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NOTE #1

First, to the Azmerald Family. Second, the Deadly Nightshades.

With all these, I finally found the cure.

Unfortunately, the madness remains.

All hopes are handful, but at least there's one. Who knows? Hope is a fragile thing, but the first to be made by the mind in times of despair.

I can only record this once.

If there is a second entry, then I survived.

If not, then this note will be the last proof, that indeed, there is a way to end all these calamity our world passes through.

At the end, we are but mortals.

CHAPTER 1: PUPPETEER

Maybe it had been the warm trickle of blood, or perhaps the sharp, pain radiating through his chest that had forced him awake.

"W-What? Where am I?"

He asked himself, his voice in a breathless rasp.

He was sitting in muddy water, his back resting against the cold surface of a stone tower.

The moment he decided to stand up, a vicious agony resonated through his entire body—from his chest straight to his shoulders. It was enough to push him right back down into the muck.

"Ouch!"

With dirt-covered hands, he reached for the center of the pain, his fingers brushing against something cold and solid sticking out of his chest.

Using a jagged force, he gripped the handle and pulled out, a slick knife came free, and the sheer shock of it caused the blurriness in his vision to finally snap clear.

"No! No!!" he yelled, scrambling backward through the mud while desperately checking his clothes to inspect the dark bloodstains.

But then, whether it was a trick of his recovering vision or something entirely unnatural, the wound quickly closed up.

It healed right before his eyes, as though invisible needles had sewn the open cut shut.

"What?"

He touched the spot where the blade had been. At first it stung, but when he tapped the skin three times in a row, there wasn't a single hint of pain.

As the agony vanished, his body recovered with an unnatural speed, giving him enough strength to finally get to his feet.

Lost and confused, he looked around, his eyes darting sideways down the dim alley of an unfamiliar place.

"I... I don't understand," he muttered to himself, taking a tentative first step. "The only thing I remember... I..."

His eyes suddenly widened, the moment strange pictures poured into his mind.

The onslaught was quick, but it was enough to leave him in absolute anguish. He grounded his teeth in distress and dug his nails deep into his scalp.

These strange pictures were memories that brought a blinding headache—the type that made one's head feel light, leaving a phantom pain impossible to pinpoint.

He pulled at his hair, hissing until the pressure abruptly subsided, vanishing in the same instant it had arrived.

Slowly, he dropped his hands from his head. "This isn't my memory..."

He was reassured by his own sanity. He knew who he wasn't. "I... I am not Valor Voss. I... I am... What's my name?"

His hands trembled. Not only was he locked out of what had happened before this moment, but his name... His name? That was gone as well.

"Okay... Valor Voss. For now, I'll go with the name this memory holds," he told himself, forcing his breathing to steady. "I can't panic now. I have to first understand what I am... where I am... Then, slowly, I might get the rest of my memories back."

This became his first plan. Taking the name Valor, he decided to check the pockets of the coat he wore.

He patted the unbuttoned coat pockets, then proceeded to tap down the black trousers, before checking the tucked-in white shirt.

Nothing.

"If I needed to keep something from being stolen, where would I hide it?" he questioned.

He tapped his back pockets, then pulled open the heavy coat, discovering a hidden pocket stitched into the interior lining.

"Eureka!"

He frowned, a valid thought crossing his mind. 'I might have been a smart person!'

Inside the pocket, his fingers found a small wallet containing a few strange silver coins, alongside a metallic badge. Engraved in small letters were the words: 'The Bureau of The Watchers'

"The Watchers? Interesting!"

The only other item was a small notebook. He flipped open the yellowish pages and saw no other words, just empty blank spaces—except for the very first sheet, which held a few asterisked names:

* The Azmerald Family

* Lord of the Night

* Ghostbanes

* The Seer

"Okay, seems like those were keywords this body didn't want to forget," Valor said. "But standing here in this alley won't fetch me answers."

He tucked the notebook back where he had found it and took a step forward. "I have to understand everything in this place."

He left the shadows of the alley and stepped into the streets, where the noisy, rumbling sounds of the city instantly magnified.

'A town?' Valor asked himself as a horse-drawn carriage rushed past, spraying dust.

He saw men dressed in heavy canvas overalls and women in subtle, floral gowns. Merchants called out from their stalls, trying to flag down the various passersby; some stopped to listen, while others simply walked past.

Valor kept his head low while figuring out if he was to cross the busy road, until a figure abruptly stepped into his path.

"Does my good Sir hope for a show?"

Valor turned, coming face-to-face with a man dressed in colorful trousers and a tucked-in shirt, both patterned with the shapes of spades and hearts.

Even underneath the man's deeply depressed eyes, those same identical symbols were painted onto his skin.

Valor waved his hand slightly. "No, thank you."

"It's a short show, I promise! It won't take up to a minute of your time, and you would enjoy the story. Perhaps you might even learn a thing or two from it. Won't you like a show?" The puppet master pressed further, a sly smile cutting across his face. "Or are your days just as gloomy as mine, that you can't stay behind for a story? Just for the price of a single coin?"

Valor frowned slightly, his curiosity piqued. "Okay. Just a story. Then after the show, I'll pay."

The puppet master nodded, his smile widening. "You don't strike me as a man who would do some sort of deceit, unlike me."

Those last two words were enough to keep Valor entirely on his toes.

Right at that moment, the puppet master stepped back to his shaggy-looking showcart.

He walked behind the wooden frame and motioned for Valor to stand at the front just as the tiny red curtains raised open.

Inside the box was a painted cardboard cutout of a nighttime sky, then, came in a wooden marionette, suspended by thin strings, danced into the center of the miniature stage.

And so, the puppet master narrated, "Once, there was a great Lord who stayed locked within his castle. He chose solitude to calm his mind, as he wasn't human but lived amongst mortals."

Valor watched the marionette move across the stage, and the puppet master continued, "This Lord is well known for his intense wisdom but none have ever seen his face..."

A few small cardboard houses were pulled up to join the scene.

"It's said if you need the help of the Lord, you must go, during the nighttime, to six locked houses and knock on each of five doors randomly. The sixth one, you shouldn't knock—rather, push it open, and there, you would find him; The Lord Of The Night."

'The Lord Of The Night? That's what was written in the notebook!' Valor's eyes widened as the curtains abruptly closed and the puppet master stepped out from behind the cart.

"I didn't waste your time, did I, good Sir? Went straight to the point—"

"Did you just say The Lord Of The Night?" Valor interrupted.

The puppet master nodded. "Indeed."

"How did you know this—"

"Oh, my good Sir, it's just a story, and what's a story? Well, a story is just a fable unless proven true," the puppet master said, tapping his painted cheek. Up close, Valor could see the man was towering at an unnatural six-foot-one, his frame incredibly frail.

The very first person he had encountered today was this strange puppeteer telling a riddle rather than a story, about a name written inside his hidden notebook.

"Do you have any other stories?" Valor asked quickly, reaching into his coat.

"Oh! No, no, my good Sir. A story, a coin. Just as we promised."

Valor quickly turned to pull out his wallet. "Then I will give you three more coins for three more stories..."

The moment he lowered his eyes to count out the silver coins from his wallet, he picked them out and raised his head.

The puppet master and his shaggy showcart were entirely gone, as though they hadn't been there at all.

Surprising? Yes.

Fanciful? No.

Valor knew what he had seen, and he knew exactly who he had spoken with.

Looking around the empty alley would do him no good, especially when the puppeteer had been standing right in front of him just seconds ago.

How on earth—or whatever world he now found himself in—could a frail-looking man move a heavy wooden showcart that quickly without making a sound?

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. "At least that strange puppet master showed me what to do. I have a way to find this Lord of the Night."

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, seeking through the unstable memories of his new host. 'This body didn't have any idea who that person was before, However... at least I have a lead on what to do next. But first, I need to hide these bloodstains.'

Valor quickly buttoned his heavy coat all the way to the bottom, concealing the dark, wet patch on his shirt.

The puppet master was gone, leaving him with no choice but to explore.

And what better place to start than the very first anchor his mind could latch onto? The home of Valor Voss.

Placing both hands deep into his pockets, he left the alley behind, though the eerie image of the puppeteer stayed in his mind.

As he walked the bustling streets, merchants repeatedly tried to flag him down, but he turned them away with a polite, firm rejection.

"I will not be buying today," he told one.

"Not today, I'm sorry," he muttered to another.

"Maybe next time," he remarked to a third.

The merchants were mostly dressed in vibrant, colorful robes, their wares spread across woven cloths laid over the dusty cobblestones, and none caught his attention.

He was just about to cross to the opposite side of the road when a hand suddenly clamped onto his wrist.

Startled, Valor yanked his hand away, "Hey! I refused to buy"

Turning to find a female merchant standing before him.

"Tell me," she whispered, spreading her hands wide over her display. "Tell me what you know, and you can pick any of these."

She was fair-skinned, but a deep hood completely shadowed her face, leaving only her plump lips visible. Valor could tell instantly that she was no ordinary street vendor.

He stepped back, shaking the street dust from his boots. "Oh. No, I’m—"

The woman raised a dangling green pendant, the gem catching the light. "I'll give you the Gem of Greed in exchange for the information you hold."

Valor's brow furrowed. 'What is wrong with this woman?' He shook his head again, keeping his distance. "I'm sorry, but I have no information for you, damsel."

The sudden shift in her expression, from a welcoming smile to a harsh, icy scowl, told Valor that she did not appreciate that title.

Lowering the green pendant, she reached down and held up a shimmering purple stone. "Then I'll grant you the Gem of Lust—"

"I am incredibly sorry, damsel, but I don't have any information worth sharing with you. Good day!" Valor didn't wait for her to finish.

He turned on his heel and walked away; he had absolutely no time to negotiate with a creepy sidewalk merchant.

He refused to look back, pushing forward through the crowd.

"Don't you want something else?" her voice echoed after him, it was desperate and sharp. "I can offer you anything! Anything in exchange for the secrets you hold! Don't you want anything at all?"

He paused for a fraction of a second, resisting the urge to turn around, and kept walking.

In truth, he would have loved to know more about the Azmerald Family, the Ghostbanes, or The Seer.

But bringing up those names to a random street merchant was as reckless as flashing your banking details to a stranger.

After his encounter with the puppet master, his guard was completely up. Everyone in this city felt dangerous. Who knew who might vanish into thin air? Or what strange thing might happen next?

He kept his pace steady, passing lines of beggars who cried out for aid even though their wooden cups were overflowing with silver and copper.

Looking at how full their cups were, Valor felt poor in comparison to the meager coins in his own wallet.

Still, he didn't drop a single piece. He couldn't risk anyone catching a glimpse of the bloodstains while he reached for his money—who knew if these beggars were eyes and ears, easily bought off for information regarding his whereabouts?

He walked until the surrounding buildings finally began to match the pieces of his memory. A deep sense of physical familiarity washed over him.

"Home?" He tilted his head, staring at a shaggy, dilapidated bakery. "Well... I suppose it's home."

The structure looked as if it were actively begging to be patched together.

The stone walls on either side were severely cracked, and the roof... it was in such bad shape that the house might actually be better off without one.

The slates were on the absolute brink of sliding off, and the windows were completely crooked.

Stepping inside despite a very real fear that the ceiling might collapse onto his head, he was instantly greeted by the rich, warm aroma of freshly baked bread and the sweet scent of pastries.

Yet, when he looked at the counter, there wasn't a single soul insight.

According to his host's memory, this was exactly how the bakery had always operated. Not a single person around to run it, yet the bread on display and the cakes on the shelves were always perfectly intact, freshly baked and meticulously placed.

'A disguise, perhaps?' he wondered.

Nevertheless, he took a step forward, his boots against the creaking floorboards as he headed straight for a stairwell leading to the top floor.

The wooden steps were old and weathered, but they held his weight.

When he reached the door at the top, his hand brushed the knob, and the door drifted open on its own.

He was certain—or rather, his host's memory was certain—that he had locked this door before leaving.

Carefully, he stepped into the small, single-windowed room.

It was sparsely furnished, containing only a rumpled bed in the corner and a wooden desk piled high with scattered papers.

Valor scanned the space, from the arrangement of the chair to the messy sheets of parchment, everything seemed untouched.

"This must have been the habitat of a terribly disorganized human," he mumbled. "Let me change these clothing first"

He walked over to a dark wooden closet and pulled it open, Inside hung identical sets of clothing. A white shirt, black trousers, and a dark coat—arranged neatly in five identical pairs.

"No sense of style? What a bland person," he muttered, quickly stripping out of his ruined, blood-soaked attire.

After changing into a fresh set and carefully transferring the notebook, wallet, and Watcher's badge from the old coat to the new one, he turned to face the papers on the desk.

But before he could take a step, a sudden movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention.

He snapped his head toward the window.

A sleek black cat was sitting on the sill, staring directly at him with an unblinking gaze. But what truly stopped Valor in his tracks was the small, polished monocle resting over the feline's left eye.

The cat let out a soft purr. Then, it spoke.

"You have to leave, Now."

Of all the horrors in the world, Valor felt like he had just checked off a third of them. A talking cat?

The feline adjusted its posture, its voice smooth and urgent. "I was the one who broke into your room earlier, I had to wait for you outside. I've had the key with me all along, so that isn't what you should be worrying about. What you should care about is the fact that the Queen's Guards are hunting for you this very second."

'This body recognizes this creature, but I certainly don't.' Valor rubbed his eyes, half-expecting the hallucination to fade, but the cat simply turned its back to him, sounding quite impatience.

"Let's go. Now."

'Have I gone insane? Or is my mind actively deceiving my eyes?'

Valor stared at the feline on the windowsill, his thoughts racing. 'Yes, I have definitely gone mad!'

The cat turned its back to him once more, its emerald green eyes flashing with a brilliance that seemed to outshine the most precious of gems. "Would you rather stay here and wait for the Queen’s Guards to bust down your door?"

Those words were instantly accompanied by the heavy thud of boots echoing on the creaking floorboards downstairs.

Valor’s internal panic vanished, replaced by cold understanding.

"Do you have everything needed with you?" the cat pressed.

Valor nodded quickly. "Yes!"

"Then let’s go," it said, leaping fearlessly out of the window.

The footsteps downstairs multiplied, growing louder by the second. Hearing the sound getting closer, Valor knew his only option was the drop below.

He glanced back at the desk one last time; seeing nothing else worth taking, he rushed to the sill and took a blind leap into the open air—just as the guards burst into the room behind him.

There was a common saying that cats always land on their feet, Valor hadn't known that the same rule applied to certain humans.

Given the height of the jump, he had braced himself for a severe sprain, if not a shattered bone.

Yet, the fall entirely defied gravity. He hit the ground squarely, his feet absorbing the impact perfectly without a single scratch.

Before he could even process the landing, he was violently yanked out of the line of sight of the window above.

"Don't you know when to hide from the observing eyes of the guards?" a boy's voice asked.

Valor peeked from the edge of the alley, looking up just in time to see a guard in a uniform cap peer out of his window. The man scanned the alleyways, shook his head in frustration, and pulled himself back inside.

"You are being incredibly careless," the boy remarked, shoving his hands casually into his pockets.

From the sharp tone of that voice and the familiar emerald-green color of his eyes, there was absolutely no doubt. This boy was the cat.

A shapeshifter.

Valor studied the boy's dark hair, noting the practical overalls that perfectly matched the color of his sturdy boots.

"Why are you staring at me?" the boy asked.

By digging into his host's memories, Valor finally pulled up a name: Sinclair.

"No, nothing actually," Valor replied, clearing his throat. "I’m just wondering whether those men will find anything useful there..."

Sinclair offered a dismissive shrug. "The moment they step across your threshold, they won't find anything but piles of empty boxes."

Valor nodded, masking his relief.

Although the host's body instinctively recognized the people he was interacting with, the deep, foundational details of this world remained incredibly blurry.

Accordingly, Sinclair was a prominent member of the Bureau of Watchers.

He was a shapeshifter bound primarily to a single alternate form—a black cat.

Because of this signature ability, he held a distinct title within the ranks: 'The Shifter.'

Valor forced a small, diplomatic smile. "Sinclair, thank you for saving me from—"

Sinclair reached up, coolly adjusting his monocle. "Keep your gratitude for later. First, tell me what you were doing there in the first place."

"You mean at my own house?"

"Yes! Every available Watcher was supposed to assemble at the Headquarters today after the Night. What were you trying to achieve? Actively disobeying direct orders?" Sinclair pointed an accusing finger at him. "You know the Queen is furious about our recent operations. She would love nothing more than to capture a lone Watcher and force him to spill everything we're up to."

Valor adjusted the lapels of his coat. "That was my bad there—"

"I had to go looking for you during the assembly," Sinclair interrupted, cutting him off as he pulled out a peculiar key from his pocket. "You know how those meetings can be, and exactly how vital they are to our survival."

Valor nodded blindly. "Definitely."

There was no visible door in sight, but a key was apparently all that was required.

Sinclair stepped toward the blank alley wall and turned the key into an invisible keyhole.

To a genius—or anyone paying attention—it was obvious that a hidden threshold had just been unlocked.

The moment Sinclair pushed the unseen barrier open and they stepped through, Valor felt a bizarre sensation, as if his essence were traveling through multiple dimensional realms simultaneously.

His physical form felt entirely weightless, and he realized he was crossing over into an entirely new, abstract plane of existence.

When they finally materialized on the other side, the very first detail were the massive bookshelves packed with ancient texts lined every single wall of the expansive room.

Another object that arrested Valor's attention was a monstrous, towering clock dominating the front of the hall.

"12:30 PM?" He muttered, reading the clock face.

"Someone finally decided to show up, even if they are remarkably late," a voice called out.

Valor turned to see another man approaching, dressed in clothes identical to his own.

The man offered a mocking, theatrical bow. "I presume you were busy dining with the Queen?"

This newcomer was significantly older than Sinclair. His thick beard and messy hair seemed to be in more greys than blacks.

George, another member of the Watchers. His official title was 'The Arrow,' a name tied to a unique ability that granted him a flawless, bullseye shot.

He never missed his mark, though his power was limited —he delivered fewer shots than necessary, dealing minimal, calculated damage.

"It’s a fine day, isn't it, George?" Valor offered, choosing a polite greeting to test the waters.

"Oh, please leave the pleasantries behind!" George shot back with an annoyed click of his tongue.

'Okay, he doesn't like greetings' Valor thought as the man continued,

"You arrived late and missed the entire briefing."

Sinclair turned away, his expression tight. "I tried to talk some sense into him the moment I found him lingering at his hideout of a bakery."

Noticing the heavy shake of George's head, Valor realized he needed to dig for actual information rather than just weathering their disappointment, so he asked,

"Where is everyone else?"

George pulled a small silver stopwatch from his vest, checking the dials. "The meeting concluded a while ago, so they've already dispersed. However, we have a hunt to conduct, and several teams are already out there assisting with the tracking."

Valor remained quiet, absorbing the words. If George was speaking this directly, it meant there was a deep level of professional trust and understanding between them.

Sinclair spoke up. "One of the high-ranking members of the Azmerald Family..."

Valor’s internal focus instantly sharpened. 'The Azmerald Family! Another crucial name from the notebook.'

"...was recently spotted near the Graveyard sector," Sinclair finished. He added, "And I highly doubt there's a more effective way to commune with restless souls than harvesting them from an old burial ground."

George clicked his stopwatch shut and slipped it back into his pocket. "We have less than enough minutes before 1pm..."

Sinclair brought out his mysterious key once more, stepping toward the door that led out of the unexplored headquarters. "Then we need to hurry and support the vanguard. If the minutes we've got passes and we lose his trail, we might never get our hands—or our eyes—on him again."

Valor quietly followed them toward the exit, his thoughts were subsequently working towards what to be done:

'They are heading out for a hunt, and they explicitly mentioned a member of the Azmerald Family. If I play my cards right, I might be able to extract some real answers from this target. I just need to make sure I can get him to talk.'