Chapter 313: Chapter 313
In the final vision, the shopkeeper emerged from the backyard, lugging a large box into his store. He greeted a young, blond man who was inside, cradling a cat.
Jenkins snapped back to reality, tossing the syringe in his hand onto the headless corpse. The birth of the A-08-1-9990 Gear Germs was finally becoming clear in his mind.
“The germs originated from a gear, which was once a Bestowal discovered countless Epochs ago by a humanoid creature resembling a dwarf. A woman later took it into a Mysterious Realm, where some accident turned it into a hybrid of a Bestowal and a Cursed Item. An Enchanter eventually acquired it, using its power to slowly alter flesh and extend the lives of others. Many years later, that organization encountered a humanoid Cursed Item, one seemingly connected to plagues. Its arrival transformed the gear completely into a Cursed Item and linked it to the germs. But... why was there only one moon in the sky back then? Just how long ago was that?”
He gazed at the headless corpse on the floor, lost in contemplation. At that very moment, his divine state ended, and Jenkins's being plummeted from an infinitely high dimension.
A sudden, hollow emptiness washed over him, a sense of loss so profound it could drive a person to madness.
“Why did the divinity burn out so fast this time?” Googlᴇ search novel·fıre·net
Shaking off the feeling, Jenkins focused on sorting through the visions he had just witnessed. He knew he still had to deal with the clock shop—someone had seen him enter!
But one of those visions was critically important.
“The gear, now a Cursed Item, was eventually obtained by the followers of the Gear King. With the aid of its divine power, the gear was thrown into a well, which then began to produce the A-08-1-9990 Gear Germs. Back then, however, the germs weren't as contagious as they are now. Then came the rebellion within the Church of Creation and Machinery, the one Mr. Biddles from the Oil Ink Mister Club mentioned. Three Bestowals were stolen: a grandfather clock that could control time, a hammer that seemed to be related to lightning, and a heart. That heart, after being contaminated by the well water, had mutated and could produce a much more infectious strain of the germs.”
He glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. With a stretch of his hand, the clock dissolved into a streak of white light and flew into his forehead.
“The clock is here, the hammer is missing, and the heart was taken into the mines beneath Nolan City...”
He remembered something from about two months ago. “That night, at the turn of August, while listening to the whispers... I learned that the 'Master Craftsman' once granted his followers a Bestowal: C-08-2-5373, the [Mechanical Heart]. It couldn't be that, could it?”
It was highly likely. Heart-shaped Bestowals were uncommon, and since it was connected to the same church, the odds of it being the very same item were even greater.
Jenkins took a deep breath, setting aside the new knowledge he'd gained from burning his divinity. He stroked Chocolate, who for some reason was being exceptionally docile, and surveyed the chaotic scene in the shop.
“What am I going to do?”
Fleeing was out of the question; someone had seen him come in. Leaving now would be an admission of guilt.
“A man's gotta be hard on himself sometimes.”
He knelt, setting the cat on the floor, and whispered quickly, “I'll overlook the fact that you snuck that metal block into the package. Now, get to the church right away. Bring people back here. Got it?”
He gently patted the cat's head. Its large, amber eyes stared up at Jenkins, whiskers twitching, its expression remarkably obedient.
Chocolate darted toward the only open exit—the back door.
Jenkins nodded. With a wave of his right hand, a burst of flame erupted, incinerating any trace that might reveal what had truly happened.
He tossed his pistol to the floor. His boots squelched in blood and brains as he positioned himself beside the headless man and the other corpse.
“Blasphemous Creation.”
This time, he was the target.
Two green vines shot out from the void, plunging into Jenkins's temples. But the ability could only be used to create a coin from the same person once in a short span of time.
Therefore, the vines served only to torture his mind. He offered no resistance, simply letting himself collapse.
Goddess preserve me, he thought. Just don't let my mouth touch whatever is on this floor.
That was his final thought before darkness took him.
(Chocolate was running...)
Chocolate swayed as it rose from a soft cushion on the sofa. It shook its head, took in the familiar living room, and its fur stood on end.
It glanced at Jenkins, who was fast asleep before the fireplace, then stared into the empty air. A moment later, as if it had understood something, it settled back down.
A few seconds later, Jenkins awoke.
“An unfamiliar... no, wait... a familiar ceiling.”
He rubbed his head and sat up with a start, surprised to find himself in his pajamas. He quickly scanned his surroundings.
“Huh? How did I get home? And... why do I feel so clear-headed? Who changed my clothes?”
He froze for a moment, then called out tentatively, “Pops?”
But there was clearly no one else in the house.
He pinched himself, then activated his Eye of Reality to scan his surroundings. Everything was perfectly normal. He possessed the [Blue Heteromorphic] ability, [Soul Departure from Dream], so he was certain he would have known if this were a dream.
Slipping on his house shoes, he started for the door. But as he turned, he saw it: the package meant for Miss Miller, the one that should have been burned to ashes, was sitting right there on the living room coffee table.
He approached it cautiously, glancing around. Aside from Chocolate, who was lounging on the sofa and watching him with an air of boredom, there wasn't another living soul in the house.
He unwrapped the package and tossed the metal block in his hand. The divinity... it was still there.
“It can't be... Is this some imperceptible illusion, or...”
Throwing on a greatcoat, he opened the front door. The sky was overcast, and a layer of snow already blanketed the yard. The small tree the maid had recently pruned was now draped in a coat of white.
Though it was cold, Jenkins hugged his arms to his chest, ducked his head against the chill, and walked down the front steps. He reached out and caught a single snowflake in his palm.
St. George Street, beyond his yard gate, was completely covered in snow. A coachman in a wool cap and thick gloves urged his horse onward with great effort. The animal's hooves punched small divots in the snow, only for them to be immediately erased by the carriage wheels.
Mr. Goodman was also preparing to leave. He was bundled in a ridiculously large red scarf, his already stout frame made to look even more rotund by the bulky layers of his clothing.
“Good morning, Mr. Williamette! A real chill in the air today, isn't it?”
So far, everything was identical to the 'yesterday' Jenkins remembered.