“This is definitely the worst decision I’ve ever made in my life.”
Vivian hefted that so-called “Holy Light Flashlight” as she trudged step by step up the pitch-black spiral staircase.
Cicero called this thing a “Portable Luminescence Purification Device,” but with a university student’s intuition, Vivian recognized it as nothing more than a big gas lamp, retrofitted with a convex lens and a high-pressure gas canister—the valve of which was currently hissing in a most unsettling way.
“If it explodes, I’ll be the first detective in all of Paris to get roasted alive in the sewers.” Vivian rolled her eyes at the air.
The air was growing more and more humid, and soon a pungent scent became discernible.
That was the smell of ink.
Vivian halted. The path ahead ended abruptly, replaced by a narrow corridor.
The architecture here went completely against human instinct. The walls slanted at odd angles, and the ceiling was so low she was forced to stoop.
“Was the architect out for revenge against society?” Vivian reached out to steady herself against the wall.
It felt sticky and slick.
She held her hand up to the light. Her glove was smeared with black liquid, viscous as crude oil.
“Ugh…” Vivian retched dryly and hurriedly wiped her hand on her skirt.
She lifted the lamp closer to the wall.
Within the rough crevices of the stone bricks, black liquid oozed out in a steady stream. On closer inspection, the fluid wriggled and squirmed across the wall, as if countless insects were desperately trying to form some kind of writing.
Vivian narrowed her eyes, trying to make out the blurry scrawl.
“…Damn director, you don’t understand art…”
“…Why cut the Baroness’s bedroom scene… That was the soul’s ascension…”
“…I protest… This line is clearly profound, I curse you all…”
A chill ran down Vivian’s back.
She carefully sidestepped the walls that were still “ranting,” and pressed on.
At the end of the corridor stood an iron grating gate, its lock long since rusted. Vivian raised her leg and gave it a hard kick.
Clang!
The iron gate crashed down, raising a cloud of dust. Suddenly, her view widened, and Vivian gasped.
Cicero’s doom-mongering had already warned her, but seeing it with her own eyes still gave her a small visual shock.
It was a gigantic underground cavern, so vast it seemed you could upend the entire Paris Opera House into it.
Above her, an unseen black dome loomed, held aloft by only a handful of massive pillars rooted deep in the earth. Below, there was a pitch-dark, lifeless lake.
The water’s surface was as calm as an obsidian mirror, reflecting the lone light in Vivian’s hand.
No wind, no sound—only a suffocating sense of oppression, as if the whole weight of Paris pressed down overhead.
“So this is the legendary Underground Lake?” Vivian swallowed.
She moved slowly along the stony shore, her leather shoes tapping crisply on the wet flagstones: “pat, pat.”
Suddenly, her light swept across a pillar at the center of the lake.
The pillar stood alone in the black water, wrapped in rusty iron chains. And atop the pillar was a huge relief crest.
It was a shield-shaped emblem, crossed with two keys and a bundle of thorns, ringed by Latin script now too faded to read.
But at the very center of the crest, a fleur-de-lis had been deeply split down the middle, as if chopped by an axe.
“An old prison crest from before 1789…” Vivian murmured, feeling a chill creep up her back.
“That charlatan was actually right. This place really was a prison for ‘ideological offenders’ back then.”
So-called “ideological offenders” in the days of the old regime didn’t mean those plotting to overthrow the king, but those who harbored “dangerous concepts.”
For example, a mad astronomer convinced the earth was flat, or a penniless poet claiming to bargain with demons.
“Looks like our Mr. Phantom was a registered old jailbird, too.”
Just then, she noticed a small boat moored not far off along the shore.
It was an old-fashioned wooden skiff, a dead lantern hanging from its bow. Its black hull blended into the water, looking like a ferryboat on the River Styx.
“If there’s a skeleton on that boat asking me for a fare, I’ll just shove this lamp right down its throat.”
Vivian drew a deep breath and pulled the rune revolver from her pocket.
The gun was heavy, its barrel etched with silver runes like mystical scribbles, its grip set with a ruby that looked expensive. According to Cicero’s bragging, it was a Pope-blessed “Judicator Type III,” guaranteed to slay spirits in one shot.
“Here’s hoping this thing is less unreliable than my boss.”
Vivian gingerly hopped onto the boat. It rocked violently, letting out a creaky wail of protest at the extra weight.
There were no skeletons in the boat, but it was piled high with junk: moldy wigs, broken violin bows, and stacks upon stacks of sheet music.
Vivian grabbed a piece at random. The notes were scribbled out in red ink, the margins filled with comments: “Trash!” “Mediocre!” “This chord is an insult to my eardrums!”
“This Phantom’s got quite the temper,” Vivian muttered, pushing aside the sheet music. “If all you do is rant, how about some constructive criticism?”
Finally, in one corner of the boat, a small booklet wrapped in oilcloth caught her eye.
Vivian unwrapped the oilcloth. It was a beautifully printed full-color booklet, the cover showing the Eiffel Tower under construction, with gold-embossed words: [The 1889 Paris Exposition—An Ode to Steel and the Future].
But someone had painted a huge blood-red X right across the tower, the stroke cutting through the paper.
Vivian flipped through the booklet. Every page was frantically vandalized in red ink.
On the steam engine introduction: “Deceptive power! It is a soul-devouring monster!”
On the electric light page: “Blinding brilliance! It murdered the aesthetics of shadow!”
And on the last page, scrawled across the Eiffel Tower blueprint in wild script:
[They are trying to build a Babel of steel to reach the heavens.]
[But they do not know that beneath its foundation lie the gods of old.]
[The day the iron giant is completed, Paris will plunge into hell.]
“This guy was clearly an anti-industrial fanatic when he was alive,” Vivian frowned, “or maybe a quack priest who lost his job to the Industrial Revolution.”
Just as Vivian was about to stuff the booklet into her coat—
Glug.
A bubble popped on the silent lake’s surface.
Vivian froze.
Glug… glug… glug…
The sounds came faster and faster, like a pot of boiling tar.
Vivian slowly turned her head.
The previously mirror-still black lake was now violently churning. Countless black bubbles welled up, spewing that sickening ink stench.
Then, the first hand emerged.
It was a hand made entirely of black liquid—long and twisted, dripping with black “resentment.”
Then came the second, the third… In the blink of an eye, all around the boat, a dense forest of black arms sprouted from the water.
“Shit!” Vivian swore in fright, “That’s disgusting!”
Hiss—!!!
The arms, as if they’d understood her, shrieked in unison, then lunged at the boat like crazed tentacles.
“Oh hell no!”
Vivian reacted instantly, swinging up the rune revolver.
“High noon!”
She took aim at the nearest black arm and pulled the trigger.
Bang!
A brilliant silver flame burst from the muzzle, the recoil numbing her hand. The bullet struck the black arm dead-on, and it vanished like paper burning in fire.
“Ha! It really works!” Vivian cheered.
“Come on, you water freaks!”
Brimming with confidence, Vivian gripped the gun in both hands, striking a cowboy pose.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three quick shots, and three black arms trying to climb over the gunwale were blasted to ash.
The horde of black arms seemed to hesitate, shrinking back into the water for a moment.
But a second later, the lake boiled again.
This time, no forest of black arms—only a single pale arm, slowly rising before her.
It looked sacred, smooth, its palm facing Vivian as if to offer her a holy embrace.
“Ha! Think I can’t recognize you in a different skin?”
Vivian sneered, raised the gun, and aimed at the palm of the white hand.
“Sayonara—say good bye.”
She squeezed the trigger.
Click.
Only the sharp snap of the firing pin.
No flame, no roar, just a mortifying silence.
Vivian froze.
“No bullets?” She quickly checked the cylinder.
There was still one left! The bullet was lying there, perfectly fine.
The white giant hand seemed to pause too, hesitating for half a second before suddenly accelerating, sweeping toward Vivian with a roaring gust.
“Damn, damn, damn! What a piece of junk!”
Vivian frantically pulled the trigger.
Click! Click! Click!
The rune revolver that had been so mighty moments ago was now just a hunk of scrap metal—not a spark to be seen.
And just as the white giant hand closed to within half a meter of her nose, by the lamplight, Vivian finally caught the tiny lettering along the side of the barrel:
[Colt Paterson 1836 – Made in USA]
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