Story Reader / Festival Event Story / Mercy in All Things / Story
Day of Reckoning
>"A unified society demands a scapegoat."
"Be it through destruction or reconciliation, people always take what they desire from that idealized world."
"...The time has come. But the scapegoat has yet to break from its pen."
I filled this world with my own "fabrication." Raheleh, Etha, Lesti... and you.
They are content to remain here, to walk with me in this "sweet dream"... all except you.
...Was it too much to ask, to keep this one sweet dream for myself?
You have appeared here suddenly, with no memory of your origin. Disoriented, you can only turn your head toward the voice speaking to you.
A figure in red and white is nestled close by, but her form remains a stubborn blur, no matter how you strain your eyes.
She lowers her head, her words dissolving into a soft, incomprehensible murmur.
I feel... so very lonely.
But you said this place was wrong. That this power must never be allowed to escape.
Now, I understand.
Her eyelashes seem to be bleaching white, those pale fronds fluttering, dissolving into a stark, white patch in your vision.
And I have made my choice. Forgive me for what I must do.
The blur of red and white draws nearer. A pair of hands cradles your cheeks, gently pulling your face closer.
I'm sorry, Gray Raven, but I cannot walk your path.
Her restrained voice brushes against your forehead, a murmur filled with reluctance. Then, she leans down and presses a soft kiss to your brow.
If we ever get another chance...
Please... remember me. And love me.
The hands on your cheeks suddenly tense. With a sharp push, you are thrust backward.
The sensation of falling seizes your heart, and only then do you look down:
An infinitely tall tower. The ground rushes up to meet you.
In this desperate descent, the blurred world snaps into terrible focus. Chaotic smears of color sharpen into defined edges.
You start to distinguish the tower's brickwork, the ant-like crowds in the streets, a lone tree, and a white bird circling back to its nest.
And—
Thud.
It's over. The world closes its eyes.
Finally! I called you so many times but you wouldn't stir. Thought I'd have to play the hero and find a constable or something.
The carriage driver snaps her fingers again, withdrawing the hand she'd extended toward your face.
But you seem alright! And just in time; we've pulled up at the ceremony. You haven't forgotten, have you?
Leaning on your walking stick, you step down from the carriage, your senses dazed and disoriented.
The dream was so vivid that the solid ground beneath your feet now feels like an illusion. A faint, phantom ache lingers in your chest, the last echo of that endless fall.
Down the path, a procession of black-clad mourners moves toward the cemetery. They carry a single coffin draped in vibrant red, their pace a slow, measured beat. It's almost time.
You check your credentials and hurry to join the somber parade, slipping into step at its rear. There, you spot the figure you are determined to meet today.
Who are you?
The tall, middle-aged man turns around upon your tap on his shoulder. His frown is immediate as his eyes find you, a discordant note cutting through the hushed murmur of collective prayers.
Oh, it's you. Not here. Keep your voice down and follow me.
Shorthalt gestures with his hand, motioning for you to follow him to a more suitable place to talk.
You stop beneath a large tree in a secluded corner of the cemetery.
No introductions. I remember you, [player name]. Hard to forget someone who's been blowing up my inbox with meeting invites and joint investigation requests for two weeks straight.
I pulled your file. About five years back, you were sent to
...Right. Senior prosecutor. From
Well, since you said it and not me... you get why I've been keeping my distance, right?
The Council never should've put an "outsider" like you on this case. Makes people nervous. They'll think you're... sympathetic.
You should go back. Thebesia and Kerentos are one spark away from war. We "useless cops" might not get deployed, but we're already neck-deep in the chaos the pontiff left behind.
No one has the time for a formal investigation request right now anyway.
Irritation flashes through him as he scratches his hair. His fingers twitch instinctively, likely searching for the absent comfort of a cigarette.
I've been dodging you for two weeks, and you still track me down. You don't give up, do you? Tell you what, after this whole "grand funeral" circus is over, I'll buy you a drink. How's that?
...Look, we're buried. I know it's not easy being Kerentosian right now. But it's not exactly a picnic for us, either.
Shorthalt falls silent, his gaze drawn to the small, secretive ceremony ahead.
The funeral has begun.
Just look at what that assassin did.
Or honestly... look at what our "brilliant" pontiff brought on herself.
A low chant echoes in the air, and you follow his look.
There is no burning incense to scent the breeze, no sacred offerings, no bread or wine.
Only a handful of strangers, people with no connection to the pontiff in life, some not even believers. Even the priest recites the rites in a toneless drone, his voice cold with indifference.
On behalf of... In place of the College of Cardinals, I extend my gratitude for your presence here today.
A handful are in the back. Wouldn't be caught dead up here, though. Not after all the scandals that surfaced. The controversy is white-hot. They have to keep their distance.
My side? From a cop's standpoint, every charge we filed through the Procuratorate was backed by hard evidence.
The list includes, but is not limited to: corruption, bribery, collusion with foreign powers—especially with your people in Kerentos, though that part's staying out of the press, obviously...
And then there were the private gatherings she kept hosting... let's just say they involved some highly inappropriate conduct.
Shorthalt gives a meaningful look that says it all.
"When deeds of iniquity overwhelm me, you hear my confession, see my despair, and in your mercy, you absolve me."
Shocking, right? But here's the real kicker: When regular people sin, the Pontiff forgives them. But when the Pontiff sins... who forgives her? The Holy?
However, the Holy hasn't stepped in to save her. So it falls to mortals to have the last word. And until the official verdict, a pontiff this controversial doesn't get the sacred crypt. She gets... this. A plot on the outskirts.
"You descend and draw close to me. Your presence meets my brow, and you call me to your courts. I bear your blessing, drawn ever near to you."
"Blessed are those you welcome to inhabit your courts, to tread your sacred floors and share in your feast. My soul is filled with the abundance of your house, your holy temple."
Heh. Some folks are even calling that assassin from your homeland a hero. Saying they... "did the world a favor."
"For life is a pilgrimage, and in losing those we love, we learn that no goodness given or received is without purpose. Nothing truly ends here, nor does our existence conclude at the grave."
The pallbearers hoist the lead coffin with visible unsteadiness. It's unclear whether they are merely undermanned or if someone is deliberately orchestrating a final, deliberate insult to the pontiff's already ignominious end...
As a result, the coffin slips amid a collective gasp from the crowd. The lead coffin crashes to the ground with a deafening clang, its lid bursting open upon impact.
Chaos erupts instantly, but the priest drones on, his recitation uninterrupted.
"She sleeps now in your sight... I beseech you, grant her peaceful slumber within your courts. Let the moonlight of your grace wash her clean, and the shadows of trees soothe her soul."
Among the onlookers, a single pair of eyes locks onto the contents of the coffin: the keystaff clutched in the corpse's hands and the string of beads adorning her head.
The man gives a nervous swallow. Then, in a sudden, decisive movement, he lunges forward, shoving his way through the confused crowd.
Wait! What do you think you're doing?!
He reaches for the corpse, which shows no signs of decay, and in one frantic motion, yanks the ornament from her brow before desperately trying to wrench the keystaff from her rigid grasp.
"...I accept your rod and your guidance. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.
Don't anyone try to stop me! I know what you're all thinking! Aren't you all here for the Hierophant's treasures too?! Aren't you just the same as me?!
Suddenly, a filament of crimson extends from the man's fingertips. It writhes in the air like a seeking tendril before, with a swift whoosh, it is sucked into the pontiff's chest.
You blink, rubbing your eyes at the vanished apparition. But judging from the crowd's uncomprehending stares, you are the only one who witnessed this aberrant phenomenon.
Even the man who lost the "tendril" remains oblivious, his tirade uninterrupted.
She was the only pontiff in centuries who proved the Holy exists! And you expect me to believe you're not all trying to grab a piece of that sacred blessing for yourselves?!
The man's words send ripples through the stagnant crowd, and soon enough, another person reaches for the coffin. It's a pale-faced woman in uniform, plucking a feather from the pontiff's remains.
A crimson flash shoots from her fingertips and is gone in the same instant, a fleeting blur moving too fast to truly see.
Hah! Look for yourselves! Now the masks come off!
"...The sun and the moon are your eyes. My soul finds peace in your presence, and is satisfied by the light of your gaze."
Then a second person moves. A third. The desperate hunger for "sacred blessing" shatters the last pretense of order. A frenzy begins. Hands claw at the corpse, tearing the crown from her head and scrabbling to claim any fragment of her fading divinity.
Police! Police!
See, that's my cue. And people wonder why I'm here today.
Hard to miss the commotion, isn't it? Now quit gawking and stick close. If you're so set on digging into the pontiff's business, the least you could do is make yourself useful.
Shorthalt shoots another meaningful glance.
Shorthalt and you move forward together, forcefully carving a path through the noisy crowd until you reach the heart of the commotion.
Shorthalt grabs your arm and pulls you forward, forcefully carving a path through the noisy crowd until you reach the heart of the commotion.
With swift reflexes, you intercept several opportunistic thieves trying to loot the remains amidst the chaos, promptly handing them over to Shorthalt.
But just as Shorthalt is securing the offenders with handcuffs, a hand—or perhaps just a phantom one that never truly existed—shoves you violently from behind.
You stumble forward, bracing yourself against the cold edge of the lead coffin, and suddenly find yourself staring into the lifeless countenance inside, your faces mere inches apart.
So... familiar.
Meanwhile, the desperate thief and robber continue to shout beside you, struggling against the officer's grip.
I... I didn't have a choice... They say the Pontiff's remains—there's a sacred blessing. That even a sliver... could cure anything...
I'm too young to... I can't just die from this. Don't you understand? I couldn't let this chance slip away!
The shouts keep ringing in your ears as your heart, already tormented from the recent dream, hammers wildly against your ribs. Then, a sudden, excruciating pain tears through your chest, stealing your breath and triggering a violent coughing fit.
Whoa, hey, don't tell me you're sick too? Did you come here today also for...
You endure the fire in your ribs, but any coherent thought is drowned, utterly lost to the roaring cacophony of the crowd...
Then, you sense something is amiss.
The sound is gone. All of it.
Your gaze jerks upward, and your eyes widen in shock, staring directly into the lifeless face that lies mere inches from your own.
...
Hello. It's been a while.
She says with a smile.
There's no need to worry about your fingers. You won't be growing any "tendrils" yourself.
Your first instinct is to ask a question...? I expected this world's version of you to be more vulnerable. Perhaps a scream, backing away to report the anomaly with my corpse... or even attempting to steal a fragment of this "divine power" in the chaos.
Though the former Pontiff Ishmael's lips remain motionless, her voice—laced with amusement—resonates with perfect clarity within your mind.
Then how much do you remember? About the "mission" that brought you here.
After all, you were torn into this anomaly. Your origin, your destination, they are all temporarily erased. You're left with nothing... but that mission.
...So you've forgotten even that. I'm sorry. Everything happened too suddenly.
You should come to me. In your current state, you need me.
This is just a projection. Unless you prefer me lying in a casket?
An amusing proposal, but being buried alongside this projection of mine would be far less entertaining.
Go to the tower in the city center. That is where I reside. My true self is waiting at the top.
Indeed. The scene of the "pontiff's assassination."
She studies you briefly, a look of understanding crossing her face.
Hmm... It seems you've encountered interference. The "world" has taken notice. That's why you cannot proceed.
In the next moment, sharp snaps of fingers echo from within the coffin. Shorthalt, who had been bellowing to maintain order, suddenly freezes mid-motion.
There. Try speaking with that officer again. Persuade him to take you. He may be the only one you can sway.
She blinks meaningfully, then voices the subtle pact sealed between you:
I'll be waiting.
The pontiff's "awakening" dissolves like a fleeting hallucination. The world crashes back in. The clamor of the crowd floods your ears just as Shorthalt's firm grip hauls you roughly to your feet.
You planning on taking a nap in there? C'mon, up you get. The dead aren't known for being great conversationalists.
Alright, the "anticipated disturbance" is handled. Let's get this thing sealed up before anything else decides to pop out.
In the distance, those driven mad by their scramble for the pontiff's relics are being led away. In the sudden quiet, the remaining pallbearers step forward. With grim solemnity, they lift the heavy, dense lead lid and settle it back into place.
Thud. With a final, hollow sound, the coffin is sealed.
"The Preposterous Pontiff", "Merciful Ishmael", "Holy Incarnate"... Whatever grandiose titles she bore in life, they are now entombed with her, never to rise again.
You, the prosecutor who witnessed her final moments, speak up. Your gaze is fixed on the unapproachable officer... and on his hands.
Perhaps because you glimpsed a forbidden truth in the chaos, an eerie realization has taken root in your mind, impossible to ignore any longer. You see it clearly now: Shorthalt's fingertips also glow with the same, faint crimson light.
What now? Don't tell me you still want a look inside.
Shorthalt asks, finally seizing the opportunity to pull a pre-rolled cigarette from his pocket and light it. The gesture forces you to withdraw your gaze from his glowing fingertips and return to the matter at hand.
Coughing sharply, you produce your credentials once more. Just below your name rests a small inscription: Kerentos, the name of your homeland.
You've got to let that go. That war was decided the moment that bullet flew. No amount of truth-seeking is going to put that genie back in the bottle.
Look, to the folks in charge? "Kerentosian assassin" wasn't a tragedy; it was a gift. The perfect excuse they'd been waiting for. That's all this ever was.
Sigh...
Shorthalt sighs again, tapping a plume of ash from his cigarette. You can already sense another lecture coming your way.
Shorthalt swallows whatever lecture he was about to exhale with his smoke, his expression shifting to one of bewildered suspicion. Even the distant sun seems amused, its light wavering faintly.
You feeling alright? Talking about gods and whatnot with a cop. I believe in firepower, not higher power.
You remember a radio segment about a butterfly's wings birthing a hurricane. Now, you feel like that butterfly, flapping madly, hoping to create a breeze that reaches the officer standing before you.
...Now that's a topic I can work with. Yeah, I read it. You've always wanted to... enlist? To become a commandant, right? Those wishes you wrote on paper planes in school... it's all in there.
You tell him about the cases that once mattered, and how each one crumbled into failure or twisted into something strange and unresolved. That long road of dead ends paved your way to becoming the department's "sewer cleaner," the Kerentosian specialist in lost causes.
Something in your tales of "unfortunate twists" seems to strike a chord. The officer falls into an unexpected, contemplative silence.
...You think that's why I'm here? I read your file, felt a pang of sympathy for the lost kid, and decided to be the one cop in this whole city willing to put up with you?
Shorthalt raises an eyebrow, though he seems utterly unbothered. A veteran of the procedural dance of mutual investigation, he merely gives a curt nod, a silent command for you to continue.
He takes one final, long drag from his cigarette and exhales a plume of smoke, his entire frame seeming profoundly relieved that you have finally asked that particular question.
Let me ask you something else first. What do you think my degree is in?
Wrong. Fine Arts. Or, it was supposed to be. Flunked the entrance exam, got shuffled into a general studies program. Then the Self-Governing Act reforms hit, and my track got... re-routed. Straight into law enforcement.
It gets better. Before I even started, a relative on the force died in the line of duty. Through some weird policy, his benefits transferred to me. I could've walked right into a badge, no degree needed.
I didn't want it, of course. After graduation, I dug my heels in. Turned down a professorial recommendation, refused the force. Took odd jobs instead. Wouldn't even do security work. I'd rather be in the back of some kitchen, up to my elbows in dishwater.
Turns out, that restaurant was a police front. An undercover op. By pure chance, I stumbled into helping them nab a guy they'd been after for weeks. Case closed, front shut down, no more dishes to wash. And they offered me a job. Again.
...The day I finally put on this uniform, a voice in my head screamed two things: "I'm sick of this job. I should really find something else to do," and "That stubborn woman shouldn't be a commandant, she'll just get herself killed on the battlefield."
Shorthalt had tried studying Fine Arts, Literature, even Education, paths meant to lead anywhere but here... yet no matter what he did, he ended up becoming a police officer anyway.
Just as you, no matter how you resisted, inevitably traveled from Kerentos to Thebesia on an academic visit. Just as you had to leave your homeland behind to become a prosecutor belonging to Thebesia.
And just as no matter how you tried to evade it, the pontiff's case would inevitably become your responsibility.
Shorthalt puts out his cigarette.
Shorthalt frowns in thought for a moment, as if confirming something to himself. Then, his face finally shows a hint of relief.
I gave up on trying to fight the current of this world a long time ago. But you... you're the most stubborn, obsessive person I've ever met. A complete lunatic, just as I figured.
I never wanted this police life. But this bizarre reality keeps insisting I'm meant to be a worrywart with a badge. So I thought, why not trust my gut? Meet the other person the universe seems to be pushing around. See if you've figured anything out.
...And standing here now, I'm glad I did.
Alright, let's be clear. I do have two missions today: keep the peace at this funeral, and preferably, and preferably address the concerns of the Inspectorate General's prosecutor. There are procedures we can't just ignore, or someone will file a complaint.
He pauses for a moment.
...And because you're "just like me."
Fortunately, your "wing-flapping" attempt has succeeded. You have at least stirred something in the officer, awakening a long-buried seed of doubt and curiosity within him.
Shorthalt takes one last, measured look at the "kindred spirit" before him, the furrow in his brow finally easing.
Any formal request you file will get buried in paperwork forever. But I can satisfy your curiosity. If your questions stay within the bounds of procedure.
So, cut to the chase. What evidence are you actually looking for?
You straighten your collar and, following the guidance of what had moments ago seemed a mere hallucination, announce an entirely new destination.
