In the dark mist, Sassel's emotionless gaze fell upon the anomaly of the dream—the woman with severed legs, struggling in place.
What a pity.
If they weren't still in danger, if he had a specially prepared containment vessel, he would absolutely have collected this thing for his laboratory. The thing before him—whether for analyzing its composition, studying its physiological properties, using it as experimental material, or even trading it among his fellow black sorcerers—had considerable value.
Assuming, of course, that his laboratory still existed.
Before his hasty reincarnation, in order not to let his research data, experimental materials, and findings become spoils of war for the Empire—or worse, for the Empire to use his experimental records to hunt him down—the black sorcerer had used explosives made by the black-clad soldiers to completely detonate his laboratory. Every inch of it was utterly pulverized into unrecoverable dust, and as a bonus, it had taken out many of the pursuing Hounds.
If I can get back to the Holy City with Jeanne, the first thing I need to do is build a sufficiently concealed laboratory.
As for the inquisitor's opinion—did he need an inquisitor's opinion to conduct a black sorcerer's experiments? At worst, he would just drag this woman down to the lowest labyrinth with him.
Then, he tightened his grip on his sword hilt, shook his head, and turned to leave.
"I don't think the Hounds and the Priests of Hod will coexist peacefully with us after they arrive in this labyrinth. Especially since we might have to get the way out from them," Sassel said as he walked. "Before things get out of hand, I need to take care of the master of this house and then use the materials in this place to complete the initial phase of my body's mutation, so I can push open the doors to the few labyrinths I have stored in my memory."
"So I'm supposed to witness the origin story of a black sorcerer here? That sounds absolutely disgusting," Jeanne said, her face sour as she tapped the hilt of her sword against her palm. "I should be taking this opportunity, while you're weak, to perform a purification ritual."
"You can think of it as your first time," Sassel said, turning his head and narrowing his eyes, a sarcastic smile playing on his lips. "Everyone has a first time. Don't you agree?"
The remark seemed to make Jeanne extremely unhappy. A visible annoyance flushed her face. "—May I interpret that as you hitting on me? Has your low-class humor overflowed to such an un-concealable degree? Do you need me to drag that legless woman from before over here to solve your physiological problems?" She paused, tapping the blade of her sword with her left fingertip, as if regaining her self-control. "By the way, does that evil pact of yours come with a return and exchange policy? Is it too late for me to back out now?"
"Nice roar, corpse-burner."
Sassel's eyebrows shot up. "As for the pact—its final right of interpretation belongs to the ancient black sorcerer who created this spell, and its administrator is one of the avatars of the Key and the Gate. Neither you nor I have the right to tear it up. Do you need me to tell you the ritual to contact this particular Outer God?"
"...No," Jeanne's face grew even darker.
From the distance came a dull, chewing sound.
Perhaps it was because it felt strange; perhaps it was the frustration born from having to walk through such a place in a weakened state for so long. Sassel used his spirit-sight, expanding it many times over, to look into the distance.
The dull chewing was a prelude. The sound was very low; if it weren't for the black sorcerer's perception spell, a normal person would never have heard the faint, subtle echo. Then, an unpleasant, thick stench quietly drifted over, as if a swollen, rotting corpse had burped right in their faces, maggots prying open the host's throat and vomiting out all the putrid matter from its stomach. The smell gripped the black sorcerer's low breaths like a toxic gas, dispelling the fresh, damp air of the wetlands and almost making him suffocate.
Sassel grabbed Jeanne's arm. "Don't go any further yet," he said in a low voice. "Stay quiet."
The inquisitor nearly stabbed him with her sword.
The dark canopy of the sky began to writhe, as if a layer of wet mold was stuck to a viscous jelly. The illusory darkness of the night, grim and sinister, was suddenly covered in a carpet of fine protrusions. With a rustling wind, a damp stench that mixed with the wetland's vapor began to spread. The sound of the wind grew louder and louder, as if something was beating its wings.
Then, he saw a mass of ink even blacker than the black canvas of this world, a formless, bizarre, and hideous smoke that was stretching like a living thing, like a black pool overgrown with aquatic weeds. As the mist moved, he saw some inexplicable dream anomalies fall into it, and then—their outlines became soft, dissolved, and gradually melted away as if dropped into a pool of strong acid.
The black sorcerer remembered an ancient grimoire—it should be preserved in the Empire's archives now.
"By the Truth... the Crawling Mist..." Sassel could barely breathe. Other than those insane cultists, who would ever want to personally make contact with these Outer Gods? Even if it was just an avatar!
"—What is that?" Jeanne asked, her voice muffled as she covered her nose with her other hand.
"Don't worry about what it is," Sassel whispered to her. "Although I'm sure my concealment spell is useless against it, it has nothing to do with us. It's just passing by."
Just as the black sorcerer said, the mist soon moved away. It carried its suffocating stench as it writhed toward the distance, completely disappearing from their sight.
"We should probably walk faster," Sassel let go of Jeanne's arm. He had gripped it so tightly that he had left several finger marks on her skin—a few white lines faithfully outlined the marks. "God knows what else might pass through here."
Jeanne shook her slightly stinging arm. Although the inquisitor wanted to comment on it, or even curse him out, she ended up changing the question. "What exactly is the Crawling Mist?"
"I once read a grimoire recorded by the Dark Elves. The data said it is one of the avatars of the God of a Thousand Faces," he said. "It's said that this thing is active in a labyrinth related to dreams, but honestly, I've never paid attention to the data on that labyrinth. As for the Crawling Mist itself... other than the fact that it's a putrid, moving fog, the book didn't mention much else."
They continued to follow the black cat's steps. The black canvas stretched on and on, seemingly without end.
Beyond the wetland, on a plain as flat as a wooden board, bizarre things were scattered everywhere. A faceless hunter with its limbs and head all attached in the wrong places was crawling on the ground with a longbow on its back. A female priestess, her features sewn shut with needle and thread, lay on the ground, chanting softly. An obese man, his skin pulled taut by hooks and chains, had the head of a toy rabbit embedded above his neck and was gnawing on a pile of eyeballs that had sprouted numerous cockroach legs. They paid them no mind, simply walking past without a second glance.
Since these were all just outlines drawn in white lines, it wasn't too disgusting.
Of course, that was just the black sorcerer's opinion. It was hard to say what Jeanne was thinking.
And so, beside a door that was impossible to describe... covered everywhere with bizarre graffiti, standing alone in the center of the plain, the cat stopped.
"This is it?"
"This is the door to the master's room, but I've never been inside," it said.
"You wait here for a bit," Sassel finally turned his gaze to it—or her. "After I've taken care of things in here, I can fulfill your wish. I always respect a contract, no matter who it's between."
He dragged his sword and walked toward the door, noticing a faint black mist seeping out from the crack at the bottom.