson. Thought that annoyin' Bellringer was back. But when I squinted for a closer look, it was somethin' even more annoyin' than her—who lured that drama queen here?! Must've opened the door wrong.

I retreated into the shrine, shut the door, took a few deep breaths, and opened it again. Sadly, that narcissistic butterfly was still there, flauntin' himself right under my nose. Luckily, the mob of yokels in the camp had him hemmed in tight, which somewhat blocked that nauseatin' aura of extravagance he oozes. His red quill was flittin' up and down, leavin' sickly, pretentious scrawls on whatever objects were thrust at him—looked exactly like a grand fan meet-and-greet.

"Master Trobbio!" one pilgrim chirped. "We heard your claws are like lightning and your steps like the wind! Is it true your magnificent spins can tear apart even a shardillard?"

"'Tis nature itself!" Trobbio declared, hand over his heart. "As the champion chosen by Pharloom, her heart doth burn within my breast, a roaring inferno! All malice shall be scorched to ash beneath her gaze!"

Sounds like he belongs in Wisp Thicket.

"Wow! Could you teach us your combat techniques?" a member of the guard asked. "To tell the truth, it was watching your performance that rekindled our hope to fight! We wish to follow your example and protect our home!"

"Indeed, my matchless wit and valor are worthy examples for any bug! However... to carry Fate's burden requires not only diligent practice beneath the stage, but innate brilliance granted from birth. Only I possess such gifts; 'tis a chasm you are destined never to cross!"

Hah, just look at 'im! Boastin' like that with nothin' but flashy tricks up his sleeve!

"Could you demonstrate then? We all wish to witness the power of your pirouettes!"

A flicker of displeasure surfaced between Trobbio's brows, but he maintained his star composure: "Alas... 'tis impossible to arrange. Only the most resplendent stage is worthy of my exquisite choreography. If I cannot present my utmost perfection, how can I answer your earnest expectations?"

Translated: Without a heap of blindin' special effects, any bug with half a brain could see his "martial arts" are all show and no go.

"It matters not! We believe master Trobbio's dance shines brilliantly even without a stage!" Pilgrims never understand subtext, I know that better than anyone. "If you worry about injuring us, could you perhaps reenact your signature curtain call?"

Faced with the starry eyes of these fools, the fierce internal struggle was written all over Trobbio's face. Eventually, vanity won out. The crowd cheered, clearin' a space instantly. He stood on tiptoe, face twisted in disgust as he walked to the center, as if every step on this dirt floor was soilin' his noble feet. But once he struck a pose, the drama queen took over—oohing, ahing, grunting, spinning in fancy patterns, dropping to one knee in various spots, finally throwing his arms up with a shout of "TROBBIO!" to thunderous applause, before collapsing in a feigned death—right at my feet.

Trobbio glanced up, saw me, and scrambled to his feet. He dusted himself off with a look of utter disdain, then cleared his throat: "Ahem. So, you are the one in charge here?"

"What if I am?" I replied, none too friendly.

"I hear that red-cloak visits this... er, encampment often?"

I could see him chokin' back the urge to say "rubbish heap."

"You mean the one who gave you a sound thrashin' a while back?" I said on purpose.

"Thrashing?! Slander!" Trobbio recoiled theatrically. "How can you use such crude language for the affairs of a dramatist? That was a performance! A PERFORMANCE! Your own audience members—who sneaked into my theatre without tickets, mind you—can testify! It was a grand program designed to awaken the lingering hope of this dying kingdom! My defeat was carefully choreographed, was it not?"

Behind him, the few idiots who'd sneaked out to watch the play nodded vigorously.

I couldn't be bothered to argue. "What d'you want with her?"

"Who said I wanted her? At least, not now. However... I am conceiving a new play. I may invite her as a special guest for the encore. It would be a supreme honor!"

"If you wanna find her, just leave a note on the wishwall there." I didn't want to drag this out. "She loves stickin' her nose in things. She'll go if she sees it."

As Trobbio walked past me to the board, a wave of pungent perfume hit me in the face. How much scent did this dandy douse himself in?! He leaned in to look at the empty wall: "Is this how you communicate? Why are there so few boards upon the wall?"

"I told you. She loves stickin' her nose in things."

"I see... Very well, I shall intrude no longer."

Finally!

But right at that moment, a pilgrim jumped out and suggested: "Why don't you stay, master Trobbio? We need an experienced fighter, and we have plenty of supplies here, plus it's very safe! We can support each other!"

I cut in fast: "Afraid our humble camp can't satisfy master Trobbio's refined tastes. I'm sure he has everything he needs in his theatre, where he can create in peace."

"On this point, we are in accord." The narcissist shot me a glance, then bowed extravagantly to the others. "Then we part for now, my loyal audience! Await my next masterpiece with bated breath!"

Amidst thunderous applause, that blindin' crimson smear finally rolled out of my sight.

Now, reckonin' time.

I shook my staff bell, gathered the lot of 'em, and demanded they explain exactly why this drama queen was in my yard! They all jabbered at once, but I finally got the gist: to make up for previous losses, the refugees split into groups led by the guard to scavenge the Citadel—locations provided by Jubilana, naturally. Hah, that old swindler finally sharin' her trade secrets? One group used their duty as an excuse to ogle a celebrity, stopped by the theatre, reenacted the show, and got caught by Trobbio backstage. The butterfly was surprised there were survivors who knew Bellringer, so he followed 'em back to Songclave.

Turns out he didn't even know he had an audience when he was performin' before. Truly lost in his art, oblivious to the world.

But hold on a minute. Since when did these cowards get so bold? Runnin' off that far? If they met real danger, would the guard's amateur kung-fu be enough?

"If we met real danger, we'd just run for our lives back here!" a pilgrim replied.

"And then? Lead the enemy right to us?" I sneered.

"And then... Mr. Caretaker would surely protect us! Right?"

Hah? You mean, my display of power back then actually made 'em fearless? They expect me to do it again? This ain't the script I signed up for!

Botheration! Can't catch a wink of sleep. Not 'cause of any trouble, mind you—thanks to the supplies scavenged from all over the Citadel, Songclave is mostly rebuilt and peaceful. The problem is, it's too peaceful. How can it be this calm? Did I not drain a bug's Soul dry in broad daylight? If I didn't sense these refugees still dodgin' me, whisperin' behind my back, I'd almost think it was all just a bad dream. They're definitely hidin' somethin'! Are they playin' nice to buy time, while secretly plottin' how to get rid of me?

"Little brother, actually, today I wish to discuss the events of that night." The muffled sounds of the support group drifted through the shrine wall.

"Of course. This group was founded so we could speak candidly and face our plight together," Sherma replied. "It has been but a few days since the raid; 'tis natural for fear to linger. Do you have specific concerns?"

"Sigh, how should I put this... my concern is about Mr. Caretaker."

Oh? Finally showin' their true colors? I pressed my ear against the wall, listenin' close.

"Indeed, indeed," another pilgrim chimed in. "Whenever I recall that wicked sorcery, shivers run down my spine!"

Hah, knew it! Can't keep up the act forever, can ya?

"Though everyone pretends all is well, my heart remains uneasy," added another. "Should we truly continue to rely on him?"

Sure enough! Caught you red-handed!

"I hear everyone's thoughts," Sherma said. "How then shall we respond?"

After a long silence, an impassioned pilgrim spoke up: "Since no brother or sister is willing to say it, I must: We cannot go on like this! We must take action! Tonight!"

So the time has finally come? ...I gripped my staff tight. Even though I tried my best to avoid this outcome, perhaps it was just wishful thinkin' on my part...

"Ah, easier said than done. But what exactly should we do?"

"To be honest, I am uncertain myself," the impassioned one continued. "But what I do know is: We must learn to stand on our own feet! We cannot let Mr. Caretaker worry for us so deeply any longer!"

Wait, what?

"Sigh, 'tis true. Mr. Caretaker is the most devout bug among us, yet he dabbled in such wicked arts to protect us. It weighs heavily on my conscience."

I ain't devout in the slightest!

"Exactly! Some brothers and sisters actually think it is fine to let him continue protecting us like this! How can we let him bear the sin of us all alone?"

What sin? What is this gibberish?!

"Do you think... perhaps Mr. Caretaker is now barred from eternal afterlife? For such a good bug, why must he suffer such misfortune?..."

Oi! I ain't dead yet!

"Brothers and sisters, we all care deeply for Mr. Caretaker." Sherma's voice calmed me down a smidge. "But before we indulge in speculation, I must ask: Why do we deem Mr. Caretaker's magic 'wicked'?"

"Little brother, is it not obvious? It was used to take life!"

"Then, are pins wicked as well?" Sherma countered. "Are our brothers and sisters in the guard, who wield pins, also fallen and denied ascension?"

"This..." That pilgrim was stumped.

"Eh, little brother, haven't you heard the stories? They say bugs who use spells all go mad in the end! We must not let Mr. Caretaker suffer such a fate!"

"I heard that those spells twist the user's Soul, erode their sanity! After all, having other bugs' consciousness talking in your head... no one can withstand that!"

"True, true! I heard tales from a faraway ancient kingdom... a place called the Soul Sanctum, dedicated to such research! A bunch of scholars, smart at first, but they researched themselves right into split personalities!"

"You don't suppose... seeing as Mr. Caretaker has locked himself in the shrine these past two days, avoiding his own tent... maybe he's already showing symptoms, and hiding to spare us the worry?"

"Oh no, oh no, oh no, this is bad! Little brother, among the medicines you brought back, is there anything for the brain? If we catch it early, maybe there is hope!"

What in the blazes are they talkin' about?!

A nameless fire roared in my chest: Bunch of uneducated illiterates! Believin' whatever gossip they hear! Do I look that fragile to them? And what's this about me "dabbling in arts to protect them"? Think highly of themselves, don't they! I gotta go teach 'em a lesson!

I threw open the door and stormed out of the shrine. But somehow, the moment I stood in front of them, all my strength vanished. The sarcasm, the mockery, the insults I had ready at the tip of my tongue... they just melted away like the Mist. I regretted it. I wanted to run back. But the collective gaze of the bugs pinned me in place.

Sherma didn't seem surprised by my appearance. "Mr. Caretaker, you're here. I assume you heard our discussion? Anything you'd like to share?"

"...My spells are none of your business." In my head, it was supposed to be dripping with disdain, a sneer at their arrogance. But when it came out, it sounded weak. Defeated.

"Ah, is that so?" a pilgrim responded. "So there are no side effects?"

"No. The idea that spells erode the mind is a classic misconception. Only amateurs who try to forcibly fuse Soul make such rookie mistakes."

"That is good, that is good." I heard the collective sigh of relief.

"So... that's why you were avoidin' me? Afraid I was sick?" I asked.

"Mostly we didn't know how to bring it up..." one said. "Feared you might misunderstand and think we were looking down on you, so we agonized over the wording..."

Another pilgrim whispered to his neighbour: "Eh, you think the real Mr. Caretaker has already been possessed, and this thing is just tricking us into thinking he's fine?"

His companion gave him a sharp rap on the head. "Watch your mouth!"

I said: "So what do I gotta do to make you lot relax?"

He rolled his eyes, thinking. "Unless... Mr. Caretaker moves back to your original tent, so we can observe your well-being at all times!"

"...Fine. If that'll get you to stop annoyin' me."

"See? I told you Mr. Caretaker was possessed!" The pilgrim whispered again. "If it were the old him, and I dared suggest that, he'd have told me to scram instantly."

"THEN SCRAM!!!" I bellowed. "Satisfied?!"

The pilgrim froze for a second, then burst out laughin'. The others joined in. Don't ask me why I didn't laugh. I was born without a sense of humor.

"Hahahaha, Mr. Caretaker, 'tis a joy to know you are well!" Sherma laughed. "But truly, even if something were wrong, you need not hide it. You have helped us so much; 'tis our turn to help you!"

Others nodded in agreement. One chirped up: "Let us sing a song for Mr. Caretaker, wishing him eternal health! Little brother, lead the way!"

"Happy to oblige!" Sherma pulled out his chimes, beaming at me.

I don't wanna talk about what happened next. Even after I retreated to my own tent, that blasted chorus was still ringing in my ears.

Daft kid.

A gaggle of bugs was chatterin' away, squeezin' tight against the railin' today, buzzin' with excitement. I gave a pilgrim a tap on the back with my staff; seein' it was me, she scrambled to make room. The crisp clang of steel on shell drifted over the railin': atop the Citadel roofs, Bellringer was sparrin' with an old knight in green armor.

"I have seen that old gentleman before!" a refugee exclaimed. "When I encountered haunted puppets on my way to Songclave, it was thanks to his chivalrous aid that I escaped!"

Other pilgrims with similar tales nodded in agreement.

Barring myself, the front row was wall-to-wall guard members. Staring unblinkin' at the duel, eyes shinin', as if imprintin' every strike and parry into their minds would let 'em use it instantly the moment they stepped down. Mah, I ain't expectin' 'em to learn actual skills just by watchin', but if it lights a fire in their bellies, that's good enough.

Before long, Bellringer won the duel, no surprises there. But then, that old knight planted his feet and let out a bellow that pierced right through my shell like Silkshot, rattlin' around inside my skull. I stood there dazed for a good while before the ringin' in my ears finally faded. If he's got that much power from this far away... if I'd been any closer, I'd have popped like a balloon!

Not long after Bellringer returned this time, the myth that she single-handedly crushed the Choir of High Halls spread through the camp like wildfire. Don't know what these fools are grinnin' about, hopping around like their ancestors reached down to bless 'em.

Sherma even came over specially to ask me: "Mr. Caretaker, why do you not seem excited in the slightest?"

"Why should I be?" I asked back.

"Red Maiden will soon complete the Threefold Melody and gain audience with the sacred heart!"

"And then?"

"And then..." Sherma paused. "Though I do not know the specific rituals, surely Pharloom will finally be freed from the Haunting and return to peace, will it not?"

Right, this brat knows nothin' of the Citadel's nature. What's the point of discussin' it with him? I gave that pot lid on his head a bonk with my staff and kept my mouth shut.

Jubilana was excited about the news too, but for a completely different reason: that old swindler has been droolin' over the Conductor's treasury for ages! Draggin' two massive sacks, face flushed red, walkin' faster than I've ever seen her move, she made a beeline for the gate. A few kind pilgrims asked if she needed a hand, but she glared back like a mitemother guardin' her brood: "Don't any of you dare try to snatch this from old Jubilana!"

I've never had an issue with Jubilana goin' out scavengin'; but what does she mean by pickin' up an old man and bringin' him back?! It's clear enough Bellringer didn't clear High Halls alone; this old knight named Garmond was her ally. After the battle, he stayed behind to mop up stragglers and bumped right into the old swindler pickin' through corpses. And that's how we ended up here.

Garmond didn't seem to mind Bellringer takin' all the glory. Instead, he openly praised "Sister in Red" for her valiant form. Sounds like they're old acquaintances from the climb up. In that case, Sherma will have plenty to chat about with him. So, for the sake of my poor old ears, I quickly sent the brat to handle the greetin' duties. Sigh, sometimes managin' Songclave feels like torture training for hearing: just as I get slightly used to Sherma's singin', along comes another one with a voice so loud I can hear it clear across the camp.

I meant to ask Jubilana about her haul, but the old swindler clutched her sacks tight. "Ooh, looking is fine, dear one, but no freebies!"

I raised an eyebrow. "Thought you'd turned over a new leaf?"

"Guiding the camp to scavenge before, that was on account of you helping me chase off thieves. Since the losses are covered, we are square." The old swindler rolled her eyes, then added, "Oh, wait. Actually, you still owe me sixty rosaries!"

"What sixty rosaries?"

"My, my, are you even more forgetful than meself? When you first laid down rules for little Sherma, my intervention fee was never settled!"

Took me a few seconds to recall what she was on about. "I've been givin' you way too much face, haven't I?!"

"However, as a special discount for a new customer, I'll waive the first order!" Jubilana chuckled. I see right through her. She's just tryin' to annoy me on purpose! How childish can you get at her age?!

The moment I opened my eyes and saw Garmond standin' like a statue right in front of my tent, I knew I was in for it. I swallowed hard, crawled out tryin' not to look rattled, stood up straight, cleared my throat, and asked what business he had with me. I watched his moustache quiver with the intake of breath, like he was chargin' up an attack just to speak.

"Brother Caretaker! It is a discourtesy to have delayed our introduction until now!" His boomin' voice hit my face like the sandstorms of Blasted Steps. "We have heard the tales from everyone in the camp, especially young Sherma! You offer selfless devotion in these times of peril, sacrificing your own piety to shield the common bug! I, the Noble Garmond, alongside my most trusted companion, Zaza, pay you the highest tribute! To answer your virtuous conduct, we have decided to accept the wishes of the people and remain here to defend the camp, serving as instructors for the guard! The first drill shall commence shortly. Brother Caretaker, pray do us the honor of witnessing it with us!"

What... did he just say?

My head was buzzin' so hard I needed a good while just to process his words. Garmond had already marched off, though Zaza stayed behind, waitin' for me. I could almost read a hint of apologetic resignation in that creature's eyes. Well, damage is done. Had to drag my feet and follow.

The guard members lit up when they saw me attend. Gotta admit, a battle-hardened veteran like Garmond is the perfect fit for the job. His skills are solid, his spirit infectious, his teachin' sound—one session with him is worth more than all the blind fumblin' those pilgrims did before. At the end of the drill, Garmond gathered the squad. Said they needed to "Show their Unity." He pointed his hornlance at the sky. Zaza, anticipatin' what was comin', backed away from his master and came to stand by me.

The next second, a synchronized war cry pierced the heavens.

I felt my soul leave my body.

Don't know how long I stood there, catatonic. I only remember the ringin' in my ears, and Zaza pacin' anxiously in front of me. Then he went to fetch Garmond. Garmond waved his hand in front of my face; gettin' no reaction, he ran to fetch others. All sorts of faces blurred past me, until finally, Sherma leaned in close. The chimes in his hands were silent at first, then gradually, the sound grew closer.

"Mr. Caretaker!" His voice exploded, makin' me jump out of my shell. The crowd—I hadn't even noticed when they gathered—heaved a collective sigh of relief.

If I have sinned, lock me in the Slab to suffer eternal binding, but do not make me endure the guard shoutin' "SANCEIBOO" right in my ear!

Barely trained a day, and Garmond was already itchin' to lead the guard out to enforce some justice. Accordin' to him, all the theoretical guidance and mock drills in the world ain't worth a single lick of live combat experience. Seemin' to notice I still had my doubts, he thumped his chest and promised: "Fear not, Brother Caretaker! Noble Garmond hereby solemnly vows to watch over the whole squad and return them safe and sound!"

I told Sherma to have the meds ready at the gate, while I stayed as far away as buggily possible. Jubilana stood by, naggin' as usual: "My dear, why are you making little Sherma do everything these days? Who is the Caretaker here, you or him?"

Couldn't be bothered to answer her.

When that green armor came back into view, I frantically plugged my ears, barely survivin' the fatal blast of "SANCEIBOO!" The guard members were covered in dust, scraped up here and there, but couldn't hide the shine of pride in their eyes. Ain't sure how much they actually contributed to the slashin' and smashin' of the haunted puppets they found—maybe they just did the squawkin' while Garmond did the slayin'. But either way, joinin' the sweep personally gave their confidence a massive boost.

"Brother Caretaker! You truly ought to be proud of your guard!" Garmond bellowed at me from across the entire camp.

I shook the bell on my staff lazily to show I heard 'im, so he switched targets to harass someone else: "Little brother Sherma, I hear from the camp folk your voice is heavenly! If you would honour our first victory with a song, we would be most grateful!"

"Oh, certainly! Just let me finish treating brothers' and sisters' wounds..."

"Mere scratches! How can they dampen our roaring morale!"

"You mean... right now?"

"If we do not sound the anthem of triumph now, then when!"

"Very well..." Under the expectant gaze of the guard, Sherma confusedly put down the ointment and started clinkin' those chimes. A victory chorus soon echoed through Songclave—with Garmond bein' the loudest and most spirited of the lot, drownin' out even Sherma's voice.

Zaza quietly trotted over to my side and plopped down. You like the quiet too, eh, little guy? I patted his forehead, and he let out a relaxed purr.

I hereby declare: Zaza is my new chum! Not only has he inherited all the good traits of my previous chum, but he actually responds when spoken to! Garmond? Who's that? Don't know 'im!

Maybe 'cause Garmond's been keepin' the roads a bit safer, more fresh faces have found their way to Songclave—and into Sherma's support group.

"My dear, you stand there watching every time. Why do I never see you participate?" Jubilana asked me, standin' right beside me as usual.

I looked her up and down. "You're one to talk."

"Ooh, old Jubilana is long past the age for baring her soul to others!" She chuckled.

"...Well, I've been meanin' to ask: Why do you hoard so many rosaries?" I finally let my curiosity get the better of me. "The economy of this dyin' kingdom crashed ages ago."

"Now, now, how can you say such things!" The old swindler waved a hand. "Are rosaries merely currency? Nay, they are symbols of faith!"

I rolled my eyes. "Faith? You?"

"I may not be devout, but others are. Unlike you, old Jubilana still cares for the approval of others! If I can take a mountain of rosaries with me for a grand send-off when I go, then this life will have been worth it!"

"So... just to take 'em to the grave? Hah, thinkin' pretty far ahead, ain't ya?"

"Not so far, not so far! Leaving aside me own age, in this end of days, who can say how many days any of us have left to scrape by?" Her gaze drifted back to the support group. "I only hope these young ones can last a bit longer than us old bones."

Who are you callin' "old bones"?! Accordin' to a snail's life expectancy, I'm practically in my prime!

But speakin' of the group, it was a real show today. Didn't listen too close, but seemed like some new members felt the old ones did nothin' but complain without offerin' alternatives, while the old ones felt the new ones were shallow, citin' the findings in Whiteward and demandin' an explanation. Ho ho! If you ask me, both sides made valid points! They're all equally daft, no need to split hairs!

"How can you speak such blasphemy?" one new arrival cried out. "I understand the pain of my brothers and sisters... we climbed the Citadel but found no glory... but if we are no longer pilgrims, then who are we?"

A few older members were gettin' ready to retort, but Sherma raised a hand. "Indeed, if not pilgrims, then who are we? Since my return from Whiteward, this very question has circled in my mind, urging me to start this group. Too much suffering goes unseen; too many questions hang unresolved. I understand the hunger for answers, brothers and sisters, but the absence of an answer does not make the question invalid. On the contrary, in this moment, the question itself is precious! If questioning is truly a sin, then let us bear that sin together."

Must be delirious from stayin' up too late to hear a rumour like this: Bellringer actually bought a house in Bellhart! Sure, I know officially it's a "gift" in return for her generous donation to the town, but let's call a spade a spade: she coughed up the rosaries, she got the Bellhome. That's called buyin', ain't it?! What's her game?! Really makin' herself at home here, is she?!

Sherma said to me: "When the dust settles and the Citadel awaits rebuilding... wouldn't it be wonderful if Red Maiden could stay in Pharloom to lead us?"

"Makin' wishes without even knowin' what she's after?" I gave that pot lid on his head a bonk with my staff. "Face it, no matter how sweetly you call her, you haven't got the foggiest idea what she's actually doin'."

Sherma lowered his head in thought for a moment. "Hmm... 'tis true. Red Maiden is a mystery to me. But that does not stop me from trusting her with all my heart! Just as Mr. Caretaker is, to a large extent, a mystery to me as well! But that does not stop me from trusting you with all my heart!"

Back in the day, I'd have mocked his naivety somethin' fierce. But what if he's got a point? Considerin' all the meddlin' Bellringer's done, maybe she actually does give a toss about this dyin' kingdom...

No! Must be a trap! Caretaker, have you caught the stupidity bug from these fools? Startin' to expect a happy endin'? Hope is the most dangerous poison, you know that better than anyone!

Daft kid.

Haven't seen her in a while. Bellringer's cloak looks thicker, the linin' stuffed with warm down, clingin' with the scent of an ancient being. Takin' advantage of her rare return, I had to get this off my chest: "Don't think I ain't see'in it, bellringer! A whole lotta helpin' you've been up to, both here and down below! S'a strange mantle you're takin' for yourself, seeing all them bugs saved and wishes promised."

"You find it strange, sir?" She replied, her tone scholarly as ever. "I've found some solace in the service, and the rewards received have proved a boon on my journey."

"Aye! But it ain't your place now, is it? I see well what you are, Weaver'n more! It's below your station! You ain't no common sort meant for carin' on us low folk."

"I could say the same for you, who still chooses to remain cowled. You continue to pose as only a simple pilgrim. Don't you think it's past time you ceased the performance?"

"Leave off, Old One! Permit a bug their small disguise! It's been a pleasant thing to play simple. And I weren't calling for change, even if you seem insistent on bringing it!"

She drew herself up righteously. "Change was unavoidable, sir, whether I arrived or not. The monarch stirs. Its threads stretch far. My presence only accelerates the inevitable."

"So what're you hopin' for, eh? Planning to usurp, to perch above us all as queen? Build up our hopes only to string us all in your own beastly web? Such is the way of Weavers and gods both..."

Bellringer paused. She offered no rebuttal, just turned and walked straight off. I caught a fleeting glimpse of melancholy in her eyes. Was it my imagination? Dunno why I got so fired up all of a sudden. In my head, that was supposed to be a much more rational chat.

Jubilana sidled up with that thick-skinned grin of hers. "Ooh, what is the matter, dear one? Jealous of the legendary fame the little red-cloak is crafting for herself?"

I wanted to tell her to scram immediately, but then it hit me. "Wait, you think she's just craftin' a reputation too? To smooth the way for her future rule?"

"Hah, is not all socializing just reputation-crafting at its core?" The old swindler replied. "But as for the second part... I know not how you jumped to that conclusion, my dear. If she wanted to rule us, old Jubilana would have no complaints. But even though our throne welcomed her, she might not welcome our throne! How could a wind as free and fiery as her ever accept the shackles of kingship?"

I admit, she stumped me there. "How do you know that?"

"Heh heh, old Jubilana has a sharp eye for bugs!"

Just intuition? Almost fell for it! No, I need to talk to a bug properly. Someone I can really talk to...

When Garmond heard I was headin' back to High Halls, the old fool insisted on taggin' along, claimin' he wouldn't know how to face the camp if I met with some "unfortunate accident." Did it ever cross his mind that the most likely cause of an "unfortunate accident" would be his own blasted "SANCEIBOO" shoutin' right next to me? Couldn't shake 'im off, so I reluctantly agreed to let 'im guard the door, strictly instructin' Zaza not to let the old knight barge in under any circumstances.

Inside, spools clicked away rhythmically as Silk was injected, projectin' the massive, withered shadow of the last Conductor onto his bed curtains. I shook the bell on my staff, kickin' up a string of eerie echoes.

"Who goes there? I can... cough, cough... I can hear you moving." His voice was deep, slow, and weak, soundin' like it could snap at any moment.

"I knew the Conductors were fallen, but didn't expect you'd fallen this low," I drawled, takin' my time. "Compared to the days when you held the world in your palm, commandin' all with a single word... ironic, don’t you think so?"

"Oh? This tone... cough... you are not a common pilgrim passing through. Have we... cough... have we met before?"

"No. But who in the Citadel don't know Lord Ballador?" I found a comfy spot out of his line of sight and sat down. "But you don't know me, and I'd like to keep it that way. After all, heretics like us, deservin' only suppression... how could we ever catch your eye?"

"I see..." Ballador paused. "Then, are you here... cough... to take my life? Revenge for your dark kin?"

"If I were really here for that, wouldn't need to do it myself, would I?"

Ballador laughed, a dry, aged sound. "Hah, indeed... As you can see, this ruined shell has little time left. I fear I cannot even offer you the satisfaction of revenge."

"Besides, we both know we got a common enemy."

Ballador stayed silent, seemin' to wait for my next word.

"That half-blood Weaver. What's your take?"

"Weavers? Gone from Pharloom long ago. I know not of what you speak."

"Cut the act," I said coldly.

"Ah... now that you mention it, a devout pilgrim did visit recently." Ballador played dumb with the skill of a master. "Dignified, elegant... reminded me of pious Isamor. Have you... cough... heard the tale of that original pilgrim?"

I was losin' patience. "Just quit the riddles!"

"As the first bug to successfully complete the pilgrimage, pious Isamor was welcomed by the first children, invited to ascend to the Cradle and gain audience with the sacred heart." Ballador continued his story, ignorin' me. "After that, he was cloaked in white, becoming the symbol of the Citadel, inspiring generation after generation of pilgrims to embark on a journey of nine deaths and one life. How many bugs perished on the path! Yet... perhaps even that is better than handing rule back to the slumbering, wrathful sacred heart—so I pray."

Can't talk straight, can ya?! I wanted to snap at 'im, but felt too tired. Whatever. "...What if he didn't want that status?"

"You imply... a pilgrim who seeks no glory, only to prove their devotion? Hah... cough, cough, cough! I am grateful to you for bringing a dying old bug a final moment of humor. Never knew your kind possessed such wit. Or... are you serious?"

Seein' I stayed silent, Ballador let out a long sigh. "I do not know where you got this absurd notion, but I fear... cough... it is not for him to decide."

"How so?"

"Once the sacred heart is witnessed... can one truly simply walk away? Whispers of devotion echo endlessly in Isamor's ears... some from the first children, some from other believers... all demanding to lift him onto the holy throne. Even if he wished to decline, there is no other path."

Aye, gods ain't easily destroyed. Bellringer's only chance is to absorb the Monarch's essence through their shared blood. But such majestic power... even she couldn't digest it safely. She's destined to be crowned the new queen in the cocoon that binds the Citadel—whether she likes it or not.

I thought for a while, then spoke: "What if we could block those whispers?"

"To silence the sacred voice... one would need another Cradle to contain it, until it falls silent." Ballador's words confirmed my theory. "Rumor has it, a prototype of the Cradle was once hidden away by the first children... though I suspect you know this better than I. However... I dare not guess what magnificent, yet monstrous power... could achieve such a feat... and such folly."

"You wouldn’t want to know," I said.

Ballador fell silent for a moment, then turned over in his bed. "If that is so... then have pity on this decaying old bug, and let me... cough... rest a while longer."

Had nothin' more to say to 'im, so I stood up to leave. Behind me, the last Conductor began to hum the melody entrusted to him softly. The once-glorious anthem... now naught but broken, haggard, lonely echoes...

New rumours floatin' around Songclave: word is a majestic, silent knight in gilded armor has arrived at the Choral Chambers. He patrols the halls, slayin' haunted puppets and rescuin' stranded travelers. Why does that description sound so familiar? Could it be that ancient relic, older even than myself? If so, I don't even need to guess who woke 'im up. Only one bug in all Pharloom meddles that much. Bellringer, oh Bellringer, should I truly trust you? Within that ancient, noble blood of yours, does a heart that cares for the common folk actually beat? I ain't sure yet. But either way, startin' to think up a Plan B never hurts.

Garmond heard the tales of Gilded Knight and started clamourin' about chargin' off to duel 'im. Hah, rivals meetin', sparks flyin'! Lately he's been leadin' the guard chargin' into battle everywhere, and Sherma playin' music to welcome their triumph has become the norm. Those poor pilgrims with zero martial foundation are gettin' tortured half to death by the old knight's boundless energy. Yet even so, Garmond still drags Zaza out for a few more rounds of killin' on his own. Is he even a bug? Gotta admire the sheer stupidity of it: the Haunting's puppets are endless, does he really think he can slay 'em all?

But as I said before, the useless effort might've made the road a tad safer for now—the surge in refugees proves it! Occasionally, a few pilgrims passin' through Bellhart bite off more than they can chew and take on tasks from them couriers. I opened the parcels they brought... either moldy and rotten or smashed to smithereens! Lucky for them, seein' my dark look, they scurried off before askin' for payment. Guess I gotta rely on Bellringer after all? ...

Speakin' of which, ever since the delivery service came back online, bugs have been ravin' to me about their signature rasher. Praised it to the high heavens, makin' me curious what it actually tastes like... Just so happens I'm sick of drapemite meat. Maybe I'll order a portion to try?

SOLD OUT?! What do you mean "the lasty-last portion has already been claimed by a customer in the Citadel"? Who?! Trobbio? That vain butterfly wouldn't deign to eat such common fare. Ballador? Grease like that would finish off his totterin' health in a heartbeat. Then who? Aside from us, are there any other livin' bugs in this Citadel orderin' takeout?

"Zaza! ZAZA!" Just as I was writin' this journal, I heard Garmond howlin' outside again. Beside me, Zaza stood up and gave his body a shake.

"Hah! So you ran off here again!" Before Zaza could go turn himself in, Garmond tore open the flap of my tent. "Apologies, Brother Caretaker! Sorry to cause you such trouble! Come, old friend! Let us march forth once more, let the light of justice bathe the land!"

Hah, trouble? Of every bug in this camp, Zaza is the least troublesome. I'm just givin' 'im a quiet spot to rest his ears. Don't underestimate the bond between me and Zaza!

During the support group meetin' today, Garmond suddenly barged in. "Oho! What is this gathering about?"

"In these chaotic times, brothers and sisters have many doubts, so we gather to share our hearts and support one another," Sherma explained. "If sir Garmond wishes, join us!"

Garmond didn't stand on ceremony, plonked himself right down. But he hadn't listened to two sentences before the words "Citadel's promise" triggered him like a keyword. He jumped straight up: "Brothers and sisters! Do not be deceived by these gilded lies! The Haunting destroyed our home, and when did the Citadel ever care? In truth, the reason Zaza and I fought our way here was to demand an answer for our village folk! It all started on that fateful afternoon!..."

And just like that, the support group turned into the Garmond story hour. I gotta admit, his tellin' is infectious; the fools in the group listened spellbound, forgot why they came in the first place. Sherma tried to steer the topic back a few times to give others a chance to speak, but Garmond snatched the floor back with his passionate speeches every time. In the end, even Sherma gave up. He quietly stood up, walked over to me, and sighed helplessly, voice barely a whisper: "Mr. Caretaker... when I first came to Songclave, going around telling everyone about my journey with Red Maiden... was I like this too?"

I didn't answer. Just took my staff and gave that pot lid on his head a bonk.

What's wrong? Holdin' back laughter is hard work! I used every ounce of willpower not to bust a gut laughin' right there. If I opened my mouth, I'd have lost it completely! Oh ho ho! So this brat has his nemesis too! Feel the boomerang hittin' ya? Now you know the sufferin' I endured all this time!

Oh ho ho ho ho! Daft kid!

I can't take it no more! How do these starvin' bugs keep sniffin' this place out? Where are all these survivors comin' from, poppin' up the moment the roads get slightly safer? What's that evil mushroom doin'?! Or are they crawlin' up from Blasted Steps? What are those judges doin'?! We need supplies! More supplies!

And when I say "supplies," I don't just mean food. In fact, thanks to the guard huntin' drapemites, food is the least of our worries. The couriers can only carry so much, and delivery bugs are scarce as hen's teeth. All these limits leave me with only one choice...

Just as I was at my wits' end, Jubilana was standin' by, watchin' me with that grin of hers—she knew exactly what hole I was stuck in, just as I knew she was full of bad intentions. Looks like the old trick again. Bellringer, you care about the common bug, eh? Then empty your pockets again!

I've given up askin' where Bellringer gets all these rosaries. Donatin' everywhere, savin' everyone—does she truly know what she's doin', what consequences she's triggerin'? Givin' hope to common bugs who've lived in a stupor for generations... can she really shoulder that heavy risk?

Just like last time, Jubilana accepted the heavy bag of beads with glee. Once she'd counted 'em, she crooked a finger at me. "Come with me for a moment, dear one?"

Don't know what potion that old swindler was brewin', but with Sherma and Garmond holdin' down the fort at Songclave, my brief absence shouldn't matter much. Might as well take it as a rare chance to stretch my legs.

Jubilana led me to a hidden room within the Citadel. I looked around. "Why's this place feel so familiar?"

"Ooh, my dear, you have such a sharp memory!" Can't tell if she was praisin' me or mockin' me. "This is where we first met! Though now, 'tis my secret stash."

I crossed my arms. "Oh? Leadin' me right to your lair? You ain't worried?"

"Look at you. Do you truly think old Jubilana has only one hiding spot?"

Got mite holes all over the place, eh? Playin' hide-and-seek just like the Stilkin?

"So..." Jubilana paused. "You are no ordinary bug, are you, dear one? You and little red-cloak... what sort of treasonous scheme to end this turmoil are you two cooking up lately? Care to give old Jubilana a sneak peek?"

In that moment, I wished I had Ballador's talent for playin' dumb and talkin' circles.

"Heh, don't look so shocked!" Seein' me freeze up, Jubilana added, "I've roamed this Citadel for many years. I may not know as much as you, but I know far more than you think!"

"Don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong," I said coldly. "Just do the job you were paid for."

Jubilana wisely didn't pry further. "What job? Already done!"

With her reminder, I finally noticed the dim room was stacked high with all sorts of supplies. "So you had this stuff ready all along?"

"Naturally! With so many new bugs flooding the camp, one must plan ahead!"

"And yet you wouldn't cough 'em up until you saw five hundred rosaries."

"I'm not running a charity! How could I let such a business opportunity slip by?" The old swindler rubbed her hands. "Right then, my dear, help me carry these treasures back."

So she dragged me here just for free labor!

I sighed, resigned. I shook my staff; a pale light rippled out with the sound of the bell, morphin' into a gentle breeze that lifted the cargo. We walked back to camp like that, and settled the goods with the others. Gotta say, compared to the rubbish heap it started as, Songclave is lookin' more and more like a proper place.

"Ooh, looks like my stock is officially depleted! Time to go fetch a new batch." Jubilana winked at me, then vanished out the camp gate.

Today, Bellringer came up to me again, rummagin' through her cloak. Looked like she was deliverin' another fulfilled wish. My hand shot out on reflex. Next second, a slimy eyeball landed in my palm. By the time my brain rebooted from the crash, she was already long gone.

Soon enough, my summonin' bell rang through the camp. These fools were gigglin' at first, but once they saw what I was holdin' and the dark look on my face, they realised the gravity of the situation. Silence as the grave.

"Who asked for this?! Step forward now! Got the guts to wish, but no guts to own up?!" I roared, fumes comin' out of my ears.

Garmond cleared his throat, tryin' to defend 'em: "As a matter of fact, I can understand brothers and sisters desiring to rid the people of a pest..."

"I don't get it! Broodmother was layin' eggs peacefully in the Slab, how did she offend you?!" I wasn't in the mood for the old knight's moralizing. "Just 'cause she laughs? It's her right to laugh! Is laughin' ugly a crime now?! Even if it is ugly, she's miles away, what's it to you?! What, plannin' to move there in the future?! Fine then, Broodmother's gone, laughter's stopped, why aren't you movin'?! Go on then!!! GO!!!"

Told you Bellringer's up to no good! She plays savior everywhere, and these lowborn bugs just copy her style! All idiots!

Asked around, and turns out it ain't just the fools at Songclave copyin' her. The tyrant of the Marrow, the beastfly of Far Fields... they all joined the Broodmother's deluxe meal deal thanks to wishes from Bonebottom and Bellhart, becomin' ghosts under Bellringer's needle.

Sherma used this to argue with me: "See? Brethren everywhere have been aided by Red Maiden! If she could stay and lead us, I believe everyone would be most joyful!"

"Hah, you'd be joyful to be led, but would she be joyful leadin' you?" I scoffed. "She was kidnapped here from her homeland in the first place. You sure you wanna exploit her overflowin' sense of duty, usin' the prison of wishes to chain her here in this foreign land?"

Sherma fell silent, head hangin' in distress. Clearly his li'l brain never thought of that. I gave that pot lid on his head a bonk with my staff and left 'im to ponder. Nearby, a few pilgrims were whisperin' together. Seein' me pass, one came up to ask: "Mr. Caretaker, do you know where madam Jubilana has gone?"

"Went scavengin'. Don't worry about it," I replied.

"We thought so too, but it has been so long... by logic, she should have returned by now. This has never happened before. What if some misfortune has befallen her?"

Mah, I ain't worried about that crafty old swindler. Even if Bellringer died, she'd prob'ly survive! But since they're so worried, let 'em write a wish and hang it up. I ain't meddlin'. Someone else will.

When Jubilana got back, a swarm of bugs crowded 'round her, fussin' and frettin'. I listened in from afar. The gist of it was: she scampered off to the bridge at Memorium to scavenge, got mobbed by a swarm of drapeflies and saved in the nick of time by Bellringer.

All that concern had her grinnin' from ear to ear. Once she'd greeted every last refugee, she finally sauntered over to me slowly.

"Ooh, who would have thought so many residents would fret over old Jubilana! Being kept in mind... 'tis a fine feeling indeed!" She chuckled, lookin' at me. "Only with you, my dear, can I relive those long-lost days when no bug fussed over me at all."

"I'll take that as a compliment," I said, rollin' my eyes. Couldn't be bothered to bicker with her. I'm the one missin' the long-lost days of quiet seclusion!

...Sigh, better write it down anyway.

When Garmond led the guard back, there was no battle cry, no usual ruckus. Just the sound of hurried, heavy footsteps. A wave of panicked whispers spread through the camp instantly. Knew somethin' was wrong straight away. I hurried to the gate. Halfway there, I saw Sherma dashin' in the opposite direction, divin' headfirst into the medical tent.

The instigator of the guard was lyin' on a pile of cushions hastily thrown together, gaspin' his last. A ghastly wound tore across his shell, showin' the searin' burns of Silk.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Brother Caretaker, I failed to look after him..." Garmond had lost all his usual swagger. "I failed your trust..."

Another guard member chipped in: "We heard that Gilded Knight hunts in the upper corridors, so we thought we'd try our hand at it too, but then..."

Why? Why bite off more than you can chew and provoke the elite warriors of the Choir? Those grand reeds might be walkin' wallets for Bellringer, but for these folk? Did the spark of hope give 'em the delusion of arrogance, leadin' 'em to commit such a reckless folly?

Sherma shoved through the crowd, dumpin' armfuls of medicine on the ground. Jubilana crouched down, pattin' the kid's back gently. "My dear, he is fading..."

"I have to try!" Sherma insisted, tearin' open bandages, tryin' to staunch the flow.

"Little brother, it is okay... life and death are fated, it is not your fault." The instigator held Sherma's hand, comforting him. Then, he turned his gaze to me. "Mr. Caretaker... could you grant me a final wish?"

"Name it."

"Please... take my Soul."

I froze. Mind went blank.

"You can do it, can you not?" the dying guard continued. "Please accept the final candle of my life. Turn it into your strength. Protect everyone in the camp... witness the peace for me..."

Sherma wiped his tears, pulled out his chimes, and started to sing. Garmond followed, and soon every resident joined the chorus. Surrounded by the song of the entire camp, the instigator closed his eyes peacefully, hummin' along with a raspy voice. I whispered the incantation, hoverin' my staff over his shell. Pale light flowed out like a tricklin' stream, mergin' into the dark ocean within me.

Hah. Live long enough, and you really do see everything! A bug volunteering their Soul! If the old geezer heard this, he'd say I was spinnin' tall tales too fake!

I wish... I truly wish I was just tellin' a tale...

Finally laid eyes on that legendary Gilded Knight. Just as I predicted, surely an antique left behind by the first Architect. When they walk, the gears in their joints click and clack loud enough to wake the dead.

Garmond blocked their path at the gate: "You! Friend or foe?"

"M-m-maintenance of the eternal C-c-citadel, is this sentinel's duty," the gilded bug bowed slightly. "P-p-pruning of those b-b-bewitched by Silk, is a n-n-necessary mission."

I saw Garmond tighten his grip on his hornlance. Was it rage against the Citadel? Or an itch to spar? Whatever the feelin', it was soon replaced by sorrow. He sighed, steppin' aside. "Then do your job well. May no more innocents die to the Haunting."

"P-p-purpose of arrival, is exactly that." The gilded bug looked confused as the knight who was just speakin' to them walked away. "Hunter in Red, have the p-p-pilgrims seen?"

Unsurprisin'. I stepped up and asked: "What do you want with her?"

"D-d-detected eminent Silk strength within Hunter in Red, has this sentinel. Unknown, is its m-m-meaning."

"It means she alone can turn Pharloom upside down," I muttered under my breath. "Here. If you wanna find her, leave a note on the wishwall. She loves stickin' her nose in things; she'll go if she sees it."

After hearin' my words, the gilded bug stood there contemplatin' for a while—who knows what gears were turnin' in there—then found a board, wrote down their request in earnest, and whoosh, flew off just like that.

Gear-head.

"Sigh, I still cannot believe that brother from the guard has left us..." a member murmured at today's support group meeting.

"Indeed... sometimes it feels like but a nightmare..." another pilgrim added. "We lost so many companions on the climb, I thought I was accustomed to loss by now... but why does this feel so unreal?"

Garmond took a deep breath. "Brothers and sisters, the fault lies with me... Had I not spurred them to surpass Gilded Knight, had I not personally led them to the upper corridors, none of this would have come to pass... I failed the guard, just as I failed my village..."

To be honest, I've been wantin' to say exactly that since day one! These sheltered fools, gettin' a few compliments from a pro and thinkin' they're invincible, never weighin' their own worth! Fillin' these pathetic softies with false confidence was bound to end in disaster sooner or later! Yet, seein' Garmond hangin' his head like that, I couldn't summon even a lick of pleasure from bein' right. Zaza nudged the old knight's hand gently, whinin' softly to comfort.

"Sir Garmond..." Sherma tried to offer solace, but ended up sighing himself. "If we speak of blame, I too am responsible... I keep thinking, if I had acted faster, or prepared everything beforehand, would the outcome have been different?..."

Just like that, the whole group sank into a depressive silence, heads bowed, sighin' away. Jubilana, standin' beside me, couldn't take it anymore. She stepped forward. "Pah, what is wrong with everyone today? True, 'tis a tragedy, but why must you all seek sin within yourselves? Some things happen because they happen. It is no bug's fault."

Sherma looked up. "Madam, have you also lost someone dear?"

Jubilana hesitated, then a faint, wistful smile touched her lips. "Hah, indeed. Of course. Have I not told you my story?"

The old swindler broke character and sat down with the group. The others lifted their heads to listen. "I used to belong to Fourth Chorus. Memories of the pilgrimage have long blurred! Even the faces of my brothers and sisters have faded into hazy shadows. But their song... ah, it still rings clear in me ears to this day! You lot never saw the Citadel in its prime! Golden halls, anthems singing endlessly... just one look made the arduous journey worth it! To spend a life there was the highest honor!"

I saw it. And if I were tellin' the story, my version would be very different.

Jubilana's gaze drifted far away, lost in the past. "Later on, don't know why—perhaps age caught up with us—our voices went raspy. We couldn't sing the songs no more. One day, the high-ups said they'd arranged a consultation for us in Whiteward, told us to go for treatment. I didn't go. Me voice was still strong then! Instead, greedy for sights, I snuck off to Memorium to gaze at the exotic flora of Verdania all day—all dead now! But after that... I never saw my brothers and sisters again. Vanished from the world, every trace wiped clean. I dared not report it, feared I'd meet the same end."

She turned her eyes to Sherma. "I knew something terrible must have happened in that hidden infirmary; but I didn't have the guts to find the truth, always walked around it. But the reality was worse than me nightmares. Dear one, had I known the state of that place, I never would have guided you there."

"Why say such things, madam?" Sherma replied. "Like you said yourself just now: some things happen because they happen. 'Tis no bug's fault! Besides, I not only found the medicine but gained precious insight, widened my eyes. Without that dangerous journey, I'd probably still know nothing but singing! Blessing or curse, who can know in advance?"

Jubilana smiled, relieved. "Good. Truly good. Young bugs have more spine than old Jubilana! Back then, I just ran and ran... ran to corners where no bug looked, ran until the Citadel fell silent and the Haunting took over. I was fixed on scavenging, earning rosaries; seeing rosaries felt like seeing my devout brothers and sisters. But now... I run no more."

"Why?" a pilgrim asked.

"Because I found new brothers and sisters here." Jubilana held the hands of the members beside her, a motherly look in her eyes. "The passing of brethren is sad, indeed, but they don't vanish. They become part of our hearts, accompanying us as we forge new bonds."

Garmond stood up, exhaling a long breath. "Sister, you speak the truth. We cannot change the past, nor can we let the shadows of yesterday bind us. What matters is the bugs still living. If the departed have spirits, surely they would wish for us to march on!"

"Exactly! So, we must live well. And to improve your quality of life... come cast an eye over old Jubilana's goods!"

Sly old spider! Almost fell for it! She showed her true colors at the last second! Even Sherma couldn't help but retort: "Madam, is this appropriate right now?..."

"Hahahahaha!" Jubilana clapped her hands and laughed. "Anyway, stop blaming yourselves! We have to witness the era of peace for those who passed too!"

She turned her gaze to me. "Right, dear one?"

Era of peace... If "peace" is truly what I seek, there is only one road left. A dark, dangerous road... How can I ensure I won't fail? Won't end up like that naive instigator, dragged into a doomed ending by my own hope?

When Gilded Knight showed up at the Songclave gate again, they were lookin' a right state. Parts hangin' off everywhere, holdin' a pile of gears that fell off 'em. What kind of monster could batter this antique like that? Wait... don't tell me they challenged Bellringer?!

Seein' me approach, they instinctively bowed to me—result bein' the gears in their arms spillin' everywhere with a crash. They bent down to pick 'em up, looked at me, then back at the gears. The commands "talk to me" and "pick up gears" must've caused a glitch in their brain, left 'em stuck in a loop fightin' themselves.

Couldn't watch it no more. Ordered the bystanders to pick up. "Speak," I commanded.

Received a clear order, Gilded Knight's head finally stopped spinnin': "D-d-damaged, is this sentinel. Functions f-f-failing. Seeking r-r-rest and repair."

Sherma heard this and fetched some medicine. Gilded Knight shook their head. "Appreciated. But useless, is m-m-medicine to this sentinel. P-p-possess a cogworker, does this camp? Or multi-function n-nested gears? R-r-repair kit?"

Seein' the crowd shakin' their heads, the knight seemed to panic slightly: "Silk! Silk is also a-a-acceptable!"

Hearin' "Silk," Jubilana suddenly perked up, clappin' her hands and shovin' me aside: "Ooh, dear one, what a coincidence! Old Jubilana stocked up on just the thing! A shame these dimwits don't know quality when they see it! Seeing as you slay haunted puppets, I'll give you a discount—just a smidge of rosaries will do! A bargain, surely?"

"R-r-rosary?" The knight tilted their head. " No c-c-currency, does this sentinel have."

The old swindler's smile dropped instantly. I shoved her back. "Those spools of Silk were part of our first deal. Mine to distribute, not yours to sell!"

Jubilana walked off, bemoanin' the lost sale. I sent Sherma to the back of the storage to dig out those spools. While waitin', I couldn't hold back my curiosity: "Oi, why'd you go provokin' Bellringer?"

"E-e-error in judgment, did this sentinel make. Not haunted, is Hunter in Red." The knight said. "Clear and p-p-pure, is her intent, r-r-reflected in her combat."

Sherma came back with the Silk. "So Silk can be used to heal wounds?"

"Versatile, is Silk. Precious legacy bestowed by the first children." The knight sat down in a clear spot, spreadin' the gears out. "L-l-limited, is this sentinel's knowledge, only capable of using it for s-s-simple self-repair."

"How is it done?" Sherma pressed.

"Melody, is the medium to m-m-manipulate Silk. B-b-behold." The sentinel picked up a spool and began to hum softly. Responding to their tune, the Silk glowed with a soft white light, grabbin' the gears on the ground and weavin' them back into their chassis. Sherma watched the whole process, eyes glued.

Gilded Knight stood up, bowed again. "Gratitude for the shelter. F-f-functions restored. Intrude no longer, will this sentinel."

"Gilded one! Hold!" Garmond's boomin' voice suddenly cut in, soundin' like he was challengin' someone to a duel. "Your mission is to protect pilgrims, correct?"

The machine turned around, ready to leave. "Correct."

"Then, I ask you to join me in training the guard!" Garmond walked up to the sentinel, lookin' up at them. "I can see it, your skills are superb! But the strength of one bug is limited. We need to weather this storm together, so I hope you will share your knowledge freely!"

"T-t-teach?" The knight looked even more confused. "Possess no such f-f-function, does this sentinel."

"No bug is born a mentor! The times have pushed us into this role!" Garmond declared passionately. "If you know Sister in Red, I trust you!"

Gilded Knight froze again, silent for a long time. Just when I thought they'd crashed completely, they suddenly spoke: "Part as friends, did Hunter in Red. Friend of Hunter in Red, is Songclave, thus a friend of this s-s-sentinel. Accept the wish of a friend, will this sentinel."

I ain't no fool, so I won't go actin' rashly like one. If that wild scheme of my sister's holds even a sliver of viability, the path to it must be hidden somewhere in Whispering Vaults. Time to do a bit of research.

Gotta thank Bellringer for the shortcut; just a hop and a skip to reach the Vaults now. I made myself a readin' list—I'm dead certain these books are in the collection, saw 'em with my own eyes once, though who knows where they've migrated to in this day and age. The wanderin' scholars ain't much of a threat to me, so I found the cylinder room without much fuss. If my senses ain't dull, the last sane Keeper is holed up in there.

Sure enough, the moment I stepped in, Cardinius stretched that long body of his out from the shadows: "Gkkkt! Rude intruder! What does he seek? Why does he come?"

"Here for books." I shoved the list right in front of his face.

"How arrogant! A commoner! Daring to order a holy Vaultkeeper upon first sight!" He waved his arms about, dramatic as a play-actor. "A Keeper's learning is unique! Its wisdom is supreme! The Vault's knowledge is not for sharing with outsiders! Especially not forbidden secrets like these! This Keeper has nothing to say! He must leave! Begone!"

I didn't have the patience to bandy words with 'im. I raised my staff and aimed it right at his noggin. Pale light spiraled up, illuminatin' his dark face. "You gonna talk or not?"

"Kakrt! Vile shaman! Dark beast! Daring to threaten a Keeper!" His tone was still cocky, but I saw him shrink back. "He is as venomous as that Weaver-spawn! Wicked!"

"Oi! Don't lump me in with Bellringer!" I protested. "We got nothin' in common!"

"Nothing in common?" Cardinius actually started countin' on his claws. "Disdain for law! No respect for elders! Bossy! Self-important! He is exactly the same!"

I froze for a second. Then I turned my staff away from him and aimed it at the phonograph storin' the precious cylinders nearby. Cardinius panicked instantly: "Stop! What is he doing? Those are this Keeper’s private treasures! Ephemeral knowledge of a fallen age! He must not be reckless!"

"Will. You. Speak?" I asked again, icy slow.

In the end, he grumbled and cursed, reluctantly scribblin' the locations down on my list. Why make it so hard? Refusing the easy path only to be dragged down the hard one!

These blasted books are a pain to read! Half of 'em are just gibberish scriptures and prayers. Trouble is, I can't skip 'em, 'cause that's just how the Citadel scrolls are written: hidin' the real message inside a wheel of repetitive nonsense, terrified some bug might actually decode the meanin'! Got tired after a few pages, so I took a break to watch the guard train.

Gilded Knight is mostly out huntin'—can't be helped, that's how their code is written. But occasionally they return to Songclave to check in, actin' as the swordplay instructor. Truly a machine built with the essence of all martial arts; their moves are sharp and deadly, givin' a glimpse of the Pinstress Order's past glory. Shame their teachin' skills are abysmal; they just demonstrate a move, then stare blankly at the students.

Without Garmond, this trainin' wouldn't work at all. The old knight watches closely, analyzes, breaks down the sentinel's moves, and teaches the key points to the recruits. He even tailors the practice to each bug's body type. He's spendin' more time in camp too, not always shoutin' for the guard to march out like before. In a way, he's become more... mature? Though considerin' his age, that's a late bloomer for ya.

Time flies. Not long ago, these pilgrims were frail softies who couldn't hold a pin steady. Now they've morphed into decent novice warriors, maybe even enough to wrestle a choristor. Despite being fed Citadel lies their whole lives, they still have that potential for growth? ...Admit I underestimated 'em at the start.

Bellringer dropped off another batch of courier supplies from Bellhart. Doing it once, you could say she was just experiencin' the dialogue; doing it twice? What's she playin' at? I've run out of fresh things to say to her! Though part of me still fights the conclusion, as it stands, I've got no choice but to tentatively believe her kindness ain't mixed with ambition.

I had Jubilana haul some of the goods to storage, while I grabbed the rest to go find Sherma and hand 'em out. The moment I ducked into his tent, I saw 'im starin' intently at a spool of Silk, hummin' softly. He was starin' so hard he'd have burned a hole through parchment, but the Silk remained unimpressed, flickering with a weak, sputtering pale light.

"That ain't how you do it," I spoke up. "Apart from hittin' the right melody, it's more about attunin' your will to Silk. You gotta clearly picture how you intend to manipulate it."

"Ah, Mr. Caretaker! Why are you here?" Sherma jumped, spinning around. "Eh? Do you know how to wield Silk as well?"

"Know the basic principles, that's all," I replied. "What are you tryin' to do anyway?"

Sherma lowered his head. "After seeing Gilded Knight use Silk to heal, I kept thinking, if I could have learned it sooner, perhaps that brother in the guard need not have perished..."

Thought we were done with this topic?

"Of course, I know dwelling on the past is meaningless!" Luckily, he looked up again quickly. "But if I can master this technique, I can prevent such tragedies in the future! That would lay to rest many worries for my brothers and sisters, would it not?"

"Good luck with that, then." I wanted to give that pot lid on his head a bonk, but my hands were full. "For a non-Weaver, the cost of learnin' to manipulate Silk ain't cheap."

Sherma finally noticed the bags I was holdin'. "Oh, supplies from Bellhart? Did Red Maiden return? Let me help you distribute them!"

And so, we dragged the bundles around the camp, handin' 'em out together. Halfway through, he sighed: "Sigh... truly, we still must rely on Red Maiden. I certainly do not wish to restrict her freedom, but... without her, could we truly manage?"

"What's stoppin' you?" I shot back. "Sure, she's helped a lot, but without her, would you all just keel over and die? Look around you, look at your brothers and sisters: Songclave is what it is today because of your efforts, ain't it?"

"But that is because Mr. Caretaker has been telling us what to do!" Sherma argued. "Across Pharloom, there are many bugs as lost as we were. Without Red Maiden to point the way, how would they proceed?"

"Is that so? Did I want to set up the guard? Did I tell you to go to Whiteward for meds, or start that support group? And that blasted Broodmother's eyeball that I still don't know what to do with—did I tell you to pluck that?" I was gettin' worked up, luckily I had the packages to take my anger out on, so my voice stayed steady. "Though I always call you lot fools, you know what you need. A leader just communicates and coordinates those needs. So why must it be a dictator barkin' orders from a throne? Why can't it be discussion and cooperation amongst yourselves?"

"But... how would order be maintained? Would we not fall into the chaos of conflicting opinions?"

"How have you been doin' it here? Truth be told, even if I disappeared for a few days, Songclave wouldn't fall apart now. Over this time livin' together, you've formed a tacit understandin' of how to solve problems. So just write that understandin' down, turn it into a reasonable system, and you're set, ain't ya?" My throat was gettin' dry. "Anyway, broaden your horizons a bit. Pharloom's survival might not require a monarch at all."

"A kingdom without a king? It feels... hard to imagine..." Sherma lowered his head, lost in thought. Typical pilgrim mindset.

Sigh, daft kid.

After wrestlin' with these scriptures for days, I finally found the answer I was lookin' for in a prayer to Absolom: it is possible to use the Weavers' ancient trap to tear open space and summon the deepest darkness. However, too many uncertainties are swirlin' in my head; I can't jump to conclusions just yet. So, I made myself another list and headed back to the listening chamber.

"Gkkkt! The rude shaman invades the sanctuary again!" Cardinius poked his long body out. "Does he crave more knowledge? Truly insatiable!"

I couldn't be bothered to chat. Just shoved the list right in his face. He frowned at it for a moment, then, gnashing his teeth, scribbled down the locations next to the titles. I was about to leave when a thought struck me: "By the way, you got any beginner's guides on attuning to Silk? Specifically for healing? Best if it's inherited from Camora?"

"Kakrt! So many demands!" Cardinius snatched my list back, scribbled furiously for a few seconds, then shoved it back. "Take it! All the shaman requires is here! Leave! Speedily!"

I suddenly felt the urge to tease 'im a bit. "Oi, admit it. You're actually happy I came, ain't ya? Cooped up in here all alone for so long, not a single livin' bug for company?"

"Preposterous! The height of absurdity!" Cardinius threw his arms wide, theatrical as ever. "This Keeper needs no company of commoners! It seeks only the embrace of learning!"

"Then why help me so quickly this time? I didn't even threaten ya."

"That is because... because..." Cardinius began stammering. "This Keeper has manners! It has breeding! It will not waste both our time on repetitive matters! Yes, precisely so! A Keeper's time is precious! It will waste no more breath on the shaman!"

With that, he shrank back into the gaps between the shelves, grumblin' curses all the way. Gotta say, this Keeper reminds me of the old geezer. Those grumpy, tsundere old men are the most fun to tease. Oh ho ho!

Wait a minute... do the folks at Songclave see me that way too?

Stepped out of the tent for a breath of air, and what do I see? Garmond, in vain, tryin' to teach Gilded Knight his signature war cry. The poor machine looked utterly baffled, stutterin': "S-s-sanceiboo."

"Nay!" Garmond waved his hand dismissively. "Do not focus merely on the pronunciation! What matters is that you unleash the surging passion from the depths of your soul! Like this—SANCEIBOO!!!"

"San-s-sei..."

"Give the gear-head a break," I muttered, speechless, as I walked past 'em.

Passed by Sherma's tent, took a sneak peek inside. He was gnawin' on that beginner's guide to Silk healing I brought 'im with one eye, and wrestlin' with that spool of Silk with the other. Good news is, the pale light respondin' to his hummin' is a bit steadier than before; bad news is, he's still got a long road ahead before he can actually use it!

Right, time to get back to my own readin'. Thumbin' through these pages, time starts to get slippery. Blink and hours have passed. Only Zaza's occasional snorin' keeps me tethered to the outside world. Though Jubilana occasionally barges into my tent without ceremony, bringin' tea and snacks, claimin' the folks of Songclave are worried I'm forgettin' to eat and sleep, and specifically asked her to deliver 'em. Hah, since when did that old swindler get so meddlesome? Reckon she definitely charged a runner's fee for it!

Holed up in this busted castle for so long, I can usually guess the hymn just by hearin' the first note. But the tune today? Definitely ain't no holy song. What sort of hymn is this jaunty, this cheerful, and stuffed to the gills with awful puns about "fleas"? Before this new ditty drove me 'round the bend, I asked around. Turns out Bellringer has taken her meddlin' to the extreme again: helped Flea Caravan track down their lost members and set up a new home in the last untainted paradise at the tail end of Putrified Ducts. I admit, Pale Lake is peaceful enough—especially compared to the maggot-ridden cesspits surroundin' it—a decent place to settle down. But is it worth wadin' through that stinkin' sewer? Dodgin' them back-steppin' green skeeters, face-rushin' gapin' bug-carts, and sneaky mimic-plants attackin' from three sides? And even if you get in, how do you get out?

Whatever, ain't my lookout. To show their gratitude, those third-rate bards turned Bellringer's deeds into this corny folk ballad, and the fools in the camp picked it up from somewhere. Now they're spreadin' it like a rash, singin' away while recountin' her legendary adventures and selfless acts. I couldn't take it anymore. "So what's her name, then?"

The awkward silence was deafening.

Hah! The whole of Songclave, includin' Sherma and Garmond who climbed up with her, nary a bug could answer! Guess a savior needs a veil of mystery to look legendary, eh? Then quit actin' like you're all thick as thieves! You don't know her!

"I know!" Sherma suddenly piped up. "Mr. Caretaker means that even if we do not know Red Maiden's name, her deeds inspire us still! Therefore, what matters is not the idol, but the virtues and hope she represents, correct?"

Hearin' him say that, other pilgrims nodded in agreement, praisin' my "wisdom."

No, that clearly ain't what I meant... but if they wanna take it that way, fine. I gave that pot lid on Sherma's head a bonk with my staff and said no more. Regardless, goal achieved: the racket stopped. Now I can get back to my books in peace. After all, virtue and hope alone won't beat the one above; quite the opposite, killin' a monarch requires vice and despair...

Accordin' to Murglin's original manuscripts, it's safe to say those Weaver gadgets won't override each other's signals. In other words, settin' a new trap inside the big seal of the Cradle shouldn't mess with its function. Does that seal the deal?

I don't know. Still feel uneasy. Sister's plan looked dodgy from the start, and havin' texts to back it up doesn't change what it is. But why? Why am I, who scoffed at it before, now delusional enough to hope it works? Lost in thought, I found myself back in the listening chamber without realizin'. Cardinius popped out the moment he saw me: "Gkkkt! The rude shaman returns! What does he seek now?"

I ignored 'im, just climbed up to the bench on the upper level and sat in silence.

He followed and raised an eyebrow. "What ails him?"

"Ever get that feelin': no matter how much you know, it just never feels like enough?"

"Hrmm... The path to true insight is thorny indeed. Even if one spends a lifetime, it is impossible to know the full scope of the cosmos." Cardinius rolled his eyes. "But for that very reason, a Keeper's holy duty is endless. Absolute certainty is a fool's fallacy. The wise accept the whims of fate and use learning to carve a foothold within it."

"Hah, maybe..." I sighed long. "Anyway, no list today. You got any recommendations?"

"Based on the shaman's previous research themes, this Keeper could suggest further avenues." He cupped his chin, then changed face in a flash. "But why should it do so?! The shaman never shows respect to the Keeper! Or the Vaults!"

"Er, 'cause you're the most learned bug in this end of days? Wisdom unmatched?"

Cardinius paused, didn't expect that. "True words... Very well! The Keeper shall fulfill the noble mission of enlightening the common bug!"

He grabbed a slate, listed some scriptures and locations. I glanced at it, teased: "What, not afraid of leakin' forbidden secrets now?"

"Impudence!" Cardinius snapped back to normal. "The Keeper is benevolent! It shows mercy! And this is how the Shaman repays it?! Ungrateful, just like the Weaver-spawn!"

"And you're just as meddlesome as that 'Weaver-spawn'," I shot back, hoppin' off the bench and walkin' out of the chamber. Behind me, Cardinius's curses rang out non-stop. Oh ho ho ho! Reckon he and my old geezer would have plenty to chat about.

Once you get the hang of the rhythm of these scriptures, decodin' 'em ain't so hard. Gotta admit, the books that old Cardinius recommended were actually crucial. They contained records from Atla, the Weaver of Time, and the own handwritings of pious Isamor. Piecin' the info together, one of my main worries is settled: the one above seems to need specific conditions to wake fully. So even if I dangle right under her nose, it's unlikely she'll snatch me up and melt me into a Soul pill on the spot.

But the rock in my gut still won't drop. Even though all the texts suggest the plan is viable, I still can't believe things will go that smooth. What could go wrong? I try to comfort myself. Well, we're talkin' about God and Void here! What couldn't go wrong?!

While I was frettin', I heard a few pilgrims whisperin' outside. Then thump, Sherma was shoved into my tent. Seein' my glare, Sherma cleared his throat: "Hoy, Mr. Caretaker! We, er, I mean I, saw you've been locked away studying for days. You must be exhausted! Overworking is bad for the shell! Would you like to go to the hot spring to relax?"

I snapped the book shut, stood up, and let out a long breath. "Let's go."

"...Eh?" Sherma froze, lookin' like he hadn't expected me to agree in a million years.

"Don't wanna go? Forget it then."

"Yes! Yes!" Sherma beamed, grabbin' my hand and draggin' me out. The pilgrims who were eavesdroppin' outside quickly turned their backs, pretendin' nothin' happened.

Even with the reanimated puppets roamin' the Citadel, findin' a relatively hidden path to the spring ain't hard. Sherma asked, surprised: "Mr. Caretaker, you know the place?"

I rolled my eyes. "How long have I lived in this dump? What do you think?"

Warm steam hit our faces. Pity about the draft—some itchy-handed vandal smashed a hole in the wall. I couldn't wait, stepped right into the pool, leaned back against the edge, and went completely limp. Even sank my mouth under the water, blowin' tired bubbles. The water, rich with Soul, gently buoyed my body, soothin' my frayed nerves. A tingling comfort spread through me, dissolvin' my worries for a moment. Sigh, if only I could just melt into this water and never worry about those troubles again...

Sherma shed his cloak and chimes, and splashed into the spring, sendin' a wave of water right into my face. Once I'd wiped my eyes, I grumbled: "You have to share the same pool with me?"

Sherma didn't answer, just swam over to my side. "Mr. Caretaker, if you don't take off your cowl, it'll be hard to dry later, won't it?"

"I like it this way."

Just as I was preparin' to ignore the brat's antics and enjoy the soak, a handful of water hit me square in the face. Before I could react, a second splash followed. I threw my hands up to shield myself. "Oi! What are you playin' at?! Pack it in!"

But no matter how many times I yelled stop, Sherma kept splashin' and gigglin'. Fine then! You want a water fight? This is MY domain!

I grabbed my staff from the pool's edge and gave it a swing. The Soul energy in the spring obeyed my will, liftin' the water into the air, spinnin' it into a vortex, and dumping it straight onto Sherma's head with a whoosh. It drowned out his laughter instantly. Seein' him there, drenched and bewildered, I couldn't hold it back. I burst out laughin'. Sherma paused for two seconds, then joined in, laughin' even harder than before. Haven't laughed like that in ages. Laughed 'til my sides hurt.

Once we finally caught our breath, Sherma paddled gently, floatin' around. "By the way, Mr. Caretaker, remember when I came back from Whiteward and you told me we should look for the meaning of life?"

"Mmhmm?"

"Though I have no clear answer yet, I feel a direction. These days in Songclave, helping my brothers and sisters, I feel so fulfilled... as if it wouldn't matter even without the glory promised by the Citadel!"

"Good for you," I said, absent-minded.

"What about you, Mr. Caretaker? Have you found your answer?"

"None."

"Oh, that is fine! Such questions take time! Ha ha ha!" Seein' my lack of interest, Sherma changed the subject. "Actually, before I found Songclave, I soaked here with Red Maiden once! She was the one who told me about the sanctuary!"

"Oh." I closed my eyes, brushin' him off.

Sherma went quiet for a bit, then swam back to my side, whisperin': "Mr. Caretaker is not an ordinary bug like us, right?"

I didn't answer verbally, but opened one eye as a response.

"I know, there are many things you do not wish to tell me." He continued. "I do not blame you! Only... sometimes I wish I could be of help..."

"It ain't that I don't trust you," I spoke up. "But some things... best seen to be believed. Can't explain 'em clearly."

"Then explain them vaguely!" Sherma leaned in, floatin' near my legs. "I can sense it. You and Red Maiden are looking for a way out for everyone, aren't you? You look so troubled lately... have you hit a wall?"

I hesitated. "In short... I got a solution. A once-and-for-all fix. But I ain't sure if I should use it."

"Why?"

"'Cause there's no guarantee of success. If it fails, everything we know gets overturned. Plainly put, it's a reckless gamble with everything on the line."

Sherma tilted his head. "Is there anything worse than how things are now?"

Hah, who knows? Maybe the Abyss rises and swallows Pharloom whole? But then again, perishin' in Void versus bein' enslaved by the Haunting forever... hard to say which endin' is better.

"If you ask me, Mr. Caretaker should be bold and try it!"

"Hah, didn't peg you for a gamblin' bug," I teased.

"True enough..." Sherma looked away. "I met a brother named Lumble on the road. Played dice with him. Lost terribly..."

He paused, then turned back to look at me earnestly, eyes shinin'. "But, is that not what life is? Win some, lose some. Gain some, miss some. If you never try, how can you know if it is a success or a failure?"

...Aye. We've come this far. If I keep actin' like a shrinking Imoba, just like the old geezer, can I really live with myself? I stayed silent, swam to the side, and leaned against the edge with my back to Sherma, composin' myself.

"Alright, let's go ba—" I turned around, only to get another faceful of water. I spat it out and watched speechlessly as Sherma laughed himself silly at his successful sneak attack.

Daft kid!

Reckon the ripples in the bath gave 'im ideas. Today, Sherma stood up in the Support Group and spoke: "Brothers and sisters, our circle has gathered for some time now. In these days, I have heard your doubts and confusion, and I thank you for your honesty; it lets me know I do not walk this path of seeking alone. Though questions remain, today I wish to invite everyone to discuss... what does our faith, and broadly, our life, truly mean?"

"Hah, meaning of life? Best I keep my mouth shut then!" Jubilana laughed. "You all know me answer: Earning piles of rosaries is king!"

To my surprise—and judgin' by Jubilana's face, hers too—a few pilgrims hesitated, then shakily raised their hands in agreement. After all, wasn't their original reason for climbin' the Citadel to escape poverty and live rich? The old swindler got the dividends, sure, but this new batch ain't been half so lucky.

"I had long believed I carved a path of blood to this Citadel solely to redress the wrongs done to my village," Garmond mused, stroking Zaza's head. "But alas! I see now... the fallen shall not rise again. Dignity for the dead was but a pretext I clung to. What truly steeled my resolve was the burning honor of a knight! The insatiable thirst to conquer my own limits! To triumph over adversity! To prove to myself: I shall never bend the knee to the tyranny of power, nor surrender to the cruel tides of fate! Brothers and sisters, though our creeds may differ, I trust many of you hold a similar fire—striving to weather the storm with a conscience unblemished. Life is a grand crucible, and we shall march forth with heads held high, our song ringing out against the dark!"

Some members nodded, sharin' how after survivin' the thousands of tribulations of the pilgrimage, even without the promised grace, they felt a shred of pride. Some even started spoutin' nonsense like "the result doesn't matter, the journey itself is the doctrine." Why stay here then? Why not roll back down to Bonebottom and climb it again a few times?

One bug asked: "Little brother Sherma, since you raised the topic, surely you have some insights of your own?"

Sherma scratched his head. "Lately, I often think... though the silent Citadel granted us no glory, perhaps we have received rewards elsewhere? Were it not for our shared faith, how would I have met all you brothers and sisters? Perhaps life is the same: shared experiences bind us together, allowing unconnected, lonely souls to rely on one another, passing warmth through belonging!"

Hah, typical: The real treasure was the friends you made along the way! Wow!

Just as the group was heatin' up, the click-clack of gears sounded in my ear. Second Sentinel had appeared unnoticed, startin' to eavesdrop. Clearly, the topic had hooked 'em. They approached stiffly, stopped by my side, starin' at the meetin' in a daze. On that machine face, I could almost read a hint of sorrow and melancholy... and a trace of longing?

I quietly gripped my staff and, while they weren't lookin', gave 'em a hard shove in the back. They stumbled right into the center of the circle. The chatter stopped instantly. Dozens of eyes turned to stare. Gilded Knight quickly crossed their arms, bowin'. "A-a-apologies. Intend not to interrupt the pilgrims' d-d-discourse, did this sentinel. Leave immediately, will this sentinel."

"It is fine!" Sherma responded. "It seems Gilded Knight has an interest in our topic as well. Why not join us?"

The machine paused. "...C-c-conversation, is not this sentinel's specialty. Slow down the pilgrims' p-p-progress, fear this sentinel might."

"Gilded one, stand not on ceremony!" Garmond waved a hand grandly. "The purpose of this gathering is to ensure that every voice, no matter its origin, is granted audience? Is that not so, brothers and sisters?"

The others chimed in agreement. Hard pressed by such kindness, the sentinel froze for a few seconds, then finally sat down in the circle.

Jubilana welcomed them: "My dear, you're the most mysterious of the lot. Care to tell us a bit of your story?"

"Story? Possess no s-s-story, does this sentinel. Or rather... fragmented, blurred..." The sentinel's voice grew quiet, seemin' to sink into the past, but the next second, they jerked upright. "E-e-error: Memory retrieval failure. Episodic d-d-data module damaged."

The members looked at each other. Finally, Sherma clapped his hands. "It matters not if you cannot remember! What matters is how to welcome a new life!"

The machine returned to normal posture. "N-n-new life?"

"That isn't for me to answer," Sherma said. "What do you think?"

"Guard the Citadel, maintain the Song... eternal d-d-duty of the sentinels."Second Sentinel lowered their head. "Yet now, siblings are g-g-gone, Citadel fallen, Song silent. But... unchanged, is the commandment. Unchanged, is the loyalty. P-p-paradox?"

The group fell silent for a moment. A bug spoke up: "But... there’s still us, isn't there?"

"Indeed! If Gilded Knight wishes to hear the Song, we can sing for you!"

"To tell the truth, seeing Gilded Knight fight so bravely is what steeled my resolve to train! I wish to become strong like you, to protect our companions!"

The sentinel's gaze shifted from speaker to speaker, and with every shift, the light in their eyes seemed to grow a fraction brighter.

"Behold, gilded one! Your valor has not been in vain," Garmond declared. "Perhaps you cannot rewrite your command, yet you may still choose the manner of its execution. If you wish to guard the Citadel, you may continue to prowl this dead regime, slaying enemies to no end; or, you may raise your blade alongside us, and fight ceaselessly for its survivors!"

After a long silence, Second Sentinel stood up and bowed deeply to the group—this time, it didn't look like a code reflex, but an act of free will. Without a word, they turned and flew out of the camp.

Evil mushroom's invincibility has finally met its end. Bellringer told me herself: "Sir, I have opened the way above the halls, and bested the white knight that stood as guardian."

But if that's the case, shouldn't she have marched straight up to the Cradle and faced the Pale Monarch? Why run all the way back here just to give me a status report? Bored again? What is she hesitatin', stallin' for? Bellringer, Old One... have you too glimpsed the fated end, and now seek another path? Perhaps I have the answer you seek. Are you ready? Am I?

Don't know why, the proposal was right on the tip of my tongue, but I lacked the guts to spit it out. We just chewed the fat about the evil mushroom for a bit, then went our separate ways. My heart felt heavy, knotted up. Like a ghost guided by invisible threads, I found myself wandering back to High Halls.

I sat down before Ballador's curtain. "Heard the news? Pious Isamor has cleared the final obstacle. The audience with the sacred heart is imminent."

Ballador was silent for a moment. "Then... is he ready to ascend the holy throne? Or... cough... is he truly willing to cast aside all glory, having found a way to resist the weight of the kingdom's expectation?"

"What do you think?" I asked back.

Ballador chuckled weakly. "It is not for a humble bug such as I to speculate on the complex and deliberations of higher beings."

I didn't have the energy to spare for his riddles. I sighed. "The method is found, the resolve is set... but fortune or ruin... who can know?"

"Dark One... your fire seems dimmer than last we met. I hear hesitation in your voice... like the biting wind of Mount Fay. If left to chill the shell without a hearth nearby... even the greatest passion will freeze. How can this fading bug offer you any aid?"

If I had a choice, he's the last bug I'd want to pour my heart out to. But in the whole Citadel, the last Conductor is the only one tuned to my frequency. "Even if we succeed... what will the world look like after? Spent half my life livin' in fear under the one above's shadow... but now that it might all actually end, why do I feel so... lost?"

"Indeed. Toiling half a lifetime in chaotic times... we cannot even imagine the shape of peace. Even knowing the strange new world is the righteous path... the instinct to cling to familiar routines makes us falter." Ballador spoke with grave kindness. "Just as when I inherited the Conductor's crown... and the crushing weight of authority and forbidden truths that came with it... the life I knew turned to ash in an instant."

"Do you... regret it?"

"Heh... every moment..." Ballador laughed, a raspy, dry sound. "Had I not taken up this cursed mantle... perhaps I would not be suffering this pain, nor the torture of my conscience. Yet... were time to turn back... I believe I would make the same choice."

"Why?"

"The arrow is nocked; it must be loosed. If I do not enter the hells, who will? Pious Isamor, Romino, Mizello, myself, the half-blood Weaver, and you... we were all pushed to the crest of the wave by the times. The life we knew was but necessary kindling to lead the people forward. Rejoice, Dark One... at least your new world sounds far fairer than mine ever was."

Wait... did he just say "half-blood Weaver"? Mask off, finally?

I stood up. "Well, don't get jealous: there's a place for you in this new world too."

"Hah, I thank you for the flattery." No sooner had he spoken than he fell into a fit of violent coughing. "Though I too wish to see the dawn of peace with my own eyes... I fear it is not to be. I know my state... this rotting carcass will not last the long night of Pharloom."

"Don't write yourself off so soon. Maybe change will come faster than you think." I bid him farewell.

To celebrate the fall of the evil mushroom, Songclave threw a party. Don't know which dimwit organized it, but by the time I found out, it was already in full swing! These fools pretend to respect me as Caretaker, yet they hold a massive event without reportin' to me first! Though, even if they had, I'd have shot it down instantly.

The residents draped dyed cloth over gleamflies, turnin' 'em into strings of colourful lanterns hung all over the camp. Bonfires were lit, the smell of roasted meat fillin' the air—days' worth of rations gone in one night! Wasteful! And right in the middle of the camp sat a mysterious giant cauldron. Jubilana stood by it, beckonin' with a grin: "Ooh, dear one, come quickly! You've joined us just in time!"

I glanced at the suspicious bubblin' orange liquid. "What's this swill?"

"Flea Brew! Absolutely authentic!" Jubilana introduced it warmly. "I struck a little deal with Grishkin when Flea Caravan camped at the Citadel gates. Rumour has it even the little red-cloak is quite fond of a drop! Come, have a taste!"

I stared her down, hands on hips. "How many rosaries a bottle?"

"Ho ho! No charge! Drink as much as you like!"

What?! Either her brain's rotted or mine has. Hmph, definitely a trap! That old swindler's prob'ly spiked the drink with sleepin' draught. Wait 'til we're all out cold, then she'll strip the camp bare and flee! I ain't fallin' for it!

Flea Brew wasn't the only flea element; the whole party was clearly inspired by fleas! Makes sense. How else would these pilgrims, taught to be ascetic from birth, come up with such absurdly lavish ideas? They even copied the fleas' traditional games! Over in the Flea Juggle zone, Sherma sat on his cymbal, gigglin' as he bounced into the air by challengers' swingin' pins, even wavin' at me mid-air. Flea Dodge became Garmond's stage—Zaza carried him, either dashin' and weavin' as a challenger or chargin' about as an obstacle. A few pilgrims ran over to ask if I wanted to join. Play such childish games? Not likely! To avoid further harassment, I found a quiet corner to sit. Jubilana sauntered over, didn't try to sell me anything for once, just sipped her Flea Brew and watched the madness with me.

Midway through the party, Second Sentinel came back from huntin', and the sight made 'em freeze in their tracks. Surrounded by enthusiastic pilgrims, they got roped into the challenges without knowin' what was happenin', and unsurprisingly swept all three titles. Even standin' on the podium, wearin' a flower wreath, their eyes were still swirlin' with confusion. After the ceremony, Sherma ladled himself a bottle of Flea Brew, wobbled over to me and slumped right into my lap. "Mr. Caretaker... all that bouncing made me dizzy..."

Cheeky brat. I wanted to shove 'im off, but the kid's heavier than he looks. Jubilana whipped out a bottle of nectar, swappin' it for the Brew at his lips. "My dear, drinking that swill will only make your head spin more. Let old Jubilana give you something suitable!"

Then she shoved the confiscated Flea Brew under my nose, shakin' it. Er, fine. To stop them pesterin' me, I reluctantly took a sip. Actually... didn't taste half bad. Wait... why's my hand movin' so fast?

"Flea Festival is fun... Flea Brew is tasty..." Sherma mumbled softly. "Fleas are the best! Even Red Maiden loves fleas..."

"What nonsense are you babblin'?" I sighed.

Sherma looked up at me. "Mr. Caretaker... do you think... the era of peace will be like a flea festival?"

His words stunned me. I looked around: so much laughter, so much joy. A sight I've never seen in my life. The curse ragin' outside seemed irrelevant; this little oasis blocked out all worries. Sittin' here, even I momentarily forgot the angry roars of the one above nearin' her wakin'. Maybe this is what the new world should look like? Doesn't feel too bad, I s'pose.

Zaza trotted over too, floppin' down next to me. Crowded, innit? The guard even choreographed a play, retellin' the long struggle between Bellringer and the evil mushroom. The bug playin' mushroom, wearin' white robes, pinched her voice: "I am the wicked damsel, crippled by insecurity! I kill for sport to fill the emptiness in my heart! Today I see that little spider fall from her cage, and I must prove my superiority by taking her head!"

The bug playin' Bellringer burst onto the stage in a flash of red cloth, voice deep and gruff: "Halt! Evil Mushroom Sprite! Ghost Slayer of the Citadel! Witch of Silence! Trampler of Prayers! I, the Paladin from afar, Heaven-Blessed Huntress, Granter of Wishes, Builder of Bonebottom, guarder of Bellhart, Protector of Songclave, Friend of Fleatopia, Speedster of Couriers, Veteran of Grand Hunt, Pharloom's Savior and New Hope, shall use the burning fire of justice to illuminate your cursed, rotting shell!"

Lord of Shades, save me. Fast forward, please. Anyway, after this and that and all sorts of fight scenes, the mushroom actor let out a weird squeak and fell. Bellringer actor rushed forward, scoopin' her into an embrace.

"Ah, little spider... your nobility has finally defeated my depravity..." She clutched the other's collar, deliverin' her last words. "Your light of justice is so blinding... I was drawn to it the moment we met... How I wish I could join you, walk side by side in the light... Alas, I am beyond saving... this life grants me no such wish..."

"Oh, mushroom sprite... in truth, the deepest corner of my heart belonged to you all along. Were it not for the call of duty, I wish we need not have been foes..." Bellringer actor held her hand affectionately. "I had hoped to take you back to my Bellhome, to bathe and sleep together, to embark on new adventures, to answer the people's prayers, to rebuild Pharloom together... But fate is cruel! Farewell, my dearest rival..."

1. EYES. Truly a pair of ill-fated conchflies! If Jubilana sold a pair of eyes that had never seen this play, I'd pay any amount of rosaries! Compared to this, Trobbio's noisy performances are high art! At least he doesn't ruin characters with such trashy scripts! Wonder what the two real ones would think if they saw this "love-hate" drama.

I locked eyes with Zaza; his big eyes were filled with just as much confusion as mine. Sherma, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoyin' it, even chimin' in with his bells at the curtain call. As the party wound down, pilgrims formed a circle, clappin' and singin', with the center actin' as a dance floor. Sherma, sobered up a bit, bounced up from my lap and dove happily into the dance. Second Sentinel was shoved in too; encouraged by the crowd, they stiffly tried to mimic the steps, gear joints whirrin'. Talk about the robot dance—literally.

"Zaza!" Garmond's shout cut through the noise. "Come! Join us!"

Zaza stood up, chirped a reply, glanced at me one last time, then trotted quickly to his master. The old knight picked Zaza up, spun him around, then sang loudly while steppin' a clumsy dance, Zaza bouncin' along to the rhythm. Jubilana poked me. "My dear, why don't you join in?"

"Why don't you?" I shot back.

"Heh, old Jubilana's dancing days are long gone!" She suddenly rummaged in her pack, lookin' secretive. "By the by, I have something good for you."

After diggin' around, she finally pulled out a bottle. I eyed the rich amber glow. "Is that... Vintage Nectar? Thought that stuff was rarer than a truthful Conductor?"

"Ooh! You actually know your goods for once, dear one!" She giggled. "Rare to begin with, and in this end of days, worth a thousand gold! You never know what treasures you can pick up in the Citadel!"

"I heard Bellringer spent money and sweat, wiping out two waves of ants plus nearly five hundred rosaries, just to get one bottle from Creige at Halfway Home." I stared at the old swindler darkly. "Even if I emptied my pockets, I couldn't afford your price, could I?"

"Free! Consider it a gift of our friendship!"

"You must have brain rot if you expect me to believe that."

Impossible! Absolutely impossible! If this old swindler doesn't name a price, there's definitely a catch! I ain't fallin' into her trap!

"Stubborn old bastard..." She sighed. "You insist on a price?"

"Aye." I stood my ground.

Jubilana rolled her eyes. "Fine, let's say this: This bottle of Vintage Nectar is compensation for all your hard work lately, scheming to bring peace to Pharloom. Deal?"

I paused. "...Then you're givin' it too early. It ain't peaceful yet."

"Isn't it close?"

"Close ain't there."

She couldn't beat my stubbornness, so she put the nectar back in her bag. "Fine, old Jubilana will keep it safe for you then. It's a promise: when your plan succeeds and Pharloom sees peace, this nectar is yours! No backing out! Don't want to drag it out again in a few days, too much trouble."

"Why do you sound so certain?"

"Heh heh, because of you! Told you, old Jubilana has a sharp eye for bugs!" She tapped me on the chest. "I can see it. Even in that dark, dead heart of yours, a little flame of hope has started to burn, hasn't it?"

I didn't know how to reply. Suddenly, Sherma popped up in front of me, grabbed my hand, and dragged me to the center of the crowd. "Mr. Caretaker, please bring this celebration to a close! You know, with your, er, special abilities?"

Took me a moment to realize what the brat wanted: These fools expect me to use Soul to make fireworks for 'em?! Every shred of logic screamed at me to refuse this ridiculous request, but their expectant eyes were like a hex I couldn't break. I sighed internally, raised my staff, and chanted. Clusters of pale light shot from the tip, explodin' into brilliant sparks in the air, showerin' down like a glittering galaxy of dust. The pilgrims cheered and sang, their eyes reflectin' a light brighter than the fireworks. If the old geezer heard about this, he'd curse me for wastin' Soul on such trivial nonsense!

Hah. Come to think of it, if it pisses him off, that's a bonus.

I gotta take a long trip. If I'm gonna go through with this plan, I need to clear the air with those two old bugs first, treat it as a final consultation before the deed is done. Although I know the paths in and out of the Citadel like the back of my hand, time is of the essence; I need a shortcut. Asked around the camp. Most pilgrims climbed up through Blasted Steps and knew naught else. A few suggested Sinner's Road: theoretically faster now that the Mist is cleared—but that route is a miserable experience. Others said Underworks connects to Wisp Thicket, which leads straight to Greymoor, and it's relatively safe since Bellringer wiped out those heretics.

Just as I was about to set off, Sherma came rushin' over: "Mr. Caretaker! Apologies, I was too focused on my reading. I hear you seek a fast route?"

"Aye, headin' to Wisp Thicket," I replied. "Got a better idea?"

"We could use Red Maiden's method of transport! You know, that giant Bell Beast? She runs much faster than our two legs!"

I stared at him for two seconds. "...You think that ancient beast is gonna serve us?"

"Of course! I met her when I first started my pilgrimage; she was trapped in Silk, and luckily Red Maiden saved her! We met again at Blasted Steps! She definitely remembers me!" Sherma was confident. "As long as I go with you, it will be absolutely fine!"

Sounds dodgy as anything, but I figured there's no harm in tryin'. Getting down to Underworks via the Grand Bellway is convenient enough, so I grudgingly agreed to let Sherma tag along. He jumped three feet in the air with excitement; I had to give that pot lid on his head a bonk to remind him this ain't a holiday. To be honest, despite livin' in this castle so long, I've never used the Ventrica. The capsule is cramped enough without Sherma insistin' on squeezin' in with me.

The moment I picked the destination and hit the button, the hiss and whine of steam gave me a bad feelin'. Next second, the pod launched, my stomach dropped, and then came the violent shakin'. Gave up tryin' to stand steady immediately. Every time this capsule took a turn, the world spun; felt like a giant hand was shakin' us like a dice cup. Sherma and I tumbled into a heap, and his blasted cymbals slammed right into my gut—hurt like the blazes! Now I know why the Ventrica was shut down! Miracle anyone survives it! How does Bellringer stand this?

By the time we finally arrived, Sherma bounced out like nothin' happened. Me, the cushion, wasn't so sprightly. Felt like my bones had rattled loose. I leaned on my staff, legs wobblin'. By the time I took a step, Sherma was already at the Bellway side, ringin' the bell and singin'. With a ground-shakin' rumble, the colossal beast burst from the earth.

Sherma waved happily: "Hoy! Beasty! Remember me?"

Bell Beast eyed Sherma for a few seconds, then reared up, lettin' out an affirmative roar. But when she saw me, her face changed instantly. She backed up, growlin' threats. Right, I know when I'm not wanted.

"Ah, fear not! Mr. Caretaker looks scary, but he is the kindest bug of all!"

Can't tell if I'm bein' praised or insulted.

Sherma hopped off the platform, walked up to the beast, placed one hand on her forehead, and effortfully beckoned me over with the other. I leaned my staff against the platform edge and approached, step by cautious step. Can't believe I'm wastin' time tamin' a beast. Once I was close enough, Sherma grabbed my hand, pressed it against the beast's brow, and hummed softly. After a while, the giant creature's pantin' finally calmed.

"There we go! We are all friends of Red Maiden!" Sherma tapped the bell. "Beasty, Mr. Caretaker and I wish to go elsewhere. Could you give us a ride?"

Bell Beast shook her body, reared up again, and chirped. Sherma scrambled onto her back. I grabbed my staff and climbed up that massive shell. But I hadn't even sat firm when the beast leaped high and dove into the earth. Bells of all sizes smacked me in the face, rattling my skull to pieces. I had to focus everything on grippin' the beast's shell so I wouldn't get thrown off. What the heck is Bellringer's shell made of?! These "transport methods" are all insane! Sherma, on the other hand, just tucked his head in, usin' his cymbals as a shield, deflecting everything with a ding-dang-clatter. How are these old bones of mine supposed to survive this abuse?!

Daft kid!

Slidin' off Bell Beast's back, the world was spinnin' so fast I could barely stand. Took a good long while restin' on the spot, endurin' a duet between Sherma and the beast while I finished writin' the last entry, before I finally caught my breath. The moment I gave the signal to move, Sherma bolted out of the Bonebottom station like a shot. He scanned the area, then sprinted toward a repair bug tinkerin' on a bench: "Mister Flick!"

The repair bug spun around, eyes flashin' with surprise and confusion: "Aye? Is that... Sherma lad? How did you..."

He didn't finish his sentence before he saw me steppin' out of the station. Questions answered. "Hah! Thought only Miss Red could handle that giant beast!"

"Let me introduce you! This is Mr. Caretaker!" Sherma dragged me over to 'im. "I owe my life in the Citadel to his care!"

"Pleasure! Pleasure!" Flick reached out a hand. Seein' I had no intention of shakin' it, he cleared his throat awkwardly and turned back to Sherma. "So, you really climbed the Citadel, lad? Knew you had it in ya! Tell me! Is it as glorious as the legends say? Nay, I bet it's a hundred times grander!"

Sherma was about to speak, but glanced at me, then hesitated. "Well... 'tis a spectacle indeed! Just... the details might be different from your imagination... Mr. Flick will surely see it with his own eyes one day! Just not now..."

"Yo-ho! Too kind, lad!" Flick clearly missed the subtext. "Besides, without the resident fixer, who'd look after this town, eh?"

So he's the caretaker of Bonebottom? Reckon I can understand the feelin'...

Sherma looked around again. "By the way, where are madam Pebb and brother Pilby?"

"Them? Gone on their own pilgrimages, they have!" Flick put his hands on his hips, lookin' at the camp with a sigh. "Dead or alive, who knows..."

"Ah, I see..."

"Aye, but look on the bright side! Maybe they made it safe to Grand Gate!" I and Sherma definitely wouldn't call that the "bright side," but whatever. "That's exactly why I toil here! Makin' the start of the journey safe and comfy, helpin' more pilgrims chase their dreams! Miss Red's been a massive help with that, inspirin' stuff!"

I looked around. "So she did all this alone?"

"Er, wouldn't say alone, seein' as I did all the buildin' and fixin'..." Flick protested quietly. "But! Miss Red did supply the raw materials! Recovered cloaks from fallen pilgrims, mined heat cores from flintbeetles—camp ain't freezin' no more! Not to mention all them shell shards she donated! Look! Enough for me to build these icons of hope!"

Several large statues were scattered around Bonebottom. The most prominent one at the entrance looked awfully familiar. I crossed my arms. "This welcomin' statue... that's you, ain't it?"

"Aye, that's me alright!" Flick stood proudly next to his likeness. "One look at me cheery mug, and you're ready to tackle the world, eh? Hahahaha!"

Sherma and I just stared at him. His hearty laughter died down in the silence, turnin' into a couple of awkward coughs. "Ahem, where are me manners? Look at me, jabberin' away! What brings two Citadel masters all the way down here to see the likes of me?"

"Not here for you," I said. "We need to see your gravekeeper."

"Oh, right." The light in Flick's eyes dimmed a bit—prob'ly nursin' a tiny hope we were here to take 'im up. Still, he kept his enthusiasm. "Just over that way! That old maid is usually about!"

Didn't need his directions, but Sherma had to chat first! Reason he wanted to tag along was clearly to visit his old pals! I tried my best to ignore the pitiful stares from the surroundin' pilgrims, their gasps of awe and jealous whispers. These fools, too scared to start the climb, still dreamin' of the Citadel's glory. Compared to them, my lot of fools don't seem so foolish anymore! Still, hearin' about Bellringer's deeds is one thing; seein' the results with my own eyes hits different.

Pushin' aside the harsh light at the chapel door, my sister's hunched figure stood right in front of me again. Before I could speak, Sherma chirped up: "You must be Mr. Caretaker's sister! Hoy there! I am Sherma!"

"...Oho? A visitor? Rare!" Sister paused, looked at me in surprise, then turned to Sherma. "And how does this old fool describe me to you, hmm?"

"He never mentioned you!" Sherma said bluntly. "I only just found out!"

Sister shot me a resentful glare. "S'not surprising..."

"I heard Mr. Caretaker lived here long ago! Is it true?"

"Oh ho ho! But of course! Take a look around if you care to! Might dig up some of this old rascal's childhood dirt!"

Sherma thanked her and ran off excitedly. I crossed my arms, glarin' at her. "Lettin' an outsider run wild in our ancestral sanctuary? Doesn't seem like you."

Sister ignored my question. She draped an arm over my shoulder, whisperin' in my ear: "Listen here, brother. I get that you've been single down in that Citadel for ages, but snatchin' up a grub this young? S'a bit much, dont'cha think? "

"Get off! Disgustin'!" I slapped her hand away. "Keep the twisted fictions to yourself!"

"Then is he your adopted son? Does that make me an auntie? My, such big news and you didn't even consult the family!"

"What are you on about?! I ain't adoptin' no kids!"

"Could it be... you put a spell on 'im? Kept 'im as a pet?" Sister covered her mouth in mock horror. "Though us snails have few taboos, that's still a bit..."

"QUIT GUESSING!!!" I roared. "Sherma is just my... my..."

Don't know why those words were so hard to spit out. Stuck in my throat like a skipperbone. I struggled for a good while, finally sighed, and mumbled: "...friend."

"Hmm? Speak up."

"DON'T PUSH IT!!!" I pointed at her nose. "I know you heard me!!!"

Sister stared at me deadpan for a few seconds, then cracked. "Oh ho ho ho ho!" She threw her head back, cackling like a maniac. Lookin' at her smug face, I knew I'd walked right into her trap. Crafty old hag knew from the start, just used outrageous guesses to force me to admit it! Wicked! Ah, why did I fall for it? I should've said "apprentice"! Or "resident"! Aye, resident! Just a bug who followed the bell and stayed!

"I hate you." I wasn't jokin'.

Sister bonked my shell with her staff. "Too green to outwit your big sister!"

"Alright, cut the nonsense." I swatted her staff away. "I'm here on business."

"Naturally. You wouldn't trek all this way just to introduce your little friend, would ya? Don't misunderstand—s'a huge step for you, brings a tear to my old eye!" Sister pulled up a chair. "So, what wind blows you here? Not here for Soul, I hope? I've got none to spare! Go harvest your own!"

"I am here for Soul. And it ain't a joke." I sat opposite her. "It's about the one above. You know what I mean."

"...Oh. Well. Guess family time is over." Sister let out a long sigh. "...Are you sure?"

"What do you mean, am I sure? Wasn't this your idea in the first place?"

"You've always known my stance: sitting here waiting for her to wake is no way to live. Better to go out in a blaze fighting for freedom than live in fear! But that is my view. What is yours?"

"Why bring this up now?" I stared her down. "When you pushed for this plan back then, did you care about our views? If you hadn't been so insistent on change, maybe cousin wouldn't have fallen for Groal's trick so easily."

Sister fell silent. Slowly, she stood up and brewed two cups of clear tea. She handed one to me, sat back down, and took a sip. "That foreign hunter... she is your trump card, yes?"

"You mean Bellringer?"

"...Let us agree to call her Old One." Sister blew on her tea. "Since you've truly decided... why haven't you told her yet?"

"I'm about to."

"Then why come to me? You knew I wouldn't refuse."

I didn't answer, just sipped the tea. The bitter-sweet taste of moss spread on my tongue. Sister put her cup down. "Making the resolve to change is one thing; making the resolve to entrust that change to another bug is something else entirely! No matter how much you plan, there is only so much you can do. Placing your ultimate fate in another's hands... must be hard for you, eh? Especially with cousin's lesson in mind."

"If I didn't trust her, I wouldn't even consider the proposal."

"You are trying hard to convince yourself to trust her. But I can sense it... a sliver of fear still coils in your heart. And that is not something I can remove." Sister looked deep into my eyes. "Cousin's fate... I bear that blame. Aye! Because of that, I will not force my will upon you two again. You must see with your own eyes, feel with your own heart."

The sound of dripping water echoed in the silence. I paused for a long time. "So, you aren't gonna persuade me to do it?"

"Oh ho ho! Of course I hope you do it! It was my idea, after all! But more than that, I hope you make this choice from your own heart, not because you're pushed. Rest assured, my Soul is saved for you, always! Come take it whenever you've truly made up your mind!"

I let out a long breath, drained the tea, and stood up. "Right. Let's go find where the brat ran off to. You're too trusting. Aren't you worried he'll find our altar?"

"I ain't that senile yet!" Sister chuckled. "Locked tight. No bug gets in!"

We searched high and low, couldn't find 'im. Just as I wondered if he could burrow, a gentle breeze blew from the graveyard. Past the bone gate, across a pool of emerald water, there was Sherma, kneeling before a grave, praying devoutly for his fallen comrades. Hah, prayer... I used to think only the truly foolish entrusted their fate to others. But lookin' at him now... maybe that courage to wish is exactly what I'm missin'.

Sherma spotted us and waved with a brilliant smile. As if worried we couldn't see 'im from afar, he rang his chimes. The crisp sound startled a few silkflies from the tombstones; they took flight on gossamer wings, melting into the first light of spring.

Considered commandin' Bell Beast to just smash through the old geezer's hideout whilst runnin' in bellveins, but even for him, that felt a touch too wicked. Instead, I landed properly at the Bellhart station above—well, "landed" ain't the word. We were flung off again, and once again, I served as Sherma's cushion! Never realized how heavy that boy is 'til now... a few more trips like this, and I'll be lyin' next to Ballador in a coffin!

I propped myself up with my staff—which is fast becomin' a crutch—and squeezed into the narrow passage of bellveins. Sherma walked beside me, lookin' left and right, whisperin': "Mr. Caretaker's uncle's home is certainly... um, rustic, isn't it?"

"Trust me, he's even more rustic than his house," I sneered.

Sure enough, rustic to the point of leavin' his staff abandoned outside the door! Some thief oughta steal it, teach 'im a lesson!

Even with warnin's, when the old geezer's den actually came into view, Sherma froze. He looked at me, confused, pointin' at the ragged creature draped in scraps, heavin' with breath like a beggar. He silently asked if we had the wrong bug. I nodded to confirm: aye, that's the one. Then I stretched my limbs, just in case the old geezer spotted any weakness. Sherma swallowed hard, straightened his cloak, took a deep breath, and forced a polite smile.

"You bother me again?!" Old geezer sensed me before Sherma could open his mouth, pokin' his head out. "Grnk?! Who is this? Why have you brought—"

"My slave," I cut in, havin' learned my lesson from my sister.

Old geezer froze, then exploded into a fit of laughter so loud it shook the walls. He literally rolled around inside his bell, his heavy shell clanging against the metal. Sherma looked back and forth between the hysterical old geezer and my deadpan face, his brain frying. I gave that pot lid on his head a bonk with my staff, signalin' him to wait outside.

"Done laughin' yet?" I asked, dryly.

"No!"

"I need your help."

"No!"

"I haven't said what for yet."

"Nothing good comes from you!"

"I'm gonna kill the monarch."

"I said nothing goo—" Old geezer paused, finally processin' my words. "You've gone INSANE?!"

"Aye." I didn't waste time. "You in or out?"

"Out!!! Begone!!!" He shrank back into his bell, determined to ignore me.

I paused, then goaded him: "Wonder what cousin would think, seein' you act the coward like this."

"Do not speak to me of your cousin!!!" Predictably, he snapped. "He listened to your sister's ghost stories, that's why he died at the hands of that fool priest! Now you've become as simple as them! Do not think to drag me into your mess!"

"He trusted the wrong bug."

"And you've trusted the right one?! Don't think I don't know. That meddlesome Old One, yes? Hff. You've gone senile before me, fantasizing you can bargain with a demigod! You know not the height of the sky nor the depth of the earth, just like your cousin!!!"

"I'd trust her over you any day," I crossed my arms. "Seeing as she was freeing Bellhart from the Haunting while you were busy playin' the shrinking Imoba!"

"Why do you side with the outsider?! Don't think that Old One is some perfect hero! She got herself infested with a twisted bud a while back, came crawling to me for a cure!"

Oh? That happened? Shame I missed the chance to mock her for it. But here's my counter-attack: "...So, you were helping her?"

"I was... I was..." Old geezer stammered. "Hff. I merely wished to stop the fool from marching to her death against the monarch while carrying that wriggling thing! Breeding a new disaster to disturb my peace! That is all!"

"I'm gonna march to my death too! Watch me! With or without you, we're doing this! If it goes wrong and I die, ain't that what you want? None will disturb your eternal solitude!"

"You think even with my help, that wretched plan has a chance? A fool's dream! If you wish to die, I cannot stop you! Now, take your peeping slave and BEGONE from my home!"

Right, that went swimmingly. Wait, what? I looked back. Sherma's little head was peekin' halfway round the corner. Seein' me turn, he shrank back instantly. I sighed and walked toward the exit.

"Oh, hoy, Mr. Caretaker! Haha... what a... coincidence..." Sherma's voice shrank until his head hung low. "Sorry..."

"...Forget it." I gave his pot lid a bonk. "Let's go."

"Beasty and I sang for a bit upstairs, but you didn't come up, so I thought I'd check..." Sherma explained guiltily. "I didn't hear much, but you were fighting, yes? ...Because of me?"

"Don't flatter yourself. He's just like that. Nothin' to do with you." I chuckled darkly. "Don't worry. Old geezer's got a foul temper, but if you pestered 'im every day, he'd end up likin' you too. Though he'd never admit it."

"Sounds very much like Mr. Caretaker!"

"Where's the resemblance?!" I slammed my staff on the ground, roaring.

Sherma blinked, then grinned. "See?"

Ugh! I knew I couldn't win, so I walked off fast. He trotted to catch up, relentless. "Actually, I think it's fine! Every bug is different! Bugs like Mr. Caretaker, once you get to know them, are quite cute!"

"Don't use that word on me!" I nearly snapped my staff in half. "I ain't cute!"

Damn it, distracted by Sherma, I nearly forgot the other goal of this trip: Since Bellringer bought a house here, chances of catchin' her should be higher, right? Thankfully, the brat's attention shifted the moment we entered Bellhart. He bolted out of the station: "Mister Pavo! Madam Frey!"

The bug named Pavo spun around, the bell on his head jingling. "Oh? Is that... Little pilgrim Sherma? How did you..."

Frey, the shopkeeper, ran out of her store and crouched in front of Sherma. "Well, well, well! Look which handsome young lad has come back to us! Told you, didn't I? Pilgrimage ain't that much of a big deal; there’s no better place to settle down than Bellhart!"

"Madam Frey, you misunderstand." Sherma shook his head. "I live in Songclave at the Citadel now. I returned with Mr. Caretaker there!"

The crowd gasped. All eyes turned to me.

"Oh! An honoured guest from the Citadel itself!" Pavo pirouetted towards me with little steps. "Welcome, welcome! Fair Pavo extends the warmest of greetings! You grace our glorious Bellhart with your inspection!"

"So you really climbed the Citadel? Good lad! Knew you had it in ya!" Frey changed her tune instantly, shouting proudly: "Everyone! Sherma has returned from the Citadel!"

At her shout, heads popped out of every Bellhome. A pinmaster stepped out of his shop above. "By claw! Who is this? This pinmaster thought only our Miss Saviour would be running back and forth."

"Mister Plinney!" Sherma greeted.

I ignored Pavo buzzin' around me, walked forward slowly, and cleared my throat. "Ahem. Seems someone is quite the popular pet."

"Haha, you jest!" Sherma scratched his head. "Everyone in Bellhart is just very kind! They helped me a lot when I passed through!"

Frey stood up and addressed me. "My lord, I'd wager my whole stock on it—there ain't a pilgrim in all Pharloom more devout than our Sherma here! It is a joy to know he reached the heights and found your care!"

"Indeed! And for Bellhart to have hosted such a pilgrim, we are honored!" Pavo leaned in again. "If it pleases you, my lord, we shall herald little pilgrim Sherma's tale as a shining example! A beacon for all weary pilgrims to follow!"

I paused. "Cut the flowery rubbish. We're here for something else."

"Naturally! A master of the Citadel would not travel for trifles!" Frey rubbed her hands. "By the by, I've heard—just rumours, mind you, prone to error, no offense meant, my lord has a big heart, if..."

"Drop the performance. Speak."

Frey cleared her throat, voice hushed. "I heard that recently, the Citadel seems... a bit unsettled? Not quite peaceful? Is it true?"

"In fact, the whole of Pharloom is unsettled!" Pavo added. "The Haunting runs wild, the roads are more perilous than ever! Not long ago, even Bellhart fell into misfortune! Surely you noticed? The benevolent and wise lords of the Citadel must have a plan?"

"Er..." Faced with their burning gazes, I scraped the bottom of my barrel for bureaucratic nonsense. "We... have indeed noted the... recent events. And understand your feelings. A... preliminary plan is brewing. Initial conclusions have been... reached. Now requires... deeper investigation. Yes. That is precisely why we are here."

This load of waffle, which even I couldn't stand, somehow fooled these country bumpkins. Pavo beamed: "What is your command, my lord? Bellhart shall support you fully!"

"I'm lookin' for Bellringer."

"...Who?" They looked at each other blankly.

"He means Red Maiden!" Sherma clarified.

Dawn broke on their faces. Plinney cleared his throat. "May this humble artisan ask... do you seek her as ally, or, haha, enemy?"

Sherma answered: "Worry not! We come to seek Red Maiden's help!"

Plinney let out a long breath. "Welly, that is a relief. This bug feared you had come to demand answers regarding the pale oil she may have pilfered from the veiled bugs..."

Frey elbowed Plinney to shut him up. I stared at him. "So you're the smith who tends her needle?"

"By claw! You should know, that lass possesses a blade of absolute marvel! After a few honings, it cuts iron like mud! The last piece of a foreign noble tribe, she said!" Plinney got carried away, then realized himself and straightened up. "However! Strictly speaking, a professional pinmaster does not pry into the origins of his materials. Nor would he encourage clients to acquire pale oil... as that would be illegal! Hahaha..."

I was speechless. Suddenly, a screech came from above: "What? What?! Who is it?!"

I looked up. A bug as long as Cardinius poked out of a Bellhome. "Has the red bug returned?! Where?! Has she brought me new relics?!"

Frey soothed her: "Calm down, Scrounge! We are just talking about her!"

"Pah! Waste of time! Wait..." Scrounge sniffed the air hard, then dived down right in front of me. "You! I smell it on you! You reek of the ancients! Smells like history! You're hiding fine old stuff, aren't you? Hand it over! I'll keep it nice and safe!"

Seeing my face darken, Frey quickly shooed Scrounge and Plinney back to their homes. Pavo laughed nervously. "Haha, apologies, my lord... Bellhart welcomes all travelers, so occasionally we get some... unique characters."

"...I reckon that's thanks to Bellringer too," I muttered.

"Indeed! A shame Miss Traveller is not here today!" Pavo continued. "She personally slew the monster controlling the threads, freeing Bellhart! Not to mention her donations! To honor her, we gifted her a Bellhome, right up there! Look, my lord! How glorious Bellhart is now! Even in these lean times, we..."

Pavo's voice faded as I focused on the surroundings. Bellhart was thriving. Hard to imagine that not long ago, this was a ghost town where everyone had hanged themselves. Sure, some homes were still dark, scars of the disaster remained. But to recover this much in a few weeks? Far exceeded my expectations. How much meddlin' did Bellringer do to forge this prosperity? Must've been a lot of work. Is she truly that kind? Regardless, her impact runs deeper than I thought...

Pavo suddenly burst into song, snappin' me back to reality. I started to pity old geezer; having to listen to this all day would drive anyone mad. Seeing this, Sherma pulled out his chimes, ready to join in. I had to take action: "Stop singing."

"Oh! Apologies!" Pavo shrank back. "My clumsy voice offended the lord's ears!"

"I mean, you must have more important work to do?" I wasn't comforting him, just wanted to avoid a scene. "We've kept you long enough. Now we wish to inspect the area alone. Undisturbed."

I raised my voice on the last word, glaring at the crowd to back off. They dispersed, though their eyes stayed glued to us. Theoretically, I could've left, but curiosity drove me to check Bellringer's house—that bright red stood out amongst the copper.

Sherma and I went up to the second floor. Two bugs wrapped like dumplings were huddled in their shells, jabbering away. Wait... I know those voices! I slammed my staff on their table. "Oi! You, the couriers?"

Their heads popped out. The tall one stammered: "Yes-yes! Courier brothers Tipp and Pill, happy-happy to serve!"

The short one's eyes bulged. He shook his brother's shoulder. "Tipp! That voicy-voice! The customer from the Citadel up-up!"

Pill's eyes went wide too. They turned to me, speaking at once, a chaotic mess of words. I felt words flying past my ears, but caught none of 'em.

Luckily, Sherma seemed to understand. "They extend their deepest gratitude for your continued patronage, Mr. Caretaker! And they humbly request a... five-star commendation?"

"Are you kiddin' me?" I scowled. "You two cowards hid here instead of deliverin', came up with a scheme to entrust pilgrims, and the result? Aside from what your Miss Savior delivered, everythin' arrived spoiled or smashed! You have the nerve to ask for five stars?"

The couriers looked at each other, then started jabberin' again. Sherma translated: "They act with deepest apologies for the unpleasant experience! They wish to retract their previous statement immediately! And they ask if there is any way to make amends!"

I thought for a moment. "That rasher... Is it truly out of stock?"

Didn't bother listenin', just waited for Sherma. "Tipp explains that the last portion is sold! The times are strange, he begs your understanding! Pill adds that rasher requires specific preparation, but conditions are poor right now. They must wait for the Haunting to fade before cooking anew! Tipp also claims Pill is a trouble-maker for over-promoting food so greas... "

Tipp jumped on Sherma, covering his mouth. "No needy-need to translate that!"

Just then, Pill waved at the air. "Reed! Come-come!"

A pondcatcher flew down. The couriers swarmed him. But before they finished, Reed turned to me. "So you're the customer from the Citadel? Not bad, eh? The food. All fresh caught from Shellwood Pond with me own longpin! "

Fresh meat is useless if it rots by the time it gets to me, I wanted to say. But Sherma beat me to it: "Yes! It was a huge help! Thank you for your hard work!"

"Aye! Glad to hear the Citadel lords appreciate our country fare! Gives me strength!" Reed planted his spear. "Right then, back to work. As the last pondcatcher, us Bellharters are countin' on my lone shell to keep bellies full! No slackin'!"

Reed flew off. The couriers reached out to stop him, failed, then turned to me with guilty smiles. Clearly, their distraction tactic failed. I decided to be merciful—what? I can be merciful!—and let the poor sods go. They called out behind me: "Safe-safe travels!"

Bellringer's home was on the third floor, next to Plinney's. Music drifted from inside—playin' the Keepers’ Melody! Judgin' by the sound, that phonograph is definitely from Vaults. Ho ho! Old Cardinius, always yellin' "Weaver-spawn," but sendin' her gifts in secret?

Sherma and I peeked through the window: soft velvet mattress, gleamlights, Materium full-loaded, and a private spa! Bit too luxurious, ain't it? What is she, a princess? Even the princesses of Pharloom didn't have this setup! The favored one only got a fake silk garden. The unfavored one... let's not even go there!

"Poshanka!" A strange roar mixed with the clatter of copper rings exploded behind me. Scared the living daylights out of me! I spun around so fast I nearly pulled a muscle.

A tall, foreign warrior stood there. I'm certain she wasn't here when we entered the town. She looked us over. "You seek Hornet Wielding Needle?"

Hornet? So that's Bellringer's name!

"You must be Shakra!" Sherma realized. "Red Maiden told me briefly of your story!"

"And you must be Sherma." Shakra relaxed, crouching down to our level. "And who is this Child Wielding Staff beside you?"

"Excuse me?" I couldn't believe my ears. "You think I look like a child?"

"But you are so small." Shakra measured my height with her hand.

I'm just short, not young! No, I ain't even short! She's just freakishly tall!

"Haha, Mr. Caretaker, calm down..." Sherma blocked us. "Shakra is complimenting your youthful appearance!"

"Oh? A caretaker?" Shakra stroked her chin. "So it is true. Hornet Wielding Needle spoke of a sanctuary named Songclave. To maintain a settlement in that cursed Citadel is no small feat. For that, Caretaker Wielding Staff, you have my respect."

"Er, whatever..." I sighed. "So, that Hornet... she introduced herself to you?"

"No. I called her 'Child Wielding Needle' at first. I learned her name from others recently. Aside from courier Pill telling everyone, other credible sources seem to originate from Flea Caravan and a little pilgrim named Pilby."

"Oh, brother Pilby!" Sherma's eyes lit up. "Is he well?"

Shakra shook her head. "I do not know. We never met. I only heard he was last seen at Pilgrim's Rest."

"I see! No matter! If fate allows, the sacred path will reunite us!"

I tried to pull the topic back. "She never told us her name either. Typical."

"Indeed. When I first met her, I thought she was but another passerby. Even as our paths crossed often, I thought it mere coincidence. It was not until I found my master's final trail, left a wish in Bellhart with no hope, and she answered it without hesitation... that I truly understood her affection."

And so, Shakra recounted the tale of her and Bellringer. But the core of it was how, amidst the waterfalls cascading from Pale Lake, they sent off a warrior who had never known defeat in her life on her final journey. I truly don't get what goes on in Bellringer's head. Traversing that vast, venomous swamp... just to pluck a simple melody? To bid farewell to a bug she didn't even know?

"Still as meddlesome as ever..." I muttered. "Even these soft pilgrims, livin' so well thanks to her coddling."

"Hah, she is meddlesome indeed." Shakra smiled faintly. "Yet, Caretaker Wielding Staff, do not underestimate these pilgrims. I once thought as you did, that they were foolish and weak, unable to fight for their lives. But on my journey, I have been humbled time and again by their resilience: falling only to rise again, in the depths yet dreaming of the heights. Perhaps that is the power of faith? Maybe Hornet Wielding Needle recognized this sooner than us both, and that is why she aids them so persistently."

…………

Fine. You win, "Hornet Wielding Needle." I have to admit, in that blood so different from ours, beats a heart the same. I've witnessed with my own eyes how you forge bonds of goodwill, how you weave true connections with common bugs. Since that is so, I am willing to entrust my fate to you. We need to talk.

Bellringer, please promise my wish.

Last time I ventured out and came back, the only thing greetin' me was the cold corpse of my previous chum. This time... well, it was a fair bit warmer. When those fools in the camp saw Sherma draggin' my near-disintegrating shell out of the Ventrica, they scrambled over each other to help, fussin' until I face-planted into a pile of cushions they'd hastily thrown together. Some brought snacks and tea, others fanned me or massaged my back. Ho ho! Never been waited on like this in my whole life. Strange feelin'... but I say it's only fair! I've been servin' them long enough, time they returned the favor!

Once I'd recovered a bit, I waved my hand to shoo the swarm away. Told 'em to get lost and let me rest. Only let Zaza stay by my side—Garmond didn't seem to mind, neither. After a while, Jubilana pulled up a chair nearby. Started reportin' on the camp's status while I was away. Nothin' new: how many fresh bugs arrived, how many supplies consumed and restocked, how many victories the guard notched up... I couldn't be bothered to listen closely. The point is, even without me, they manage themselves just fine.

Guess she saw I wasn't payin' attention, 'cause she stopped. Then she sighed lightly. "So, how goes it, dear one? The time is nigh, is it not?"

"Don't know what you're on about," I grumbled. Too tired to spar with her right now.

"Ooh, old Jubilana is looking forward to seeing what comes next!" She chuckled.

"Keep lookin' then." I rolled over, ignorin' her.

Aye, what does come next? To be honest, never gave it much serious thought. A changin' of dynasties is never smooth. But if it's this bunch of dimwits... with that sheer stubborn stupidity of theirs, reckon they'll find a new path for themselves, eh?

Just as I expected, Bellringer rushed over the moment she saw my wish in Bellhart. Though she carried herself with that usual calm, she couldn't hide the eager fire in her eyes. Seemed she already had an inklin' of what I was gonna say.

I beckoned her over and spoke: "It's feelin' almost time, eh, bellringer? You and her who waits up there. That fated meeting won't hold forever... Ready to make your play, to oust one ruler and claim her place?"

"I'll not deny some part of me desires that outcome... Dominance, it seems, is baked deep in my blood, as too, no doubt, for the one up top." She replied, a touch of wistfulness in her voice. Her gaze, however, soon steeled into certainty. "And yet, another part resists... A part, over time, I find myself siding with more... That part wishes not to claim a monarch's mantle, rather it would see my freedom regained, and this kingdom's bugs unshackled from their pale chains."

"...Remarkable idea you're speakin' there, bellringer, a world cut free. Not a wish I've had much cause to hope on, serious like... but I ain't so surprised to hear you speak it." I sighed softly. "For all your helpin', I been seein' it clearer. You've still got the monarch in you, alright, and the glare of a Weaver, but the ambition... that's wild different from both."

"Sir, if you have already guessed to my desire, and share some part of it, would you offer me aid in the conflict to come?"

"Aye... Maybe, yes." I looked away from her blazin' stare. "I can barely bear to tell it... But there's an idea, one rare discussed, for fear of her up there sensin' the score."

"You have conceived a method, I take it? A way to see a monarch... removed? And me left free from claiming her station?"

"...We have, me and what remains of my family." I took a deep breath, turnin' back to meet her eyes. "S'a trap, of a sort, beyond the skill of this Citadel, one to go further than just her binding. You'd be just the hunter to set it, if you're dare enough to try..."

Bellringer paused. Only a few seconds, surely? Yet it felt like an eternity. Was the proposal too wild after all? Impossible she'd be daft enough to agree, right?

"Grant me your aid, sir." She finally spoke. "If your trap provides a path to freedom, both for myself and your land's bugs, I may indeed choose to trigger it."

Unsurprisingly, Bellringer met no resistance at all from my sister. I'd bet good rosaries she had that Soul packed up and ready ages ago, just waitin' eagerly for me to send Bellringer to fetch it!

Sister always used to say, once we didn't have to hide in the shadows no more, once we could live out in the open, our family ought to move back to that old ruined chapel. Fix it up a bit, live together again. She's the most sentimental of the lot, still guardin' that historical rubbish heap to this day, tendin' to it diligently—not that she's got much to show for it! If it weren't for Bellringer, the basement would still be overrun by the moss mother! But thinkin' on it carefully... that offer is actually quite temptin'... Strictly short-term, mind you! I got no issue with meetin' up now and then, but stuck with those two old bastards all day, every day? I'd be driven mad sooner or later! If you ask me what I like best about 'em, it's that they stay far away from me. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, or so they say. Aye, livin' here in Songclave suits me best.

That duplicitous old geezer, knew he'd come around eventually! What was that he said to Bellringer? Claimin' he didn't believe we'd succeed, just didn't want all that hoarded Soul to go to waste, so might as well let it burn? Unbelievable. The hardest part of him ain't his shell, it's his mouth!

Though I always call 'im a shrinking Imoba, I remember back when we were grubs, old geezer was fiercely protective of us. Sure, he was always grumblin' and cursin' while teachin' us spells, but still. Fortunately, Sherma didn't stumble upon my childhood training staff while wanderin' around earlier; I have zero desire to tell 'im those rubbish stories. Hah, memories from so long ago... worth several lifetimes of a common bug. When the news of my cousin's death reached us, I'd never seen the old geezer so enraged. He was ready to march out and go to war with the Stilkin right then and there; took my sister and me both to hold 'im back. So I know for a fact he wouldn't just stand by and watch us march to our deaths. Old geezer, you don't wanna be collectin' your dear nephew's corpse, do ya? Even though you tell me to scram every time I visit, I bet you're secretly delighted deep down, eh? Speakin' of which, when the dust settles, I really ought to introduce him to Cardinius.

When Bellringer returned with Soul this time, a faint stench clung to her. Though she acted composed as always, judgin' by the hollow look in her eyes, the bug inside had checked out quite a while ago. The Stilkin tribe might not be the fiercest warriors, but they're masters of bein' repulsive—to fight 'em, you gotta roll in the cesspit right alongside 'em. Oh ho ho, look at that. Now Bellringer has truly suffered every beatin' this dump has to offer!

When Soul is siphoned into energy, it loses all individuality of its owner. I know my cousin can't hear me, but speakin' to this jar of Soul, tellin' it that the double-crossing chief Groal died an insignificant death amidst his delusional dreams of overthrowing the Citadel... it still brought me a sliver of comfort. Cousin... if I had kept a closer eye on you back then, could I have pulled you out of that vicious scam before it was too late? Would our family have been spared this scattering? As your life slowly drained away, did you resent us? Of course, dwellin' on the past is meaningless. But at least, I can do somethin' to make amends now: Your vengeance is served. And your long-held wish... perhaps it will soon be realized...

Today, Sherma shared his progress on learnin' Silk arts at the support group—or rather, his lack of progress. He placed a spool of Silk in front of him and hummed softly. Answerin' his melody, the Silk let out a steady, gentle pale glow; yet it refused to move a single inch. The pilgrims watched the whole thing rapt, then burst into applause.

"Little brother, you are amazing!" one praised. "To master such high techniques... we can only gaze in awe!"

"Years of p-p-professional training, does the manipulation of Silk require," Second Sentinel commented. "Such progress in time so short, is a feat worthy of c-c-celebration."

"Hahaha, you are too kind!" Sherma scratched his head. "If brothers and sisters will so, surely you can all learn it too! Besides, I am far from truly mastering it; perhaps the world will be at peace long before I do! But I believe, even if the Haunting fades, this kingdom will still hold many bugs in need of aid! I hope to contribute my meager strength to the rebuilding of Pharloom, keeping wounds and diseases at bay for everyone!"

And so, the topic shifted to what everyone wanted to do after peace was restored.

Jubilana stuck to her old script: "When peace returns, order returns, and with order comes business! Old Jubilana plans to earn a mountain of fortune, to fund a grand, glorious funeral for meself one day!"

Garmond stroked Zaza's head. "When peace descends, we must return to our village to pay respects to our fallen kin, and take a respite, long and deserved. Once rested... I wish to pass my battle skills to the ambitious youth, helping them uphold justice and cast light into every dark corner of Pharloom. Just like the guard!"

"Ooh?" Jubilana responded. "I thought with your temper, you'd want to embark on new conquests, fighting endlessly forever?"

"Hahahahaha! I would wish for that too, sister!" Garmond laughed heartily. "But alas! Even the bravest warrior cannot vanquish the specter of time! Though I’m contemplating, when the tedium of teaching grows too great, embarking on a quest or two with dear Zaza for the sake of glory past would not go amiss! Right, old friend?"

Zaza reared up, letting out an approving chirp. Garmond then turned his gaze to Second Sentinel. "Gilded one, what are your plans?"

The machine paused. "Regardless of how the world changes... unchanged, is this sentinel's loyalty. Remain at the Citadel and continue its serving, shall this sentinel. "

"You possess a rigid shell, gilded one!" Garmond teased. "You have toiled for an age... why not seize the chance to grant yourself a holiday?"

"H-h-holiday?" The sentinel tilted their head, seemingly unable to process the word.

"It means, dear one, that while having a sense of mission is good, you needn't stare at it every second," Jubilana explained. "You can enjoy things unrelated to work. Use your free time to explore... hobbies!"

"Hobbies?" The machine looked even more confused.

"Um, how to explain..." Sherma thought for a moment. "Ah, right! The other day, when you won the flea games at the party... how did that feel?"

"Unknown, is the u-u-utility of those games," Gilded Knight replied. "However, upon completion... a sense of flow, has this sentinel p-p-processed?"

"Exactly!" Sherma clapped his hands. "That is the feeling of a hobby!"

Second Sentinel lowered their head in silence, deep in thought.

Suddenly, Sherma turned to me without warning. "So, what does Mr. Caretaker want to do after peace returns?"

"Why ask me?" I froze. "I ain't part of your group!"

"You've been listening for so long, surely you are interested!" Sherma patted the empty spot he'd cleared beside him. "Come, join us!"

Seeing this, other members chimed in. "Indeed! Mr. Caretaker hasn't missed a session since the start! In theory, he's been a member all along!"

The old swindler joined the jeering: "Aye, aye, don't be shy, dear one!"

Don't know what's wrong with me... getting less and less resistant to their expectant gazes. I sighed in defeat, walked over dejectedly, and sat down next to Sherma. The crowd burst into applause; some even whistled. I waved my hand irritably, telling 'em to pipe down.

"So...?" Sherma looked at me, pressing the topic.

"Er... haven't decided details," I mumbled. "But one thing's for certain: I need some peace and quiet for a while! Away from you noisy lot!"

Everyone laughed. I was serious, though!

"To be honest, I can't wait to return to my simple, pure life," a pilgrim agreed.

"Indeed, back then, we only needed to pray and sing. None of this trouble."

"Say, when the Haunting fades... will the Citadel finally grant us our rewards?"

These naive fools indulged in their fantasies for a while longer.

Sherma suddenly slapped his forehead. "I nearly forgot! Mr. Caretaker, did you not say... when the world is at peace, you agreed to sing a song with us?"

I jumped. "D-did I?"

"Yes! At our very first meeting!" Sherma extinguished my last hope. "The original brothers and sisters can all testify!"

Half the group nodded. Wait, why are the new members nodding too?! Jubilana wouldn't let this chance to embarrass me slip by: "Don't try to weasel out of it, my dear! Old Jubilana heard it loud and clear!"

"Oh? Is this true?" Garmond joined the fun. "Brother Caretaker, a noble bug's word is gold! To renege would be a stain upon one's honor!"

"Annoying lot! I say I didn't, so I didn't!" I pounded the ground, roaring, then instantly deflated. "Oi, listen... don't get your hopes up too high. Especially about returning to normal life... it ain't that simple. Even if the Haunting ceases, what comes next might not be the world you know... Have you thought about that?"

The group went quiet. Second Sentinel looked left and right, seemingly feeling obligated to break the silence: "Regardless of how the world changes... unchanged, is this sentinel's l-l-loyalty—"

"Wasn't askin' you, gear-head!" I cut off their loop.

After a long pause, a member spoke up: "Even so... we still have Mr. Caretaker to guide us, so there is nothing to worry about!"

"Oi! I just said I wanted to get away from you lot!" I protested. "Can't I get a break?"

"Then we still have little brother Sherma!" another pilgrim said.

"Eh?! H-how could I?" Sherma waved his hands frantically. "Brothers and sisters are all older than me... how is it my place to lead?"

"Little brother Sherma, you are too humble! Who leads the songs every day? No bug is more suited to guide us than you!"

"Don't sell yourself short, dear one!" Jubilana encouraged him. "Songclave is what it is today thanks to half your work! You are the spiritual pillar for everyone here!"

Sherma buried his head as low as it could go. "Leading songs is one thing, but managing a camp... should be very different..."

Watching him squirm like that... strangely, I felt relaxed. I took my staff and gave that pot lid on his head a bonk. "Seems everyone rates you highly. If I had to pick a fool to manage other fools... reckon you're the fool I trust the most."

Silence again for a moment. Then Sherma lifted his head. "Thank you all for your trust! But I wish to say... it is not I who guide my brothers and sisters, but my brothers and sisters who guide me. It is your voices—singing even in desperate times, weak and raspy but never giving up—that allowed me to keep hope after witnessing so much suffering! Without you, I could not have lasted this long alone. All I do is return the faith I feel from you back to you. Brothers and sisters, if you need a spiritual pillar, then I am honored to be that pillar. But I hope you realize: true strength comes not from me, a single bug, but from all Songclavers!"

He turned to face me. "Mr. Caretaker, please witness this! No matter what new world awaits us, we shall support one another, live up to your expectations, and build a home that belongs to us!"

Looking at his face—young, yet determined—I felt a sudden wave of emotion. From that silly, ignorant pilgrim at the start, to this reliable leader now... he's grown a lot, hasn't he? Looks like I really can retire in peace.

Hah, daft kid.

From the largest Weavenest at the bottom of Pharloom—right next to our family's crumbling chapel—Bellringer retrieved the final component: the snare setter. The prototype of the Cradle. Despite the countless ages, it gleams like new—though probably 'cause Bellringer had polished it a bit before passing it to me.

When she came before me, her stride was steady, her gaze firm. "Sir, I have the items requested. Craft me your trap that we may see these lands free."

"Found it all, did ya, bellringer? Then join me and let's get to preppin'! I'll be askin' both your Silk and your claws 'fore the construction."

I fetched a few dozen masks, imbued 'em with the Soul my family had gathered, and then instructed Bellringer to weave her Silk, binding them to the snare setter. I realized with a start: this is the longest we've ever spent together. The residents of Songclave, seein' the two of us finally workin' claw in claw, quietly cleared a space. They made less noise than usual, knowing something momentous was underway. Curious gazes pricked us from all sides, accompanied by hushed whispers.

"Bellringer," I chatted idly to break the silence. "With you as an example, these fools have gotten really energetic lately."

"It is due in no small part to the care you have provided, sir." She replied politely.

"Hah, maybe..." I sighed. "You think they'll be fine once you wipe out the one above? After all, the prayers and songs they know won't mean squat anymore."

"Confusion is natural in the face of change. But they are stronger than they appear. Under the leadership of bugs like you, they will surely establish a new order quickly."

"Talk is cheap! Tryin' to dump it all on me again, act the hands-off manager!" I paused, then pushed on. "Say... wouldn't you consider stayin'? The whole of Pharloom holds you in high regard."

Bellringer's hands froze for two seconds, then resumed their work. She acted like she hadn't heard me. Silence stretched for a long while before she spoke: "In my homeland, another duty awaits. My father once forged a kingdom of great prosperity... yet it fell to ruin due to the struggles of gods. Despite him burning his life for his promise of eternity, he could not prevent its collapse. I saw the threats that plagued it removed, but was taken here against my will. That kingdom, too, requires rebuilding—perhaps even more so than Pharloom."

So she really is a princess! I tried to bargain one last time: "I ain't askin' you to stay forever—seein' you creates an eyesore for me. Just thinkin', since everyone listens to you, the rebuilding would go smoother. You got a Bellhome nearby and all. Just wait 'til the framework of the new order is set up, then go back? You’ve been kidnapped for... how long now? If your folks back home survived without you this long, surely they can wait a bit longer?"

She ignored me again. After a long pause, she said softly: "Grant me time to consider."

We spoke no more until the trap was finished. I stood up and stretched.

"S'done! The parts are prepared. I'm headin' up now to set the heavy thing. Even with the trap laid, best be guessin' her on top won't go down so simple. She'll sense what's comin'. That blade of yours is gonna have to do its work 'fore this thing can snap."

"I'd expected such, sir. And I am ready. Set your snare. I shall attend shortly."

I grabbed a sack from Jubilana to carry the parts—never seen her move so fast! I dragged the bundle to the central lift and ascended to the Cradle. Fields of pale silk flowers unfolded before me, swaying gently in the emptiness. Pale monarch, is this how you show affection? Splitting off a part of yourself to birth a child bound to you forever, just to forge a loyal blade that prays for your waking?

I didn't linger. I climbed past the abandoned cages and weeping silkflies, until that giant cocoon filled my vision. The real trial began here. With every step, my will weakened. When I reached the highest bridge, that cold gaze nearly suffocated me. Even in light slumber, the malice of a god ain't something a mortal bug can bear. Her massive shadow weighed on my head, like invisible claws reaching into my chest, squeezing my heart. I took a deep breath, spiraling a bit of Soul into my shell to keep my mind intact. I opened the sack, focusing every shred of attention on setting the trap, lest my sanity crumble under her venomous stare.

How long did it take? Under a god's watch, the simplest task becomes a mountain, a moment becomes an age. Just as I finished setting the trap and breathed a sigh of relief, a chill crawled up my spine. There wasn't just one gaze watching me. Another gaze—smaller, yet strikingly similar—was there too. I'd been so focused I hadn't noticed it until now.

I spun around, raising my staff. "Show yourself! Sneakin' around ain't your style!"

"Ahahahaha!!!" A familiar, screeching laugh drew my eyes upward. The white knight was perched atop the metal ring circling her mother's cocoon, shrouded in shadow.

You gotta be kidding me! When Bellringer said she "bested" her, she really meant just bested her?! Didn't finish the job?! Is it really like that play the guard wrote—she’s into her?!

"Well, well. Look what we have here. Naughty little snail." Her tone still made my teeth itch. "Spent a lifetime rotting in the dark, hiding like a coward, and now you have delusions of god-slaying? Perhaps that little spider gave you some unrealistic courage?"

She leaped, landing at the end of my bridge. The rock blocked the light, leaving only the glint of her pin. My heart jumped to my throat. Remember, Caretaker: aim for the throat! Even if I die on the eve of revolution, I'm gonna snuff out that laugh!

"Ooh, poor little snail. Your clan, scattered and fleeing under her might... now all you have left is empty bravado to mask your pathetic insides." She stepped into the light, sneering. "Hah, in that sense, perhaps you and I are not so different."

My eyes widened. Although Bellringer didn't kill her, she clearly beat her half to death. Her silken body was unraveling in places, loose threads fluttering in the wind, leaking her last vitality. She maintained the posture of a duelist, but her stumble gave her away. Of course, I wasn't stupid enough to attack—even a broken shell has strength for a final strike. But as a threat? She was finished.

The pressure on my chest lifted. It almost reminded me of her comical death scene in the play. No, hold it. Laughing now would be unprofessional. I kept a straight face. "I assume you didn't come for a chat, evil mushroom?"

"...What did you call me?"

"Ahem. I mean, silken child." I cleared my throat, serious. "You know as well as I do, in this state, you can't stop me."

"But why would I stop you?" She giggled.

That stumped me. "Er, 'cause I'm gonna kill your mom?"

"Confusing the creator of this husk with a mother... you really are kind!" Her teasing dripped with resentment. "I know exactly what you're doing, little snail. Go on, then. Do what your wretched kind does best—annihilation! Summon the dark, and let the divine heart taste what I feel every moment—the nothingness that we will all drown in! Ahahahaha!!!"

With that laugh, she tipped sideways and fell straight off the bridge. Dramatic exit, probably learned it from Trobbio. I stood there speechless, looking back at the cocoon. Oi, monarch, wake up! Look at how filial your daughter has become! A real family drama!

Anyway, I'd better wait here for Bellringer to join. Can't trust the evil mushroom's words completely. As long as I'm here, she can't sabotage the trap. And once Bellringer arrives, in that state, she's no threat. In the meantime, I'll write my journal. Helps keep me awake under the monarch's stare. Voyeur! No wonder none of your daughters like you!

Just when I couldn't find a single thing left to distract myself, Bellringer finally showed up, takin' her sweet time. I let out a long sigh of relief and went to meet her. "Ain't you come a long way, bellringer! Granting wishes, saving bugs, even rousing my sullen family to act! The snare is set above, our power bound along its thread. To your sight it may seem a crude thing, but there's fair strength to it... enough to quell a god."

"You and your family have done me well, sir," she replied, solemn. "I shall prove your faith in the meeting ahead."

"Aye. Bring your best, bellringer. Call forth our great pale god. Cut her weak, then drive the beast down atop the snare. Contact made will stir the snare alight, but only your needle's song will awaken the spell in full. When that moment arrives, you'll see it clear."

She hesitated for a moment. "I have known your kind before, sir. Yours is a tribe that works and trades in power, and I am about to extinguish its prime source. Once this is done, will you truly delight in a land so bereft?"

At this late hour, what's the point of bringin' that up? Do I even have room to back out? Besides, compared to breakin' my back squeezin' what little power we can from Silk, a future where I can just live free sounds a lot more appealin'. Also, this ain't just for our family...

"Aye, well... My family's marks are all over that trap. And we've spent a hard age avoiding the gaze of our god. If we earned it now, after such open opposition... that's a bleak conclusion none of us'd care for." I sighed, then stood upright. "Now! My job's done. S'time your grand business began! We'll be wishin' victory to you, bellringer, for all our sakes!"

With that, I scrambled off the Cradle, sprinted into the lift, and tumbled back down to Songclave with a ding-dang-clatter. I'd rather endure the Ventrica's bone-rattlin' shakes than get caught in the crossfire of a battle between gods. As I write this line, the final duel has already begun. The clash of pale blood is kickin' up massive waves of magic. But even if they can't sense magic, these fools can feel somethin' big is goin' down. The residents of Songclave all stopped what they're doin', lookin' up towards the Cradle with bated breath. Bellringer, you have to win! The hopes of every last bug here are restin' squarely on your shoulders!

It is finished.

I knew hope was poison. It lifts you high only to dash you against the rocks below. What madness possessed me to drink from that cup, to become as foolish as these pilgrims?

At first, it was just a violent tremor. The Citadel wailed in the monarch's defeat. I felt the darkness tear through space, swallowing that pale light before vanishing without a trace. The trap had sprung. Everything was proceeding according to plan.

Just as I began to feel a secret relief, the aftershocks of divine power triggered a secondary collapse. The rock dome connected to the Cradle could no longer support the weight; it crumbled with a ground-shaking roar. Songclave instantly descended into chaos. The refugees, who had been watching the spectacle in a daze, began to scream, scrambling like headless flies amidst the falling debris.

"Do not panic! Stay together!" Sherma tried to organize them, but his voice was swallowed by the tide of terror.

Stop running! Can you not just stay put? Must you always make me worry? I sighed, raising my staff and chanting a spell. Several orbs of Soul rose to intercept the falling rocks. Garmond and Zaza split up, shoving or dragging fools away from dangers they were too busy screaming to notice.

A large slab of rock hurtled toward First Shrine. I was about to blast it to dust when a cry for help diverted my attention: a pilgrim had twisted his ankle in the panic, watching helplessly as debris fell toward him. See? This is what running blindly gets you! Without time to think, I turned and pulverized the rock above him. But when I looked back, I heard a deafening crash as the slab punched straight through the shrine. Jubilana let out the most piercing shriek of her life, scrambling over to hide behind me. The antique bell, meticulously designed by Weavers, was flattened into a disc before it could let out a final groan. Well, at least I tried. If those old venomous ghosts are watching, I hope they do not blame me.

Up until this point, events were still within my expectations.

Then, black threads pierced the earth.

How is this possible?...

Watching the pulsating Void drill up from beneath our feet, I was stunned. Sacrificing a god should appease the Abyss, not enrage it. And even if it were a riot, it should rise gradually from Deep Docks, not burst forth like this. The darkness gave me no time to think. It extended a greedy tendril, impaling a pilgrim right in front of me. The unlucky soul looked down at his pierced abdomen, then up at me, her eyes filled with helplessness.

"Mr. Caretaker—" Her desperate cry before being dragged away echoed in my mind.

My body reacted before my brain. I swung my staff, slicing the tentacle with a blade of Soul. But it was too late. The pilgrim's lifeless shell crashed in front of me, black tears spilling from empty sockets. In that instant, it was as if I had revisited a childhood nightmare. I have not had such a dream in a long time. Worse still, what stood before me was no dream.

"SANCEIBOOOOOOO!!!" How ironic that Garmond's war cry pulled me back to reality. At his shout, the members of the guard snapped out of their daze, raising their pins to slash at the black threads, defending their home. Yet, no matter how many they cut, the threads regenerated instantly. I looked toward where the threads converged, and the sight chilled my blood: the abducted pilgrims were bound together, forming a twisted heart pumping blood for the surrounding Void. No other bug could harm it; only I could handle this.

I aimed my staff at the amalgamation, drawing upon every ounce of strength to unleash a torrent of pale Soul. The monster retaliated with a dense thicket of tentacles. Black and white spells clashed, locked in a stalemate. During the struggle, my gaze naturally fixed upon the amalgamation—those were not random monsters; those were bugs I knew. Suddenly, I felt I was not fighting the Void, but their justified resentment towards me. I tried to ignore their faces, but I could not. The more I tried not to look, the clearer they became. I saw the pilgrim who demanded I move back to my tent at the support group meeting, his laughter echoing in my ears; I saw the guard member who helped carry the giant drapemite, her chest puffed with pride, seeking praise; I saw the little fan who sneaked out to watch the play, nodding vigorously at me behind Trobbio. Their memories, their faces, haunted my mind; but they were gone, leaving only hollow stares weeping black tears, accusing me of my crimes. And I... I could not refute them.

Taking advantage of my hesitation, the claws of darkness grew stronger. Soul burns Void, but it is also its most craved sustenance; once the caster's will wavers, they face the risk of backlash. I had clearly fallen into the trap. Void eroded my stream of light, creeping toward me inch by inch. The immense gravitational pull eliminated any possibility of withdrawal.

Just as doom approached, I heard the rapid click-clack of gears and hurried footsteps. A figure flashing with gold leaped high, rotating blades shredding the dark tentacles. With the resistance gone, the cascade of pale light struck the twisted core. The amalgamation let out a heart-rending shriek, sounding as if all those corrupted pilgrims were wailing in unison. With a boom, silence returned. The black threads snapped, and the deformed pile of corpses crashed to the ground, shattering into a grotesque sludge.

Perhaps due to expending too much Soul at once, I felt dizzy and weak. I slumped to the ground, my staff rolling away. Sherma rushed over to support me, shouting orders for a search and rescue. I could not hear exactly what he yelled, but bugs began to move. Jubilana also stepped into the center, clapping her hands to organize a headcount, though her voice still trembled. But many more just sat there, dazed, unable to comprehend what had happened.

Second Sentinel stood before the field of empty husks, staring blankly for a long time. Aye, the bug who crowned them with flowers and taught them to dance just days ago... was she not among the corpses?

"D-d-delayed, was the rescue. Apologies... extreme apologies. Failed again, has this sentinel..." I do not know who they were speaking to.

"Nay! Speak not such dispirited words, gilded one!" Garmond comforted them. "Had you not arrived in time, there would be naught but more death! Look! Are there not still survivors who need our protection?"

"Detect the collapse and intended immediate r-r-return, did this sentinel." The sentinel explained. "However... c-c-corrupted by darkness, were the puppets. Entangled in combat, was this sentinel..."

"Hmph... so it is even worse outside?" Garmond stroked his beard.

As my reason slowly reconnected, I pieced together what had happened: The one below—I should call her that now—refused to accept defeat. She clung to life, launching Silk from the Abyss to pierce Pharloom, allowing Void to climb up the traces of her dying struggle. Pale monarch, why must you resist so stubbornly? Your end is written, unchangeable. Must you drag the entire kingdom down with you? Even at the cost of prolonging your own agony as the darkness gnaws at you? But the more important question is: Why did I not foresee this?

"This truly looks like the end... Old Jubilana has wandered the Citadel for an age and never seen such a sight." Jubilana walked to my side, clicking her tongue. She looked at me. "This is the big one, is it not, dear one? Did you... have a hand in this?"

Looking back now, her tone carried a hint of teasing, likely trying to lighten the mood. But at that moment, I could not—dared not—interpret it that way. How could I tell them I brought this black disaster upon them? The whispers of the refugees fermented in my silence, until one could not hold back: "Mr. Caretaker... y-you surely have a way to fix this, right?"

It was not a question, but a plea. Or, in the terms of these fools, a "wish." This wish was too fragile; I could not say "no." Yet it was too heavy; I could not say "yes." In Jubilana's eyes, my hesitation told her everything she needed to know. Her gaze dimmed. She silently walked away, finding a corner to sit and hug her knees. The others were far less sharp; they stood there, clutching their fragile hope, waiting for my answer.

My hand scrabbled at my side. Sherma understood immediately and retrieved my staff. I used it to pull myself up, meeting their eyes—fearful, terrified, sorrowful, yet refusing to yield to despair. I forced the words out: "I... I must leave for a while. I need to confer with my family. Perhaps... we can find a remedy..."

Clearly, this was not the answer they wanted; but it was the best I could give, and they knew it. With such a catastrophe, those two old fools would be waiting at the ruined chapel if they had any sense. They share this blame; they must help me fix it.

"Brother Caretaker, hold! Zaza and I shall accompany you!" Garmond called out. "All of Pharloom suffers from this black plight; we cannot sit idle! Before our respective duties separate us, let us share the road a while longer!"

Hearing this, a murmur ran through the guard. A representative stepped forward: "Mr. Caretaker, sir Garmond, please allow us to accompany you! We have grown into reliable warriors; 'tis time we repaid your guidance by protecting you!"

"Speak not such foolishness! It is not us who need protecting!" Garmond waved his hand grandly. "Look around you! So many brothers and sisters still require your shield! It is precisely because such reliable warriors remain here at Songclave that I can depart without worry to aid others calling for help! Do you understand?"

The guard did not insist further. Garmond turned to Second Sentinel and nodded. "Gilded one, the safety of Songclave... I entrust it all to you."

"Guard the pilgrims, is the eternal d-d-duty of this sentinel." Second Sentinel bowed deeply. "Remember the words of a f-f-friend, will this sentinel."

"Mr. Caretaker..." Sherma came before me. He hesitated, then looked up, his voice weak. "But if you leave, what will become of everyone here?"

Aye, what indeed?... I looked around. The sight reminded me of when Songclave was first born. Back then, the pilgrims were just as scared, exhausted, and desperate for someone to tell them what to do, to unite them and point the way—they desperately needed a caretaker. But things are different now, are they not? That caretaker... doesn't have to be me.

Whoever raises the problem, solves it!

I took a deep breath. I removed my necklace and shed my cowl, thrusting them into Sherma's hands. For the first time in more years than I can count, my shell was exposed to the air, exposed to the eyes of the crowd. Another ripple of whispers spread, but I couldn't hear them clearly, nor could I judge their sentiment. Sherma looked down at the bundle in his arms, then up at me. He understood exactly what I meant.

Suddenly, he dropped his cymbal—clang—stepped forward, and hugged me tight.

I... I don't know how to describe that feeling. I froze, eyes lowered. My left hand found the back of his head, rubbing it gently. Who was trembling? Him or me? Pressed so close, I couldn't tell.

After an eternity, Sherma finally let go. He sniffed, wiped his eyes, then put his cymbal back on and draped my cowl over his shoulders. Truth be told, it looked a bit comical; his small head could barely hold up my hood without the cymbal underneath. He took a deep breath and forced a smile. "Then... when will you return?"

Never! Pharloom is finished. Can't you see?!

But how could I say that?... I sighed. I raised my staff and gave that pot lid—now covered by white cloth—a gentle bonk. Then I turned and left Songclave with Garmond and Zaza. Behind me, Sherma struck his chimes and began to sing that annoying song again. The melody was so piercing that even after I had walked far, far away, I could still hear it.

Daft kid...

When I used to say the Citadel was haunted, I did not mean it literally—now, it is. The gilded facade that held up even in silence has peeled away before the catastrophe, revealing the rotten core within. The once-grand palace is now but a ruin filled with shadows; twisted corpses scatter the lamenting debris, every single one weeping black tears. My childhood nightmares, long forgotten, have manifested as the fruit of my own planting...

Perhaps because we share the same source of darkness, the black-threaded husks do not actively attack me—but Garmond is another matter entirely. And even if the enemy does not spot him, the old knight insists on charging in to provoke a fight! I could not simply leave him be, so I was forced into the fray. And how does the old fool repay me? By shouting in my ear after every victory! If I had known, I would never have agreed to travel together! Without him stirring up trouble, we could have moved at double the speed!

Under normal circumstances, few of my kind—save for those old scholars obsessed with Void arts—would willingly expend energy to draw upon their own inner darkness to amplify spells. Yet in this moment, surrounded by Void, it felt wasteful not to use it. The shadows around me seemed to tempt me, urging me to draw upon them. Before I knew it, I had unleashed a blast of Shade Soul. I regretted it the moment the spell left my hand. But Garmond did not turn on me; instead, he praised: "Well struck, Brother Caretaker!"

"I used these evil powers that caused this very calamity," I asked. "You do not mind?"

"Why speak so? Power is but a tool; virtue lies in the hand that wields it!" Garmond replied. "And Noble Garmond is proud to see such might held by a bug of your high honour!"

"...Do you still believe that, even knowing my responsibility in this apocalypse?"

"Zaza and I know not the details of the plan you and Sister in Red devised, but we believe you risked all for a better future! If error occurred in the attempt to purge evil, then the fault lies with the evil itself, not with the bugs striving to right it!"

Hah, how I wish I could truly believe his words...

The one below lets out a heart-rending wail from time to time, stirring the black threads and shaking the bedrock. If Pharloom is not swallowed by Void first, it will surely crumble apart in these ceaseless quakes. Pale monarch, if you are in such pain, why not simply let go? Is this punishment for my arrogance? Must you force me to watch as my desperate gamble turns everything I cherish into nothingness?

As we passed the theatre entrance, a wire in my brain must have crossed, for I decided to check if Trobbio was still alive. Unfortunately, he is. When we entered, he was busy arranging the stage. Seeing bugs approach, he leaped down from the scaffolding and adjusted his fur collar. Oh, I forgot to mention: he has dyed himself purple.

"You! Mite or mourner! The last of the ill-fated fools!" I cannot think of any adjective to describe his voice anymore. "Why do you tread upon this ground? Too soon! When all is prepared, I shall visit your gathering myself to issue invitations! We shall offer the final elegy for Pharloom's fall!"

"Why are you purple?" I couldn't help but ask. "Don't you plan to rekindle the kingdom's hope with the 'surging passion' of your magnificent dance?"

"All is lost! All is lost!!!" Trobbio threw his arms up theatrically. "All attempts at revival have flowed into the river of oblivion! Observe! Black threads tear the earth, devouring life! Hark! From the deeps comes the wail of dying Pharloom! No more! I say! To this, an end! The fatal blow was struck; resistance holds no meaning! Before this kingdom breathes its last, the only task left for us poor survivors is to savor its pain together!"

Though I knew this drama queen was likely rehearsing his lines, I could not stop his words from sinking in. Is this the end we deserve, after everything? ...Is there truly no return?

Garmond whispered in my ear: "Brother Caretaker, do you know this lunatic?"

"Never met him." I denied it flatly, turning to leave the theatre.

"Impudent louse! Then refuse to feel our kingdom's agony!" Trobbio's screaming chased me from behind. "Carve your hapless path! Struggle on, little mites! But know your foe is fate herself, and she has risen raging!"

Before we crossed Grand Gate, I had held onto a sliver of hope that things might be better outside the Citadel. Unsurprisingly, as the wind and sand of Blasted Steps hit my face, the dark scene before me shattered that fantasy. Of course. How could it be otherwise? Since the One Below launched her Silk upwards, the lower lands would naturally suffer worse. What was I thinking?

Garmond told me they had originally climbed the Citadel via Sinner's Road to avoid getting grit in his beard—though truth be told, Sinner's Road is hardly better, especially for poor Zaza's nose! That said, when he saw a black-threaded judge attacking a lucid bug at the distant station, he didn't hesitate. He charged against the gale, riding Zaza into the fray. The judge turned at the sound, swinging a copper hammer wrapped in shadow. Zaza dodged nimbly to the side, and Garmond thrust his hornlance, piercing the judge's throat. I just stood there waiting. Only after he finished shouting "SANCEIBO" did I hop over.

The rescued bug was far less lucky. He rubbed his ears, roaring: "What the blazes?! Why the loud screamin'?!"

Wait... that weaselly voice, that scrawny frame... I remember! That thief ringleader named Grindle! My grip on my staff tightened instinctively. "You..."

Grindle blinked, stared at me for a good while, then realization dawned. "Oh! It's you! Heh heh heh, what happened? Someone stole your clothes? That rag ain't worth two beads! Shame that necklace didn't fall into our hands..."

Garmond realized something too. "So you are the ringleader who raided Songclave before my arrival! To strike at unarmed refugees... shameless!"

"Unarmed? Don't make us laugh! Forget them with the pins, you call the thing in his hand 'unarmed'?" Grindle glared viciously at my staff.

Garmond scolded: "You scoundrel, have you no remorse?!"

"Hahahaha, remorse? We got guts full of remorse! Why did we pick such a poor dump to rob, eh?" Grindle chattered on. "Organisin' a raid takes effort! We got mouths to feed! And the result? Didn't get a single goodie, and lost a snitchbug to boot! We're the ones who should be cryin' injustice!"

Garmond tried to reason: "In these chaotic times, food and warmth are hard to come by. But you could survive through honest means, rather than—"

"Shoo, shoo! Save your breath, we ain't here for a lecture from some self-righteous bully!" Grindle interrupted rudely. "Move aside, we got work to finish!"

"The black calamity is upon us, and you still pursue this trade?!" I have never seen Garmond so angry. "Can you not see? Pharloom's fate hangs by a thread! Survivors must unite, not prey on one another!"

"What's it to us?! If you ask us, this is the perfect chance to scoop the last drops of oil! If Pharloom goes belly up, we'll just find another place to pilfer!"

"You..." Garmond was trembling with rage, raising his hornlance. "Your existence is an insult to the very spirit of chivalry..."

Grindle was cowed by his aura. He stepped back, hands reaching for the short hooks at his waist, eyes narrowing. "Listen here, old bug. Best not try anything funny. My snitchbugs are nearby. One shout and you're surrounded. No need to make this ugly."

While the thief's attention was fixed on Garmond, I raised my staff and blasted a Shade Soul. Grindle turned coward, squatting down and covering his head. Behind him, the charred corpse of a black-threaded driznit dropped to the ground.

Grindle looked back at the monster's corpse, then at me, eyes wide with disbelief. I ignored him, letting out a long sigh, and turned to leave. "Forget it, Garmond. Don't waste more time on him."

Hard to say if my action was born of mercy or exhaustion. I am truly tired. I don't want to argue about right and wrong anymore. The raid feels like it happened a lifetime ago. There are bigger troubles to solve. In the face of extinction, right and wrong don't matter...

Garmond adjusted his mood quickly, returning to his vigorous self, charging through Blasted Steps. We made our way to the border between Blasted Steps and Shellwood. I looked at the broken bridge before me, filled with emotion. Not long ago, the runed cage holding the foreign half-blood Weaver crashed here. The fate of the entire kingdom shifted quietly in that moment, like the gears of Cogwork Core beginning to turn.

"Brother Caretaker, here we part ways!" Garmond said to me. "Go with ease! Zaza and I shall continue to roam every corner of Pharloom, fighting without rest, until every aberration touched by darkness is purged from this land!"

"...Why bother?" I couldn't look him in the eye. "The darkness is endless, and so are the husks. How can you slay 'em all alone?"

"I know that well!" Garmond answered without hesitation. "But as I said before: Life is a grand crucible, and we shall march through it, singing bravely!"

I still can't understand it. Seeking out hardship, shouldering responsibility... just to prove oneself? Just for a clear conscience? Is it truly worth risking one's life?

Seeming to sense my heavy heart, Garmond jumped off Zaza's back, raising his hornlance to the sky. "Brother Caretaker! Let us swear an oath! We shall fight to the end, holding fast to our duties! When the darkness retreats to the deep, when Pharloom casts off its chains of malice, we shall reunite and celebrate this hard-won victory together!"

I used every ounce of willpower not to roll my eyes. How old is this bug, doing something so childish? I really didn't want to play along with his silly drama, but knowing his character, if I didn't, he'd never shut up. I sighed, raised my staff, and crossed it with his hornlance, just like those clichés in old tales.

"Then it is settled!" Garmond's voice boomed even louder. "Brother Caretaker, the future is long! When peace comes, we shall witness it alongside everyone!"

Before leaving, Zaza came up to me, his eyes full of reluctance and worry. I crouched down, rubbing his cheek. "Zaza... we both know you're the smarter one. Look after the old knight for me, would ya?"

Zaza gave a solemn chirp, then let Garmond mount up. They leaped across the broken bridge, disappearing into the canopy of Shellwood. I stood there for a moment, then took a deep breath. Summoning Soul and Void to swirl around me, I jumped off the bridge. Descending Dark carried me deep into Moss Grotto. The shockwave of shadows rattled the broken iron cage. Everything started here. Everything ends here.

UNGRATEFUL OLD WRETCH!!! HOW DARE HE?!

I had barely stepped one foot through the door when the old geezer roared right in my face, spittle flying: "Look at what you have done!!!"

I was stunned for two seconds, then rage shot straight to the top of my skull. "Do not stand there and lecture me with that shameless face! Do not act the innocent saint! As if you played no part in this!"

"Did I want to participate?!" He screamed back. "When a certain bug came begging for Soul without shame, did I not try to stop it?! I said the plan would fail, did anyone listen?! No! Instead, you threatened me with your stubbornness! This is the result of that stubbornness! Are you satisfied now?!"

Sister tried to intervene: "Now is not the time for blami—"

"Someone had to make the decision!" I cut her off, shouting at him. "And that bug was obviously never going to be a coward like you! I simply did what you lacked the guts to do! And look at you now—you claimed you didn't want to, yet you gave your Soul to Old One anyway. You take credit for the contribution, but the moment things go wrong, you dump the blame entirely on me! You want all the benefits without the risk!"

"I care nothing for your wretched benefits! In the end, what does it matter to us who rules Pharloom?! We have hidden for so long, are we not used to it?! I say you were bewitched by those slaves, deluding yourself into thinking you could liberate them!" The old geezer was relentless. "And now look! Those who could have lived, even in servitude, are all dead! Your precious enclave, how many are left alive? That kid who came with you, probably dead too, eh? If not yet, then soon! If you ask me, you killed them!"

I froze. Then I slammed the butt of my staff hard against the ground. Pale flame ignited around my shell. "TAKE. THAT. BACK!!! When we were caring for the refugees at the Citadel, when we were fighting the haunted puppets, when we were racking our brains plotting how to break the monarch's chains, WHERE WERE YOU?! Rotting and stinking in your damp bellveins, doing nothing but complaining, complaining, complaining!!! If I hear you curse them one more time, I swear, I will scorch that venomous throat of yours, just like I intended to do to that evil mushroom!!!"

"Both of you, calm do—" Sister tried to interject again.

"What, you want to fight?! Come on then!" The old geezer did not back down, slamming his staff down as well. "Think you are mature now? Think your wings have hardened?! Do not forget, I taught you everything you know! You are just as foolish and reckless as when you were a grub! No improvement in all these years! Just like your stupid plan! No wonder it failed!"

"I wonder who I learned that from! With your terrible teaching skills..."

And so we argued for a good while, flaring our white lights at each other, screaming about everything from childhood lessons to where we settled, dragging up old scores about cousin and rotting grain. Laughably, I do not even remember the specifics of what we shouted. Sister tried to mediate the whole time, but her voice was buried instantly in our quarrel every time. Finally, she lost all patience. She unleashed a blast of Howling Wraiths: "ENOUGH!!!"

The world went silent instantly. Only the heavy breathing of me and the old geezer remained. As if on cue, the one below let out another wail. Several masks on the walls and ceiling, shaken loose by the tremor, fell to the floor in our silence. If I weren't so furious, I might have found it awkward.

"You two have traveled far and are exhausted." Sister leaned wearily on her staff. "Emotions are running high. Rest for the night. We will discuss this tomorrow."

Fine then! I had nothing more to say to that ingrate anyway! This situation is not what I wanted! For this god-slaying plan, I read scriptures, I gathered information, I did everything I could! How was I supposed to know the one below would refuse to die?! No bug predicted this to warn me! I only wanted to fight for a society where everyone could live freely and safely. What is wrong with that?! Why did it turn out like this? Why?! WHY?!!

I saw their faces again. The faces of those pilgrims who, one second were looking up at the Cradle and dreaming of peace, and the next were snatched by black threads and turned into twisted husks. Did I really kill them?... Did I... destroy Pharloom by my own hands?...

Old One survived, as expected! I knew she would not perish so easily. This should've been a joyful revelation, had she not come to settle the score. She barged into our stagnant family council without a word of warning; I do not know whether to thank her for breaking the deadlock or blame her for disrupting my thoughts. She came bearing fury: "Cowards. Here you hide, even as you cause your own land's demise."

"You seem displeased, Old One." I sat upon the altar, crossing my arms. "We only did as you asked, yes? The snare is sprung, the creature consumed."

"You bound it to that void!" She roared.

I can't stand going through it all over again. "Don't play daft. You should well know our family's fixations. Surely you had a hunch?"

The old geezer chimed in as well: "How else could we hope to trap one of your pale kin? Or see her consumed with such insatiable efficiency?"

Now you know to speak on my behalf?! That is not what you said yesterday!

Old One fell silent. She paused, then continued: "Then you have miscalculated, gravely. The white knight, she fell with the mother..."

"Oh ho... The quakes, yes? We have felt their force, even here. So the mother resists the dark... to save the child?" Sister asked.

Old One nodded. "That is my guess. I must descend to the void below, and see clear that truth for myself."

"Ohhhh. How… unfortunate. All of Pharloom will fall to her flailing."Sister sighed.

"So it may, but I will not watch idle while it crumbles." Old One declared firmly. "The groaning docks, beyond the caverns of bone. There I have seen a vessel able to pass below, a heavy bell built for descent. I need only gain access, and an operator to assist. I will investigate the docks, and uncover the means."

Sister seemed hesitant. She glanced back at us, then said: "You'd be the first in an age to dive so deep, Old One. That space below remains long unseen, even to our family."

"For those depths, I am more prepared than most. I will reach the base of this land, and know the truth of the new disaster we together have wrought." Old One didn't scruple.

Hah, now she changes her tune to "we together"? Where did that initial aggression go? Well, I ain't complaining. At least she is more reasonable than the old geezer!

Before departing, Old One chatted a while longer with Sister. The old geezer and I did not interject; we would only kill the conversation anyway. As expected of a demigod, she is full of confidence. Diving into the Abyss as if it were a simple stroll, acting as though she had connections within the Void itself! What can I say? Impressive.

...Fine. Since no other bug can see this, I will be honest. Knowing she is willing to stand on our side, running herself ragged to save Pharloom, I feel relieved. The monarch is doomed, with no chance of survival; having removed that threat, Old One could have simply walked away and let the kingdom crumble. Yet, she chose to stay and fight to the end in this strange land. It seems I did not place my trust in the wrong bug after all. If anyone can find a sliver of life in the overflowing Void, it is Old One.

Perhaps... there really is a glimmer of hope for this dying kingdom...

WHY HASN'T OLD ONE RETURNED YET?!!

Hah, and I was wondering what could possibly delay her so long! Turns out, Old One crashed again and had to climb her way out of the Abyss! What kind of constitution does she possess? Whenever there is a height, she seems destined to fall from it! A salute to the legendary crash-lander!

We had agreed that my sister would handle the talking, since she has the best relationship with Old One among the three of us. By the way, can you believe it? Sister knew Old One's name was Hornet from the very start! Old One introduced herself without even being asked. Why?! Just because sister was the first bug she met here?!

Anyway, when Old One finally returned, sister went to meet her: "Oh ho! Back from the depths with nary a scratch! Is it as you feared?"

"It is, and worse," Old One replied grimly. "Your snare has sunk the monarch deep, deeper than I can safely descend. To cut Pharloom free, I must plunge below the surface of that lake of liquid nothing."

"No shell survives submersion in that void, Old One, not even yours," the old geezer warned from the shadows.

"Not without aid, certainly. Though aid may exist. The flower that resists the dark. Do you know of it?"

"The Everbloom?..." Sister mused. "We've heard the tale, but had thought it a myth. If ever it sprouted in our lands we would surely have known?"

"I would not seek it in these lands. I need its power full, and it is too fragile to sustain here long. I would seek it in my memory."

"Oh ho ho! So you'd have us wrench open your soul, to retrieve the fabled bloom? Can such a thing be done?" I asked, stepping forward.

"For another bug, no, but I am Weaver enough to attempt it," Old One said. "In the distant past, I knew the flower. My thread still holds its faint memory. If the Everbloom was grasped strongly enough within my Silk, it could be made to manifest."

"Ah! So you're asking another spell of us? To reveal the flower clear?... But to illuminate one of your kind's old memories, so acutely... This is no easy thing, even for us..." Sister hesitated, glancing back at us. "Old One, you must give us a moment to confer..."

Sister turned her back, sighing heavily, and spoke in the tongue of our kin: "What do you say? To attune to her memory ain't impossible, but it requires extraordinary power..."

"Then use the land's original power!" The old geezer snapped. "Those old things are half-dead anyway, might as well make a final contribution!"

I added: "Old One loves meddling; let her go fetch the hearts. Meanwhile, we prepare the ritual."

"As I supposed..." Sister murmured, looking at me uncertainly. "You do know... what this means, aye?"

"What use is talking about it now?!" I retorted almost instantly. "As long as we can pull Pharloom back from the brink of extinction, I accept any price!"

"Then it's settled!" The old geezer interjected, likely worried we'd start arguing in front of Old One. "Besides, there ain't no other way now!"

Silence fell upon us like a shadow, dimming the altar's candles. Sister turned back, composing herself. "We could do it. The spell can be cast, with enough power, enormous power, equal maybe to that monarch..."

"I cannot grant you mine, if it even were enough. My strength is still needed to face her below. Where else do you propose we seek a source?" Old One declined immediately.

"From Pharloom! Ho ho ho! Remember, ours is a kingdom of wishes granted." Sister laughed.

"Pharloom was not born of that monarch, Old One. Power existed in these lands even before she bound them beneath her," the old geezer explained. "Grnk. Seek the old hearts of our kingdom and the last successors to bear their strength."

"They're still out there, hidden away, much faded by the pale one's long dominion. You must make them stir," Sister continued. "We will teach you how, in the way befitting a Weaver, a sombre song to reach down into their memories and enliven them a final time."

Oh, right... I forgot about that part. Er, fine! Just this once! I took a deep breath and sang, unwillingly. Oh ho ho, at least the reluctance on the old geezer's face was even more obvious than mine! His twisted expression added a bit of amusement to this torture.

I know exactly what my sister meant: to bear the power of the old hearts, we are destined to consume our own Soul. I poked the hole in the sky; it's only fair I fill it with my life. I have no complaints. As for Old One? Best to keep her in the dark. Otherwise, her overflowing sense of duty would only bind her conscience with extra shackles, making this necessary decision harder. Why bother? Has she not borne enough?

The Everbloom... this ethereal legend has become our last hope. Whether this hope is real or not, I won't be around to witness it. Yet, I still want to believe.

"The hearts you seek, we can share their locations as best we know." Sister marked the map. "Three will be needed to construct our spell and draw clear memory of the flower from your Silk."

"Bring us the hearts, Old One. Make'em beat, fierce and final." Once again, I entrusted the future of this kingdom entirely to her. "See for yourself the forgotten strength of this land of bugs before we burn those memories in its saving."

To think a noble-looking bug like Old One would stoop to the level of a common cat burglar! She sneaked into the chapel's secret chamber and dug up our ancestors' graves! How are her hands so sticky?! No wonder she has so much spare cash to donate everywhere, now I know exactly where it comes from! Oh, right, I was wondering why she told Grindle about Songclave—turns out they are in the same trade!

The worst part is, she took it, yet still had the nerve to jump in front of us and admit it without a shred of shame: "I found the well in the hidden chambers beyond. The power that remained at its base I have taken for myself."

"Bound yourself a new nature, aye? And from the shells of our ancestors, no less, all those many who've called these lands their own." I stared at her, shaking my head. "You make it seem so simple-like. All o'that learning, all o'that strength... sucked up in a whirl of Silk."

"We'd call you a thief, Old One, and cruel for the taking, but it's all coming down soon if you can't stop it," Sister said, trying to smooth things over. "If there's advantage in your act that might see these caves safe, then it's better you make your claim."

And then she just turned and walked away! Not even a "thank you"?! Songclave was rung into existence by you, plus two donations later; I ain't complaining about you making yourself at home there. But treating our clan's chapel like your own house too?! She even swiped my sister's rosary necklace on her way out! I only entrusted my life to you, but that doesn't mean everything else is yours for the taking!

I knew it, there ain't a good Weaver among 'em! Each has their own brand of wicked!

The spell for attuning to memory is not foreign to us, but this time the subject is a Weaver demigod, and we must extract that legendary Everbloom from the remnants of her past. The nature of the task has changed entirely. To achieve this, we need to innovate and modify our rituals. Although we have a rough idea, we ultimately need theoretical backing. So, tragically, I'm trapped once again in the chapel's secret chamber with these two old bastards, poring over manuscripts left behind by countless generations of ancestors. I don't know which reading experience is more torturous: the cryptic scriptures of Whispering Vaults, meticulously filed yet written in riddles that refuse to get to the point, or these fragmented manuscripts, legible at a glance but written with zero logic, rambling wherever the author's mind wandered. But if we factor in the environment, I actually miss Whispering Vaults. At least that old fellow Cardinius does not chatter ceaselessly in your ear while you are trying to read! He has manners; he has breeding!

Yes, I am talking about the old geezer! Even while rummaging through data, his mouth refuses to rest. "I told you that wretched plan wouldn't work, didn't I?! But no, you wouldn't listen! And look at us now! To clean up this mess, we have to throw our lives away! Are you happy?"

"Stop your chanting..." Sister slammed her face into the scroll before her. "We don't have many days left to live. Can't you let us have some peace in the end?"

"No!" The old geezer shot back instantly. "Do I not have the right to complain during my final days?! I was dragged into this by you two idiots in the first place! You just had to go meddle! And the result? We all die together! Our clan goes extinct in Pharloom!"

I couldn't take it anymore. I grabbed a few scrolls and stormed out of the chamber. I thought going upstairs might bring some peace and fresh air—though I quickly realized that with the Void corruption, the air is heavy and foul everywhere. I glanced toward the entrance. At first, I didn't notice anything amiss, until a delayed sense of absence drilled into my mind: looking from this angle, shouldn't I be able to see Bonebottom?

I froze for a moment, then involuntarily walked toward Bonebottom—or rather, the place that used to be Bonebottom. I was descending too fast before, and I have been holed up underground for days; only now did I realize the starting point of the pilgrimage has been completely razed to the ground. The image of Flick boasting about his repairs not long ago is still vivid in my memory, making it hard to connect with the ruins before me. The "lifesaving bridge," the icon of hope, the warming measures collected by Old One... all the traces of common bugs struggling to build a life are as fragile as rock platforms held together by magnetite in the face of divine disaster. The slightest touch destroys them utterly.

Ironically, I think I may have found the perfect place to read. This crumbled ruin, these corpses scattered everywhere... this shocking reminder of my heinous crimes suits a culprit like me perfectly.

Dead silence.

In my dream, I stood in dead silence.

Darkness. Darkness swirling around me. Darkness swallowing all light. Darkness flowing through my veins. Darkness accumulated from the regrets of countless generations since the dawn of time.

Cold. The cruel end that no life can refuse.

Warm. The home that all life will return to.

Then, there was a sound. Sobbing.

I followed the sound. A pilgrim from Songclave came into view. She was weeping so bitterly, her whole frame trembling. I reached out to comfort her, though I'm not sure if I actually did; my body had long since melted into the surroundings, invisible.

Before I could touch her, she suddenly whirled around; I certainly couldn't forget the sight of her violent death before my eyes. Black tears flowed from her empty sockets as she wailed: "Mr. Caretaker... why?..."

"What exactly did we do wrong?..." Another pilgrim who perished that day appeared from nowhere. "Why treat us like this?..."

Even the instigator of the guard came to join the fray: "You took my Soul, didn't you do it to protect everyone?... Why refuse even this last wish? ..."

More and more wandering souls emerged from the darkness.

"Mr. Caretaker... why did you abandon us?..."

"We trusted you so much... were we just sacrifices in the end?..."

"So this is the era of peace you promised?..."

I heard a scorching heartbeat. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. With every new ghost, the beating intensified. Blazing gazes pressed in from all sides, crushing the breath out of me, as if I were burning. Yet these ghosts made no move to attack; they simply surrounded me, weeping and accusing. Their black tears gathered into a chaotic ocean, rising constantly. Past my ankles. Past my knees. Past my waist. Past my neck.

Cold. Warm.

I thought then, drowning like this wouldn't be so bad.

When I jolted awake, gasping, I was drenched in cold sweat. The old geezer rolled over, grumbling impatiently: "So noisy..."

Sister sat up, rubbing her eyes, concerned: "Are you alright?"

I ignored her, heading straight outside to catch a breath—though naturally, I didn't get one. The turbid air hung like an airtight shroud, leeching the last vitality from all living things. Funny, really. A bug of my age, still getting scared awake? I can't even remember the last time I had this nightmare. A nameless irritation rose in my heart. What is Old One busy with? The ritual is practically ready; why can't she hurry back and grant me my release? The sooner I die, the sooner I'm free.

Went to the chapel backyard today to rehearse the ritual. The old geezer reassumed his air of a lecturer, picking holes in everything. One moment our posture wasn't standard, the next our pronunciation wasn't clear. As long as it works, why nitpick? I couldn't help but recall the scenes of him teaching us spells when we were grubs—except in my memory, he wasn't this old, this tired, and certainly not this annoying!

They say things change but people remain; looking at this place, the "things" haven't fared well either. Thanks to my sister's side gig, the once-spacious backyard is now full of burial mounds; one can barely find footing. What's more, blue vines in the corner have woven a Plasmium cocoon, pulsating like a gland.

"Is this how you tend to our family chapel?!" The old geezer blamed. "Growing such heretical stuff?!"

"Don't dump your filth on me!" Sister protested. "A while back, a scientist came. Said he found Plasmium deep in the salt-stricken waters at the edge of Pharloom, brought it here for research, and injected all the local bugs. Seems it was quite successful."

"Suspect it's a bit too successful..." I stared at the ominous blue light seeping from the tunnel above. "Should we be worried? Should we root it out early?"

"Looking for trouble again, are you?!" The old geezer raised his voice. "Haven't you taken on enough responsibility?! This aberrant bloodline is only acting high and mighty because Void is surging! Once darkness fades, it'll shrink back into this corner just the same!"

"Oh ho ho! It's not all bad! At least our free drinks are sorted!" Sister fetched three cups, poked a small hole in the Plasmium cocoon with her staff, filled them up, and handed them to us. "Common bugs... always provoking entities beyond their ken in their delusions of ascension. In that sense, perhaps they ain't so different from us."

Aye... Silk, Plasmium... all grand blueprints for extending life eventually morph into fatal catastrophes. Just as my summoning Void was meant to cut pale strings, yet it plunged all of Pharloom into darkness. I smiled bitterly, lifting the Plasmium to my lips. This essence of vitality, vanished for so long, tasted sweet and refreshing.

"Absurd!" The old geezer scolded, though his body was honest enough to drink it down. "If we weren't near death's door, I wouldn't allow you to drink such addictive liquid!"

"Speaking of which... have you thought about what happens after we die?" Sister suddenly asked. "The world of the beyond... what do you think it's like?"

I froze, then frowned. "Have you buried so many pilgrims that you've become as daft as them? You believe these tales meant to trick the illiterate?"

"Stories will always find believers because they offer solace." Sister laughed. "Besides, it can't be falsified, can it? Oh ho ho!"

I started to lose patience. "Even if such a paradise for common bugs exists, it ain't a place our souls—stained with darkness since birth—can tread."

Sister kept giggling. "Who can say? It's just a story, anyway; we can make our own version! Let me think... perhaps when we die, our ancestors will welco—"

"WHAT'S THE POINT?!!" I exploded, smashing my cup to the ground. "Dead is dead! Nothing remains! No silkflies will fly from our bodies, and no ancestors will guide us to the eternal afterlife! If you must imagine a destination for our twisted natures, it is annihilation in the Void! Why deceive ourselves?! Accept reality!!!"

Sister and the old geezer stared at me, stunned, not understanding why I was so furious. To be honest, I didn't quite understand it myself. I just found her fantasy laughable. We come from darkness, and we must return to darkness. This ancient clan that toys with taboos for power... we are cheap lives, not worth pitying. That is how other bugs have always seen us; that is how we have always seen ourselves. From ancient times to now, from this land to others, without exception. Ain't that so?...

Ancestors are ancestors for a reason; our patterns of thought run in the same vein. Our modifications to the ritual were quickly confirmed within the ancient texts, leaving only a few final calibrations. So, I took my books and returned to the ruins of Bonebottom. Just like the silent Citadel of old, the suffocating quiet rooted in death felt strangely familiar. However, this silence was soon shattered.

A gang of thieves flew down. Anywhere in Pharloom, I would recognize those wretched shapes and voices. Grindle certainly wouldn't miss a chance to profit from the apocalypse; sending his underlings to scavenge the ruins of a settlement is hardly surprising; if anything, they are a bit late. The thieves didn't seem to expect anyone here. They stared at me awkwardly for a moment, then decided to treat me like air, scattering to pick through the debris as if no bug were watching. One arrogant thief rubbed his hands together and moved toward me, but was quickly stopped by a companion who seemed to recognize me. Hah, at least they have some sense.

I intended to ignore them, but their mouths wouldn't rest even while scavenging. Every time they found something of value, they had to show off. The words on the manuscript began to fade, while their snickering and whispering amplified in my head, annoying as the buzzing of squits. I couldn't focus. I roared: "Can you lot keep it down?!"

The thieves froze, then burst into raucous laughter. They got even louder, doubling down on the noise; a few nearby even made faces at me. My grip on the book tightened until I nearly crushed the pages. Why does the world insist on crossing me at every turn?! Wasn't taking my peaceful seclusion enough?! Wasn't taking the camp I worked so hard to build enough?! Wasn't taking my family's lives enough?! Must you take even this final shred of silence from my last moments?!

"GET!!! OUT!!!" Soul and shade, fueled by my fury, twisted into a piercing scream. Black and white flames spiraled and raged around me. Seeing the tide turn, the thieves scrambled over each other, fleeing in panic. Although the goal was achieved, rage had blinded my eyes, seized my heart, and hijacked my body. I dragged my staff like a heavy club, smashing anything that looked wrong, every strike sending out shockwaves of magic. I felt like a savage beastfly, recklessly venting my hatred until there was nothing left.

I don't remember how long I screamed, cursed, and smashed through the ruins like a lunatic. I only remember collapsing to the ground, exhausted, gasping for air. The one below let out another wail, stirring up the scent of rot and decay. When my senses finally returned, my sister and the old geezer were standing in front of me, looking like they wanted to speak but couldn't find the words. I did not look them in the eye.

What... did I do wrong?...

Alright, Caretaker, stop wallowing in self-pity. Or should I call you snail shaman now? Regardless, all the resentment in the world cannot change what is done. You don't have many days left; think hard on how to spend them. If it were Sherma, what would he do?

I decided to head to the ruins of Bonebottom first, to harvest some Soul as a reserve for the ritual—better than letting the Void swallow it all. The thieves scattered like they'd seen a ghost the moment they saw me, grabbing their loot and fleeing in a panic. Seems my reputation has spread in their circles. Good. My outburst yesterday has left little trace; after all, the camp was already smashed to pieces by the black tide; a little more rubble makes no difference. Just as I settled my mind to sense the residual Soul, a faint, thin stream pointing out of town caught my attention: Survivors! I knew what I had to do.

I somewhat regretted scaring those thieves off; otherwise, I could have forced them to do the legwork for me. Cheap rations and shoddy clothes—things they wouldn't spare a second glance at—are lifesavers now. Digging them out from where they were strewn across the ruins was more trouble than I'd liked. During the search, I even found a buried farspeaker. Lucky I got to it first, or it would have ended up in Grindle's pocket for sure! Packed up and ready, I followed the trail of Soul deep into the scorching heat of the Marrow.

I was surprised to find quite a few bugs had survived. Of course, they were battered and starving, but they were alive. The repair bug, Flick, was among them. The moment he saw me, his eyes went wide: "You're the one from before..."

The crestfallen refugees recoiled in panic at my appearance, accompanied by the whispers I know all too well.

"A snail! Is he here to steal our Soul?"

"That profane shaman was hiding in the Citadel all along?"

"You don't think... he summoned the black threads, do you?..."

Exactly. This is how normal bugs react! The fools at Songclave were just too dense!

Flick stepped between me and the refugees, mustering his courage: "What business have you here?"

I swung my staff. He instinctively threw up his arms to shield his head, but it wasn't a burning spell that flew at him—it was a heavy bundle of supplies. He peeked cautiously into the bag, then looked up at me, the alarm in his eyes slowly replaced by surprise.

"You left in a hurry. Dropped a lot of things," I said, approaching to hand him the farspeaker. "If not enough, contact the couriers in Bellhart. Your Miss Red won't sit idly by."

I turned to leave immediately, but I hadn't taken more than a few steps before Flick called out: "Hold on! How should I thank you?"

"You shouldn't," I replied, without looking back.

Well, well. This time it truly is a mushroom sprite.

I can't fathom how my sister tends to this chapel. Letting moss grow is one thing, but now we have fungi sprouting! Just one small patch, abruptly spewing bright yellow spores, accompanied by a male voice muttering incessantly in an accent so thick I can't understand a word of it! No matter how I shouted or struck the ground, that mysterious presence remained unmoved. I was seconds away from tearing up the floors just to see where he was hiding!

For some reason, I have a premonition that Old One is not attending to what she should. What else could she be doing? I tried to console myself. She clearly wishes to resolve this crisis as urgently as we do; she would have to be mad to create side issues at a time like this! Surely she couldn't be, say, playing flea games, or racing against someone... right?

Speaking of which, I reviewed my journal today and suddenly realized: when did I become so verbose? Originally, I'd just summarize things in a few paragraphs and be done with it. Why am I now recording every bug's dialogue in such detail? Never mind. I shall consider it memory training. Sister leaned in with particular curiosity, asking if she could have a look. Dream on! I would sooner burn this journal than allow any bug to peek inside!

The nightmares returned.

Heartbeats. I heard the searing heartbeats.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

At the kingdom's treacherous frontier, shifting sands conspired. Winds that gnawed at the bone scoured coral and crust alike, whipping up detritus to pave a warrior's final path. Lost Garmond knelt at the cavern's end, devouring the still-warm remains of his noble steed. He greedily suckled on scalding entrails, roaring at the sky like a beast. All decency, honor, and dignity crumbled into dust, scattered by the wind.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Warm corpses piled high beside the ruined shrine. The desperate sounds of slaughter faded with every whistle of the blade. The last member of the guard swung their pin, only to have their throat slit with surgical precision, collapsing before the rust-spotted gilded armor. Second Sentinel wandered woodenly through the silent Songclave, black tears streaming from their eyes, twin blades drenched in blood. After confirming no survivors remained, they joined their blades and pierced their cogheart. The eternal directive thus came to a full stop.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Spider silk wove into dusty webs, strangling the dim lights of Whiteward. Jubilana was strapped to an operating table. My previous chum drove a syringe into her spine, injecting not Silk, but tendrils of Void. Cold ichor spilled from her eyes, dripping down as shattered rosaries. A silkfly fluttered its wings, fleeing into the distance, only to be swallowed whole by a maw of shadow.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Sherma and I roamed the foundation of the world. We traversed spiraling caverns and the iron Weavenest, arriving at that sea of nothingness I had never beheld. We gazed into the Abyss. The Abyss gazed back.

"Is this the birthplace of Mr. Caretaker's kin?"

I wanted to warn him of the Void's danger, yet I simply nodded in silence.

"If so, then trust it with all my heart I shall! Just as I trust you with all my heart!"

He spread his arms, back to the Abyss, allowing those twisted tentacles to drag him into the dark ocean.

"SHERMA, NO!!!" I screamed, bolting upright in bed, my outstretched hand grasping at empty air. Sister and the old geezer were startled awake too, staring at me wide-eyed. My face burned. I rushed outside, desperate for air. The heavy, foul atmosphere rushed into my nose with my panting, making me nauseous. The scorching heartbeat still echoed in my ears, as if threatening to burn the whole land to ash.

It was just a dream, I kept telling myself. It was just a dream.

Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, but I felt exceptionally drained today. Didn't want to do a thing. I went to the graves in the chapel backyard and knelt listlessly. The image of Sherma praying here not long ago was still vivid, yet it overlapped with the scenes from yesterday's nightmare; the more I tried to recall the former, the more the latter invaded my mind. How could I possibly fail to recall the way he smiled?

The tap of a wooden staff against the earth sounded behind me, bringing with it light footsteps. Sister walked to my side, looking up at the sky. "Do you remember what the old geezer used to say when we had nightmares as grubs?"

"He said..." I straightened up, recalling. "It's something every snail must go through. It is the ancient brand carved by darkness into our blood."

"Our kin truly bear quite a few curses, do we not?" Sister turned to look at me, smiling. "Tell me, do you regret being born as a snail?"

"What kind of stupid question is that?"

"Oh ho ho, I am serious! Once one steps onto the path of a snail shaman, the life of a normal bug is all but out of reach. Besides, it is not even a choice we get to make."

"If a 'normal bug's life' implies being deceived by the Citadel for a lifetime, then I want no part of it," I answered without hesitation. "As snails, we hold knowledge and power far beyond the comprehension of common bugs. We can see through the surface to the deeper realms. If losing mundane pleasures is the cost, I gladly bear it. I have never had any complaints about my birth, if that is what you two are asking."

I glanced back. The old geezer, who had been lurking by the back door, met my gaze and quickly ducked his head back inside. I sighed and continued: "But... I do sometimes fantasize. What if there were no costs? Sister, tell me... why must it be so?"

Sister sighed as well, giving my shell a gentle bonk with her staff. It was a question she couldn't answer; we both knew that. The husks buried beneath our feet once abandoned family for a glimpse of the divine, while the one below wails for the daughter who despises her; Old One strives to avoid her destiny of being crowned; and here I am, mourning a secular life I never possessed. Mortals, mages, monarchs, gods... we all crave what does not belong to us. Yet, in the face of the all-consuming Void, how insignificant it all is.

When the shrill howls of craws came from overhead, I thought at first I was hallucinating. These bandits, who should be confined to Greymoor, had come in pairs to Moss Grotto, looking left and right as if searching for someone. Clad in black cloaks, wearing iron crowns, they looked like messengers of the final judgment. Their tragic cries added a layer of desolation and grimness to this dying land.

Raindrops clinging to the craws' cloaks dripped down, as if weeping for a perishing home. Do I still possess the capacity to weep? When I perish, will any bug weep for me?

Though I still lacked energy, I forced myself to find work; I could not spend the last of my days rotting away. I took some Plasmium, mixed a few poultices, and planned to deliver them to the survivors of Bonebottom. To talk of toxicity without considering dosage is just ridiculous—this ill-omened blood may cause horrific warpings, but used correctly, it's a peerless panacea.

Grindle's lackeys scattered again the moment they saw me, but one thief was too busy looking back at me to watch his step. He tumbled headfirst into a pit, impaling his left side on a sharp bone spur. I had already walked past him, but hearing his lung-tearing howls, I sighed heavily and doubled back. Seeing me approach, the thief screamed even louder, and his companions called out anxiously but dared not come close. A civilized bunch of bugs, making enough noise for a roach abattoir.

"Quiet!" The old me would have roared that, surely. But I was too tired. I didn't even have the strength to open my mouth. Enduring the racket in silence, I poured the medicinal liquid into his wound and helped extract the bone spur. Hah, it seems under the tutelage of Songclave, my tolerance threshold for noise has indeed risen significantly.

The thief's scream peaked the moment I touched him, but when he realized the expected pain didn't follow, his wailing gradually subsided. He opened his tightly squeezed eyes, looked at the rapidly closing wound, then at me, sputtering a few confused syllables. I paid him no mind, gathered my things, and continued straight to my original destination.

Flick's face lit up when he saw me appear. Upon learning my purpose, he was over the moon, hurriedly ushering me into the camp to treat the refugees. The pilgrims were still afraid of me, shrinking back constantly as I applied the medicine, reminding me of the fools at Songclave in the early days. Back then, I would've used a fierce glare or harsh words to threaten them into holding still, but I had lost that appetite. I relied entirely on Flick to soothe the wounded so I could finish the treatments.

"Hold your hoppers!" Seeing me turn to leave, Flick stopped me with a grin. "At least let me thank you for this godsend! Besides, I haven't apologized for me earlier rudeness yet!"

"No need," I said coldly. "It was a normal reaction."

"Hahahaha, I was blind as a bat, wasn't I!" I truly envied that he could still laugh like that in such desperate straits. "I should've known! Sherma lad trusted you so much, yet I still put up me guard. A right shame on me!"

I glanced at the pilgrims who were still whispering among themselves. "I'm used to it."

Flick followed my gaze, then gave an awkward, apologetic smile. "Aye, the lot of 'em are scared stiff, hope you don't mind. They're trying to make sense of this madness, and the easiest way is to find a scapegoat—the less familiar, the better. All those stories preaching the stereotypes of evil snail shamans... s'not fair on you folks at all..."

I paused. "What if they are right?"

"Speaking of which, that chapel maid is your relative, ain't she? Thanks to her holding the line when the black threads struck, we managed to retreat safely." He suddenly changed the subject. "And earlier, when I contacted Bellhart for a courier order, I heard that during the quake, an old hermit who usually hides in the roots stepped up to prevent the collapse from claiming more lives. Figure he's your kin too?"

I wasn't surprised my sister did such a thing, but the old geezer too...? That, I did not expect. Why didn't they tell me? Though, I suppose I never asked.

"I just wanna say, folks have seen what you've done. The truth will out, eventually! Your kindness won't be forgotten, and Bonebottom will always, always welcome you." Flick winked at me. "Take that as a promise from one caretaker to another."

My heart skipped a beat when I saw Old One today. However, she wasn't here for us; she started playing her needle beside that small patch of fungi. Under the influence of the music, that mysterious mushroom finally spiraled out of the earth. After chatting with Old One about who-knows-what for a bit, they went their separate ways. Seems they're actually quite acquainted. How many secrets does she have that I don't know?

Regardless, it's finally quiet. I returned to the altar, but faintly heard arguing coming from the secret chamber. Right, the ritual's been ready for ages, what are they still doing in there? Curiosity urged me to investigate.

"No way? How?!" Even at the door, the old geezer's voice was clear. "Look again!"

"Come on then, you tell me where else to look?!" I haven't heard sister this agitated in a long time. "We've turned this place upside down these past days! Nothing means nothing!"

"You mean this wretched ritual requires all three of us to perish?! Our clan has cast numerous spells over generations; I've never heard of one that demands a total wipeout!"

"We've calculated it countless times: Three old hearts, none can be missing! And to bear that much power, our three lives are also indispensable! A common bug can't serve as a vessel due to their mortal constraints! And even if we trained for another few lifetimes, neither of us could harness a second heart!"

"So?! Are you just going to give up like this?! Let him be buried with us?!"

"You think I want this?! Seeing him finally gain a normal bug's life, and now it's coming to an abrupt end, does my heart not ache?!"

Wait, are they...

"That's why I said find another way! Unlike us two pathetic old things, who won't be missed by anyone... he is respected! HE IS LOVED! In that shabby camp of his, bugs are waiting for his safe return! Ask yourself, throughout history, which snail has ever achieved that?! He even adopted a son! Do you want that kid to become an orphan again?!"

"Don't pretend you care more about Little Sherma than I do! At least I had a friendly chat with him; you scared him off immediately! Since you care so much, why not tell him to his face?! Save me the trouble of passing your messages every time!"

"With that rotten personality of his, do you think he'd agree if I told him?! He'd definitely spout nonsense about us looking down on him or underestimating his resolve! The best way is to keep him in the dark, let him wake up after the ritual and find out for himself!"

"I wonder who taught him that rotten personality!"

The room fell into silence, and my heart sank into an indescribable complexity. Since when did they start plotting behind my back? How could I've been so oblivious? ...

After a long while, the old geezer spoke again: "Say, is there any merit in adding another old heart? I heard the last prince of Verdania is still lingering somewhere..."

"Are you senile? ..." Sister was speechless. "Three hearts need three lives to bear them. Adding another heart would demand more, not fewer. You'd need to drag cousin along too."

"Right, how about going to Bilehaven to collect your cousin's fragments? Maybe if we piece them together, they could barely pass as a substitute vessel."

"...I'm ignoring you."

"It's all that damned Old One's fault for sucking our ancestors' largest shell dry! There was plenty of power in there, maybe it could have offered some surplus value..."

Sister grew impatient: "Can you run your thoughts through your brain before opening your mouth? Do you believe these proposals yourself?"

"At least I'm trying to think of a way!" The old geezer switched back to rage mode instantly. "He absolutely cannot die with us! I cannot accept it! I cannot accept it!"

"NEITHER CAN I!!!" Sister's roar echoed in the well for a long time.

Those two arrogant old bastards... I took a deep breath and walked into the secret chamber. "Stop arguing. I don't recall asking you to go this far for me."

The old geezer saw me and instantly puffed up his chest, stepping forward: "Y-you! Why are you here?! Who gave you permission to eavesdrop?!"

"This is my home too," I reminded him. "And you weren't exactly being quiet."

"We didn't mean to deceive you, but..." Sister paused, looking at me with sorrow. "Listen, if there were any way for you to survive, we would certainly—"

"I know." I cut her off. "You've done your best. It's okay. Really."

They seemed to want to say more, but words were stuck on their lips. I didn't stay long, but before leaving, I added: "And I'll say it again: Sherma is NOT my adopted son."

The searing heartbeats invaded my dreams once more. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Lost Hornet stood before me: shadows had swallowed her whole, staining her pale mask and red cloak black, defiling that ancient, divine blood. Her eyes, once steely and regal, now held only hollow echoes. The last hope of Pharloom had fallen into the Void.

I grew tired of these tricks. I shouted: "Stop playing ghost. Show yourself."

Roaring flames incinerated the sky-filling darkness, revealing the scarlet underlayer beneath. Uncanny Essence flowed through the burning clouds like scalding blood, feeding a distorted, calamitous Heart in the center of the firmament. I could not see its eyes, yet I could feel its gaze blazing. How long has it been watching me? Take advantage of my vulnerability to toy with my fears... what is its agenda?

As if it read my thoughts, clusters of flame ignited before me, morphing into a theatrical mask; within the eye sockets, pierced by two vertical lines, eerie embers smoldered. Essence surged like solar flares, uttering rustling whispers that arrived from all directions.

"Light the lantern... Summon the troupe..." The whispers were broken and raspy, like charcoal fire. "Bring the old hearts... Thy land shall be saved... Thy life shall be spared..."

The devil's seduction drilled into my mind, promising a happy ending for all. The mask before me was not just the brand of a contract, but my last hope of survival, so close I could touch it. I admit, in that instant, I wavered: using the fire of the Nightmare's Heart to burn away the Silk shooting from the Abyss... it was indeed a sounder plan. And, of course, the more selfish reason: I could live. We could all live. Is that not exactly what I craved? ...The price itself was tempting enough, let alone the crushing pressure of a higher being, sufficient to force any common bug to their knees.

However... I've already killed one god. What's another? I summoned Void and nearly destroyed Pharloom, but not so I could hand it over to the whims of yet another higher being!

I raised my staff and blasted a torrent of Soul. The theatrical mask cracked open under the pale beam, leaking dusty memories. Memories rushed in like a tide, my life unfolding slowly before my eyes. Even the blurred details became incomparably clear in this moment. From the old geezer shielding us behind him as he chased off choristors, to sister mimicking an adult and bonking my head with her staff for the first time; from cousin putting his arm around my shoulder, excitedly describing his grand blueprints, to the long-silent First Shrine letting out its waking toll. And after that... all manner of bugs barging into my life, crowding my little nest with noise. "Mr. Caretaker!" "Mr. Caretaker!" Their enthusiastic greetings... my ears were calloused from hearing them.

Damn it. I ain't dead yet, so why is my life flashing before my eyes? ...Didn't I hate their naive fantasies and foolish laughter the most? Wasn't it their unrealistic hope that forced me to pay the price of my life? Yet... why have I never regretted taking them in? Why do the moments of our days and nights together play on repeat in my mind? Why do warm tears traitorously roll down my cheeks, and I couldn't stop 'em?...

The mask disintegrated under the bombardment of spells. The dream collapsed with it, and scarlet fire swallowed my vision. I woke up calmly. The fear that had been lurking in the bottom of my heart was gone. Only two tracks of tears remained, soaking my pillow.

Today, sister brought out three bowls of Mossberry Stew. Said she had to practically beg a local druid for them and insisted we try some. It looked about as appetizing as sludge, but considering we don't have many days left, might as well try it. Can't kill us twice, right? The initial spicy kick nearly made me spit it out on the spot; tasted like over-fermented spirits. But I admit, once got used to it, the sweet aftertaste lingering on the teeth was a bit addictive.

As we drank, we chatted about family history. Sister has the best memory for this sort of thing; she dug up a pile of dirt, especially the old geezer's embarrassing youth! Oh ho ho! If she hadn't mentioned it, I would have forgotten: back in the day, the old geezer actually gave himself a pretentious artistic name—"The Ethereal Bell Sage." Truly, how chuunibyou! The moment this topic came up, the old geezer's face turned purple. He started stammering and sputtering. So he does know shame! Oh ho ho ho ho!

Sister and I were laughing so hard our sides hurt. I couldn't help myself. I jumped off the altar, waving my arms and legs, posing dramatically: "Behold! I am the Ethereal Bell Sage of Temple Bellhart!"

The old geezer, flustered and furious, swung his staff trying to hit me. Oh ho! Can he reach me? Carrying that heavy shell, can he catch me? The advantage of two legs finally shows itself! Come on! Hit me! Oh ho ho ho ho!

I have to say, this Mossberry Stew kicks quite hard; it went to my head soon enough. Through the haze, I seemed to see our ancestors, and the successors of the old hearts, joining hands to form a circle... The three of us joined in too, singing and dancing around the altar...

Wait?! We were singing and dancing?! Lord of Shades, what have I done?!

The hangover left me with a splitting headache when I woke up. I stumbled groggily to the chapel backyard and fetched a cup of Plasmium to sober up. As I drank, I watched my sister meticulously dusting the tombstones, and teased: "Dying soon, yet you still have the leisure to sweep graves for others?"

"Oh ho! Precisely because we are dying, I must clean them one last time!" She said. "Most pilgrims buried here died nameless, victims of the Citadel's lies before they even set foot on the road. Aside from me, I reckon no bug remembers them..."

"What about us, then?" I asked on a whim. "Will any bug tend our graves?"

"If anyone actually builds us a tomb, we'd be lucky if it doesn't get smashed to pieces!" Sister laughed heartlessly. "After all, you know our reputation. However, given your popularity... who knows? Maybe plenty of bugs will mourn you!"

"Being missed ain't always a good thing," I muttered. "Just invites grave robbers to dig us up, like Old One did."

"By the way, did I mention even this mass grave was dug up a while back? A renegade servitor of Steel unearthed several corpses, attempting a summoning ritual. Old One arrived to stop them but spared their life. So you see, our plan ain't that ridiculous! There are other bugs on the same frequency as us!"

"At least they're free to run for their life, while we must stay to clean up the mess."

Sister fell silent. After a long while, she spoke again: "...Do you have any regrets?"

I looked up at the sky and sighed. "Too many to count. Where would I even begin?"

"Heh, true enough..." A bitter smile touched the corner of her mouth.

"There are so many things I still want to do, so many words I still want to say." I looked at her and continued. "However, I am also fortunate: at least in the final days of my life, I learned the meaning of belonging."

Sister's expression shifted from surprise to relief, then melted into a smile of quiet contentment. For the rest of the time, I stayed with her, tending the graveyard, listening as she recounted the life story of every sleeper beneath the earth. I couldn't help but think back to the afternoons of our childhood; she used to tell hearsay tales of far-off adventures just like this, clamoring that one day she'd see them with her own eyes. Back then, the persecution of the Citadel hadn't yet pressed directly upon our shoulders; back then, she still dreamed of the wide world, smiling like a flower in bloom.

The old geezer, who usually stays holed up indoors, was suddenly nowhere to be found today. Though frankly, the trail of flight magic he left behind couldn't have been more obvious. I followed the drifting Soul all the way to the bottom of Blasted Steps. Under the grand arch of the kingdom's entrance, the old geezer sat alone, staring blankly at the sky filled with wind and sand, lost in thought. I sat down beside him. "What, ready to desert?"

"A tempting proposal indeed, ain't it?" Old geezer chuckled faintly. "To leave this pile of rot far behind, head to a strange land, and start a new life. A pity... we both know this frail shell could not withstand the scouring of this wasteland."

"You never know," I said casually. "After all, this wasteland only has wind. The wind doesn't carry annoying curses or complaints."

The old geezer let out a heavy sigh. "Listen. I know we haven't exactly gotten along all this time. I have said some truly excessive things to you... Some words I look back on and find vile myself. But I didn't mean them, alright? I was just—"

"Shut it." I rolled my eyes. "Keep talking like that, and you'll ruin your image."

He froze for a moment. "Hah. I wonder who you got that rotten personality from."

"Yeah, who indeed?" I threw the question back.

The howling gale swept through the vast emptiness, bringing a chill from afar, blowing away the scent of civilization, and blowing away all grudges and debts. The old geezer took a deep breath, his mouth hanging open for a while before he finally made a sound: "You know... the student has surpassed the master. You have not only mastered everything I taught you, but learned much that I never did. I am proud of you."

"Really?" I turned to face him. "Am I your favorite apprentice again?"

"Really." He answered without thinking twice.

"Compared to cousin?"

"...You still have a long way to go."

We burst out laughing together. Then we reminisced about cousin—all the harmony and the arguments, all the glory and the shame. Cousin, we're coming to reunite with you soon, so you'd better scrub yourself clean! When I go down to join you again, I don't want to get splattered with maggots!

Alright, this is my final journal entry. Old One returned with the three old hearts as promised—or rather, four. Don't know how the last prince of Verdania offended her, to get his heart ripped out for no reason... but if she wants to hang it in her Bellhome for display, let her. None of my business. Everything is ready. The ritual admits no delay. The candlelight on the altar calls for my end. Soon, I shall cease to exist.

I suppose this is the time to write a last will. But where would I even start? The conversation with my sister the other day floats in my mind. I suppose I am indeed lucky: not long ago, I was rotting away my days in cynicism, yet in just a few short months, I gained bonds, regained hope, and glimpsed a world I never could have dreamed of. Though I understood too many truths too late, and left too many feelings unexpressed... all in all, this trip through the realm of living was not a wasted journey.

At this moment, what weighs most on my heart is still Songclave. In my absence, who knows what sort of mess Sherma has managed it into! He couldn't be dead already, could he? ...No. Impossible. Though I can't explain why, I am certain. That optimistic stubbornness, that maddening obstinacy, that hopelessly foolish faith... even Void could not make a dent in it. He will surely endure until the end of the calamity, and lead everyone to forge a new era of peace—an era that belongs not to the religion and god of the past, but to themselves.

Thinking of him, that annoying melody echoes in my ears again. Damn it. Is that stupid song really that hard to shake? I swear, when I get back and see him, I'm demanding compensation for mental damage!

…………

Hah, daft kid.

(The handwriting in this final entry is neat and elegant, a sharp contrast to the scrawled script of the pages before.)

Mr. Caretaker, it has been a while since we last met. Some time has passed since I descended to the bottom of the Void, rescued the silken child, and broke the monarch’s bind. The reconstruction of Pharloom proceeds with order; its residents are far more resilient than either of us imagined. Despite facing grief that pierces the heart and the confusion of waking from a long dream, they strive ever forward. Before long, when the framework of this new order is established, I too shall depart this kingdom and return to my homeland.

Songclave has played a pivotal role in Pharloom's restoration. Thanks to the valor of Second Sentinel and the guard, refugees of the Citadel suffered miraculously few casualties during the catastrophe of the Abyss. Now, the Songclave guard serves as new Pharloom's first militia, carrying out the last wish of Garmond by providing disaster relief across the land. Madam Jubilana has also contributed greatly, using her wealth of scavenging experience to direct the gathering of supplies, vastly accelerating the rebuilding process—though, naturally, quite a few rosaries found their way into her pockets along the way. The trauma support group led by Sherma has evolved into new Pharloom's first healing order, saving lives on the front lines. You may find it hard to believe—as did I—but Sherma has achieved initial success in the medical application of Silk. I had thought such feats possible only for Weavers. With the pale monarch gone, Silk can finally serve as a simple tool to improve the lives of bugs, rather than a means for spreading a higher being's will. I believe that even a bug as stubborn as you, upon witnessing these changes, would be proud of them.

I am uncertain if you wish to hear the details of your funeral, yet I have decided to record them here, in part for my own solace. In the backyard of your family’s ruined chapel, we raised a simple monument for all who perished in this disaster. Flick was dissatisfied with it; he thumped his chest and vowed that once his hands are free, he will repair and expand the chapel to a scale rivalling Memorium, and build a grand statue in the center for the three of you to forever memorialize your sacrifice. Though I know you would likely disapprove of such idolatry, that is the free will of others, and I have no right to interfere.

We buried Garmond beside you—I hope you do not mind. Most survivors, including nearly every bug you befriended, came to bid the departed farewell, with but one exception. I anticipated that the stubborn Keeper would never leave his damp listening chamber, but out of social courtesy, I visited the Vaults to inform him of your passing.

"Oh..." Cardinius's eyes dimmed for a moment, but he quickly recovered. "Good riddance! That is the fitting end for any bug daring to defy this Keeper!"

Despite his words, on the day of the memorial, he sent someone to deliver a cylinder. Its content was a recording of an ancient chorus sung by Weavers and snails together—proof that my ancestors and yours once conspired, however briefly. I know not how long it took Cardinius to unearth such forbidden audio; I suspect you understand the depth of meaning within it better than I.

Trobbio dyed himself a blue-grey hue to match your shell, and prepared a lengthy speech to deliver at the memorial, refusing to yield the spotlight. That arrogant actor would never miss a chance to be the center of attention. He used flowery rhetoric and mournful affectation to reflect on suffering, comfort the spirits, and praise the fallen. I shall skip that portion, lest it disturb your rest. However, he did mention you specifically, claiming that seeing you fight to the bitter end in the face of apocalypse made him realize how foolish he was to sit and wait for death. I do not oppose this sentiment, though how much of it was genuine emotion is unknown.

Of course, no matter how hard Trobbio tried, he could not steal the show. I discovered I had severely underestimated Sherma's influence: bugs from all across the kingdom knew and loved him. His kindness was like a stone dropped in a pond of causality, rippling outward to create this moment of unanimous support. He took the stage and, before everyone, removed your cowl and placed it before the monument. In this time, he has been given many titles: Sherma the Pilgrim, Sherma the Healer, Sherma the Tribune, Sherma the Caretaker...but today, he was just Sherma. Nothing more. His gentle storytelling held a quiet power that resonated deeply in the hearts of every listener, myself included. He had invited me to speak as well, but I declined; this moment belonged to them, and a foreign traveler should not overshadow it. It seems that was the correct decision. From the naive believer singing at a bone gate to the leader uniting a kingdom, he has grown immensely outside my view—and much of that credit belongs to you. Pharloom's future is safe in his hands; I think you would agree.

To my surprise, Grindle attended the ceremony openly. I was certain the cunning thief boss would target the mourners' purses—grief is the best distraction, after all—so I asked Shakra to keep a close watch on him. Unexpectedly, he behaved himself from start to finish, simply watching from a distance with no suspicious movements. In his usually cynical eyes, I even caught a glimpse of genuine regret.

As the collective memorial concluded, the crowd dispersed, but the residents of Songclave remained. They sat in a circle, reminiscing about the times you and Garmond spent in the camp, mixing laughter with tears. Second Sentinel stood alone before the monument, holding a salute in silence for a long, long time, until Zaza nudged their leg, pulling them back to reality. The machine crouched in confusion, stroking Zaza's head carefully. Zaza purred with satisfaction, then ran to Garmond's grave, picked up the hornlance planted there, and brought it to the sentinel.

"Receive this hornlance, you want this s-s-sentinel to?" Gilded Knight was baffled. "Relic of a f-f-friend... that the weight is too heavy to b-b-bear, does this sentinel fear."

Zaza let out an insistent chirp. I stepped forward. "Rather than letting it rust in the earth, the weapon's master would surely prefer it be used by you, to protect more people."

Second Sentinel hesitated for a long while. Finally, they accepted the lance, solemnly fastening it to their back. They looked to me and asked: "Hunter in Red, c-c-confused about one thing, is this sentinel."

"You may speak."

"Directives, is the c-c-core of sentinels' decisions, sometimes achieved even at the cost of self-destruction." Their eyes were filled with slight sorrow. "Do mortals have directives as well? Why do they hold their own lives so l-l-lightly for matters external to themselves?"

"That is not a directive; that is a choice." I paused, then answered. "Their attachments to significant others override their survival instincts. That is a sign of holding life dearly, not lightly. Gilded one, perhaps you have not realized it yet, but you have that choice too."

No cost too great. It was my father's motto and his last word. I cannot help but wonder: when you decided to use your lives as bargaining chips, did you hold the same thought?

As twilight fell, at Sherma's instruction, Second Sentinel escorted the residents of Songclave back to their posts. Only Sherma, Jubilana, Zaza, and I remained. Shakra offered to help me send you off, just as I once helped her with her mentor, but I respectfully declined.

Jubilana pulled a bottle of Vintage Nectar from her pack, took a swig herself, and sighed: "Such fine nectar... 'tis a true sin to waste it on the dead! But... a bargain is a bargain."

Then, she poured the rest of the nectar onto your grave.

Without the crowd surrounding him, Sherma finally allowed himself to show a moment of fragility. He sat hugging his knees in silence, eyes swimming with loss. Seeming to want to cheer him up, Jubilana nudged him with her elbow: "By the by, dear one, aren't you going to sing a song for that old fool?"

Sherma's eyes lit up, then dimmed again. "Hah, better not... Mr. Caretaker never liked my singing much..."

"What nonsense are you spouting? You know that old rascal's character—cursing with his mouth, but loving it to death in his heart!" Jubilana turned to me. "Right, dear one?"

I do not possess the power to read minds, so I cannot judge if you truly liked Sherma's singing. But mourning is not for the peace of the dead; it is for the living to gather the courage to move on. So, I nodded. Zaza chirped in encouragement as well.

"See? Everyone thinks 'tis a fine idea!" Jubilana persisted. "Besides, that old bastard owed us a song! He promised faithfully to sing with us when peace came, yet he slacked off and left early, dying right before liberation! Where's the justice in that? He should count himself lucky he only has to listen and not sing!"

Sherma smiled faintly. He struck his chimes and let his voice soar. Jubilana and Zaza soon joined the chorus, and I plucked my Silk strings in accompaniment. Our music rode the breeze of Moss Grotto, echoing long over the emerald pools.

When the song ended, Sherma looked visibly brighter. He put on your white robe again and took up your staff, though it was a struggle for his size. It was time to leave. Suddenly, without warning, Zaza hoisted Sherma onto his back. Sherma was startled, then giggled. I followed beside them, listening as Sherma and Jubilana chatted and laughed, envisioning the future. In their bright hope for tomorrow, we walked out of the ruined chapel and into the light of spring.

For a long time after that, the ruined First Shrine in the Citadel became a popular topic among the populace. Some say there once lived a bad-tempered old hermit, grumpily chasing away any visitors; others say there once lived an arrogant, evil shaman, who summoned the black plight that nearly swallowed Pharloom. I suppose those are accurate and fair appraisals. However, if you ask those bugs of Songclave—those to whom you extended a selfless hand despite your verbal rejection, those to whom you gave hope even yourself dared not believe in when they were at the rock bottom of despair—they speak your name with reverence and regret: In that ancient First Shrine, there once lived a saint.