Ashes Of Deep Sea-Chapter 336 - 340 Sinking into the Spirit Realm
Chapter 336: Chapter 340: Sinking into the Spirit Realm
Chapter 336 -340: Sinking into the Spirit Realm
The watchman’s hut fell into an eerie silence, as if the stillness solidified in the air—the old watchman even had a certain illusion, feeling as if the altar on the desk, the candle flame, the smoke from the incense, and the faint spiritual power permeating the air had all briefly stilled.
An illusion?
The old man looked up in confusion, noticing the candle flame dancing in his field of view, but it seemed to start flickering only the moment he looked up.
He stared at the pale flame for quite some time before slowly shaking his head, returning his gaze to the letter in front of him, with a sense of strangeness he had never felt before, he read the text on it.
But after only a few lines, he couldn’t care less about the dissonance and awkwardness in his heart—the content of the letter was beginning to make him realize the gravity of the situation.
Warnings about the city-state being eroded by deep-sea forces, evidence of mass activities by doom cultists, speculations about the intrusion of the Profound Lord into the real world, and… a warning about Dagger Island.
The old watchman stared hard at the lines of the letter in his hand, suddenly feeling that the unsettling atmosphere that had been spreading in the city-state now had an explanation.
He didn’t know whether or not he should believe this “report” from some indescribable entity, but one thing was beyond doubt—guardians at the gate and the cathedral must be notified immediately!
…
Agatha bent over to examine the Senkin lady, who was deep in slumber on the sofa—the latter was still sleeping soundly, completely unaware that the room was now full of guards, even occasionally murmuring uneasily in her sleep.
The fact that she could talk in her sleep indicated she hadn’t been mentally impaired in the “attack,” meaning the uninvited guest who entered this household meant no harm.
Agatha’s gaze swept over Garland, the formidable Senkin Miss; most Senkin people possessed such robust physiques by nature, with skin as tough as stone—after a brief examination, the young gatekeeper noticed the muscles on the woman’s body would occasionally tense up, combined with the uneasy murmurs she had heard… it seemed the Senkin lady’s dreams were not peaceful.
“No external injuries, no signs of supernatural contamination, no traces of struggle. It appears to be just an ordinary sleep—but she cannot be awakened,” said a priest in a gray and white coat standing by, reporting the current situation to Agatha, “Considering there are no signs of forced entry on the door lock and that there are signs of kitchen use, the initial assessment is that the ‘intruder’ was invited into the house.”
“It could be an acquaintance or a guest who gained trust,” Agatha muttered softly, “What’s the situation on the second floor?”
“Numerous samples have been collected, and a last testament document was found. The person who left it seems to be the source of those… abnormal substances in the room,” the priest nodded, “Additionally, based on other clues found in the house, the person who left the written account is believed to be ‘Brown Scott,’ a folklorist.”
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“A folklorist?” Agatha frowned, “Have you checked his background?”
“People have been sent to the nearest resident management office to retrieve his files, but there’s no response yet.”
“You stay here to watch over this lady,” Agatha nodded, “I will go upstairs to check the situation.”
“Yes, your honor, Gatekeeper.”
In the second-floor study, the guards had completed the preliminary evidence collection and sample gathering, and when Agatha arrived, her subordinates were trying to clean up the dried “mud” hanging from the bookshelves in order to transfer the large collection of books in the room.
In places where Transcendent powers had lost control, books left at the scene could be contaminated by Transcendent forces, so transferring and storing these books for further study was an essential procedure—even if it might “contaminate the scene.”
Agatha’s gaze landed on the dry, gray-black mud.
These things… they reminded her of the samples collected in Cemetery No. 3, those… strange substances suspected to be “Prime Element.”
She had also seen the “last testament” referred to earlier by the priest—it was placed in the most conspicuous spot on the desk.
From the first glance at the document, Agatha discerned that the manuscript had been tampered with; there were obvious signs of cleaning on the surface, meticulously done.
These were not the actions of a malevolent intruder, but more like those of a “professional investigator” who came to look into the incident for legitimate reasons, much like herself. Thinking of the lady on the first floor who fell into a deep sleep, Agatha had already formed some preliminary conjectures.
A mysterious third party, who, at least, did not seem like an enemy—were they the same group that was clashing with the cultists of annihilation in the alley outside?
If so, well, the power of this “third party” warranted close attention.
With various conjectures and deductions swirling through her mind, Agatha’s gaze slowly swept over the words of the “dying record.” As those words imbued with resolve, courage, and enlightenment met her eyes, the Gatekeeper’s own expression became increasingly somber and serious.
The owner of the record… had actually retained a clear consciousness and memory.
After a brief moment of contemplation, Agatha gently inhaled, placed the dying record respectfully back on the desk, and then grasped the walking stick she carried with her. Slowly, she drew the tin-capped end of the stick across the floor.
The sound of metal scraping against the wooden planks rose, a pale flame ignited at the end of the stick, leaving similarly luminous, pale traces on the floor. As the flame and glowing traces extended, the sound of the staff dragging across the floor began to change—it became deeper and more sluggish, as if a thick, invisible barrier had been established, gradually sealing off the surrounding space.
Soon, Agatha mapped out a triangular area large enough for an adult to stand within, and within this triangle, she inscribed the runes of the death god Bartok. Then, stepping into the center of the triangle, she set her staff down beside her and reached towards her own eye socket with her other hand.
A vivid eyeball popped out and fell into the palm of her hand.
In just an instant, silence fell all around. All sounds from the material world were shut out by the imperceptible barrier beyond the triangle, followed by innumerable, eerily quiet whispers, as if thousands of unseen voyeurs were gathered outside the triangle, endlessly chattering to the Gatekeeper about something or another.
Agatha raised her hand, palm facing up, scanning the surroundings with her own eyeball.
Everything in the room, including the busy guardians, the dust floating in the air, and the hands of the clock on the wall, all became still like amber in stasis, rapidly losing color and plunging into gloom. An odd, pallid luminescence permeated from outside the window, penetrating the wooden planks blocking the window and casting a faint and elongated shadow in the room.
In this strangely silent and pale realm of stasis, only Agatha, standing in the middle of the triangle, remained in the semblance and color of the living. With her eyes tightly shut, she held her eyeball in her left hand and began to survey her surroundings while saying calmly, “I wish to speak with the deceased here.”
The irritating multitude of whispering voices around her suddenly quieted significantly. Agatha then rotated her left hand, directing her eyeball toward the desk not far away.
This was where the folklorist Brown Scott, who left behind the “dying record,” had last worked. In theory, if a soul had indeed resided here, a trace of its lingering presence should still be roaming nearby.
Even though the “mud” that was plentiful in the room indicated that the we likely had here was a “monster” coalesced by Transcendent forces, the “monster” apparently once had humanity. Agatha was certain of this after reading the record.
However, by that empty desk, she discovered nothing.
No lingering trace of a soul, no projection formed by lingering attachments, and not even a glimmer representing residual spiritual energy; there was only a colorless desk piled with black substances, from which thin wisps of smoke were rising.
Agatha’s eyeball slowly swayed in her palm.
The Gatekeeper pondered.
Had the soul’s remnants dissipated due to the length of time since death? Or was the entity that had been in this room merely an imitation, having never had true humanity but only mimicked memories and personalities? Or perhaps… had the soul already passed through Bartok’s gate, entering into the realm of rest?
The last conjecture seemed particularly improbable—in light of the room’s current state, even if the person known as “Brown Scott” once had a soul lingering here, it must have been gravely contaminated. And a contaminated soul… cannot pass through that gate.
But where did the soul go?
The low murmuring whispers around her began again, louder and more bothersome than before.
The shadows of the Spirit Realm were growing restless, taking no liking to the unexpected intruder—even a powerful Gatekeeper such as herself should not stay too long at this depth.
With this thought, Agatha lifted her staff and tapped it twice on the floor.
The tin staff, upon tapping, let out a thunderous boom as if it were thunder itself.
“Agatha, the Gatekeeper of the earthly realm, wishes to speak with the Gatekeeper of the realm of the deceased.”
