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He then surveyed the surroundings – the deity of death hadn’t arranged for a headstone for itself, and there were no materials in the vicinity that could be fashioned into one.

With a decisive action, Duncan thrust the shovel, previously used for digging, into the ground in front of the mound, stabilizing it with soil at its base to serve as an improvised marker.

Having done this, he inhaled deeply, laying his hand upon the shovel’s handle one final time.

A subtle greenish glow, mingled with the faint light of distant stars, emanated from his fingers, gradually enveloping the makeshift “headstone” of the deity of death before fading away.

“May you rest in peace, Bartok, until we meet again,” Duncan murmured softly, his form gradually dissolving into the wind.

The turbulent wind transformed into a brief cry, as light and shadow emerged from the darkness and swiftly reassembled. After experiencing a moment of weightlessness and a shift in perception, Duncan felt the solidity of the ground return beneath his feet, and the landscape around him quickly came into focus.

The majestic Gate of Death still stood, unyielding, in the midst of the devastated stony wilderness. Before the triangular gateway, the imposing figure seated upon the dark throne silently crumbled away, akin to a fragmenting dream dispelling at dawn. The unseen presence cloaked in a black robe dispersed with the wind, and the robe itself descended like the night, decaying and eroding into nothingness.

Among the scattering black fragments and dust, only a delicate greenish light, paired with dim starlight, flickered in the breeze.

Duncan bowed his head, noticing the edge of the hourglass in his grasp shimmering faintly, with vague whispers seemingly resonating beside him. Realizing something profound, he advanced and placed the ancient yet finely crafted hourglass beside the throne, once occupied by the deity of death.

Retreating, he saw Agatha standing silently, her gaze fixed on the now vacant throne. After an indeterminate span of time, the “Gatekeeper,” born of illusions, slowly turned her head, her eyes reflecting a mixture of complex emotions: “…Has He found peace?”

“Yes, I accompanied Him on His final journey,” Duncan responded gently, then added, “The hourglass harbors a fragment of His essence. I’ve positioned it next to the throne, ensuring that the mortal realm’s Death Church can still momentarily access some ‘blessings’… they will continue to require them.”

Agatha’s response was a slow, deliberate nod. She seemed as if she were on the cusp of articulating a cascade of thoughts and emotions, yet words eluded her. In place of speech, her inner turmoil found expression in a soft sigh so faint it barely stirred the air.

“The time to return is upon us,” Duncan intoned, a gravity in his voice hinting at the urgency of their situation. “The final countdown has begun. We must make haste back to the node of the Leviathan Queen without delay.”

Acknowledging Duncan’s directive with a soft hum, Agatha cast her gaze back the way they had come, only to behold a desolate expanse of broken stones stretching into the horizon, devoid of any discernible features to mark their path.

The surrounding darkness seemed to claim this silent domain entirely, a realm where paths once trodden by the dead offered no passage for return.

Yet, in that moment of despair, a startling change occurred. The enigmatic “Gatekeepers” encircling the throne of the Death God began to stir. These silent, monolithic spectres initiated a solemn procession, lifting their hands one by one. They pointed into the darkness, from which a twilight-like illumination began to emerge, weaving through the air in the direction they indicated. This light seemed to gather and flow unseen, paving a path through the wasteland.

Guided by the silent decree of these towering phantasms, a pathway materialized amidst the desolation, bathed in a soft, twilight glow. Along its borders, unnamed wildflowers burst into bloom, their petals swaying gently in the breeze.

For the first time in this dominion of death, as the machinations of mortality ceased and the Death God lay in rest, a way back to the realm of the living was revealed.

Witnessing this miraculous emergence, Agatha could only stare in wonder. Her eyes instinctively sought out the Gatekeeper who had initially led them, finding him in a silent farewell, his gesture a solemn directive: Leave, and never again linger in the domain of death.

Heeding this silent counsel, she, alongside Duncan, embarked upon the newly formed path, leaving the desolate wasteland behind them.

Their journey back was marked by solitude, with only the occasional gust of wind for company. The wasteland gradually receded from view, giving way to the familiar sight of black and white, unnamed wild grasses swaying in the wilderness. As they pressed on, the towering silhouettes of the Vanished and the Bright Star loomed in the distance. Approaching these landmarks, Duncan and Agatha found themselves back at their point of departure.

The paper-folded boat awaited them, with Lucretia standing at its bow, her expression a mix of bewilderment and surprise. Upon noticing Duncan, her eyebrows arched in astonishment before she leaped down to greet them.

“Have you been here the entire time?” Duncan inquired, taken aback by the sight of the “Sea Witch” who seemed to have scarcely moved, “Our absence was extended…”

“You left but a few minutes ago,” Lucretia replied, her astonishment mirroring Duncan’s. “As soon as you and Agatha disappeared behind a curtain of twilight-hued light, you’ve returned seemingly out of nowhere. I feared you might have been thrust into an unforeseen predicament.”

“A few minutes?” Duncan’s brow furrowed at this revelation, yet he quickly shelved his bewilderment. Given the series of extraordinary events they had encountered, such anomalies had become almost routine.

“Our task is complete,” he declared with finality, “We shall depart right away.”

Lucretia’s gaze shifted between Duncan and Agatha, sensing that the duo had traversed an epic saga within what, to her, had seemed a mere handful of minutes. Yet, she refrained from probing further, instead offering a subtle nod in agreement, “…Alright.”

…

As the pale flames within the brazier died out, the soft, indistinct whispers that had been echoing in her mind also faded away. Agatha, who had been kneeling in a meditative stance within the sanctuary of the prayer room, lifted her head, drawn by a subtle intuition, and turned her attention towards the mirror adjacent to her.

Blindfolded, she was deprived of conventional sight, yet this limitation bestowed upon her a heightened spiritual clarity. This unique perception unveiled the essence of other dimensions, realms beyond the grasp of the average eye.

Reflected in the mirror, she perceived a vision fleeting yet profound—a solitary grave set against a desolate, dark landscape, with the light of twilight dwindling on the horizon.

This ephemeral glimpse into another reality was momentary, yet its message was clear and resonant to Agatha, who held the dual roles of a youthful Gatekeeper and an Archbishop. She comprehended the grave implications of what this scene represented.

Silently, she continued to kneel before the sacred statue, and after a brief moment of contemplation, bowed her head once more, resuming her silent prayers. Her lips moved without sound, offering benedictions for those who had passed from this world to the next.

Her prayer, succinct yet poignant, was recited thrice. Rising gracefully from her kneeling posture, Agatha approached a nearby shelf. From a wooden box, she selected a dried flower, its petals pale and delicate, and placed it next to the candlestick that stood before the image of sanctity.

Outside, the ambient sounds of the city’s restlessness permeated the walls of the church, a distant cacophony of life’s unceasing tumult.

Footsteps, hurried and purposeful, approached from the corridor. Soon, a voice belonging to a member of the clergy echoed just outside the sanctuary: “Archbishop, are you present?”

“Enter,” Agatha’s voice carried a calm authority.

The prayer room’s door swung open, revealing a middle-aged clergyman. His short, dark hair and the bandages covering half of his face gave him a distinct appearance. His attention was immediately captured by the sight of the white flower positioned solemnly before the holy figure.

A frown creased his brow as he observed the flower, a sense of significance nagging at the edge of his consciousness. There was a question to be asked, a meaning to be deciphered, yet it eluded him, leaving his gaze clouded with confusion and a lack of understanding.

Agatha, sensing his perplexity, positioned herself so that she stood between him and the symbolic white flower.

“What concerns you?” she inquired, her voice embodying both curiosity and command.

The clergyman’s expression of confusion briefly intensified before clarity returned to him. He promptly relayed his message: “Archbishop, a new group has arrived at the cathedral seeking shelter and guidance. There are about a dozen of them. Following your directives, I’ve dispatched Mark along with Sister Natasha to welcome them.”

“Understood,” Agatha acknowledged with a nod, her demeanor composed. She then inquired further, a casual tone bellying the depth of her concern, “What can you tell me about these newcomers? From whence have they come?”

“They’re quite distressed, caught in a whirlwind of fear and confusion, struggling to articulate the nature of their distress,” he began. “The one among them who appears to be in the best shape shared that he experienced a sudden awakening earlier today. To his alarm, he found that many aspects of his surroundings felt profoundly wrong. Familiar faces of relatives and friends now seemed foreign and, disturbingly, frightening. Overwhelmed by fear, he sought refuge at a local chapel, where he encountered others in similar straits.”

“The resident priest at the chapel took immediate action, offering solace and blessings to calm their spirits, before assigning two guardians to safely lead them through the city to our doorstep.”

“Their origins are diverse, with the majority hailing from neighborhoods around the southern port and a few from the vicinity of the cemetery district. They seem to have no prior connections, sharing neither acquaintances nor common traits in their backgrounds…”

Agatha absorbed the clergyman’s account with a serene demeanor, her response a silent nod of acknowledgment. “The municipal authorities will be making arrangements later on. There’s provisional accommodation prepared at the mountain’s base.”

“Understood,” the clergyman said, then paused, his gaze resting on Agatha with a mix of hesitance and concern. He seemed to search the interim Archbishop’s face for clues, torn over voicing his next thought. “Archbishop, can you shed any light on what’s unfolding? These episodes have been escalating in frequency, affecting even the church…”

“John,” Agatha interjected, her tone preempting further inquiry, “Do you recall the guidance I offered our congregation the day before yesterday?”

A shift crossed the clergyman’s features as he nodded in recognition.

Agatha continued, her voice imbued with a tranquil yet firm resolve. “I cannot provide you with the clarity you seek at this moment, for the simple reason that the explanations would elude you—much like those voices remain unheard by you. However, should you find yourself abruptly ‘awakening,’ do not succumb to fear. Proceed directly to the inner sanctum. There, you will find someone ready to guide and assist you through whatever comes next.”