Deep Sea Embers

Nearby, a factory manager, cloaked in a light brown coat and bearing the clear signs of hair thinning with age, stood a step behind Agatha. Anxiety was evident on his lined face, his hand restlessly fidgeting with the button on his chest as if it was a much-needed anchor in this storm of uncertainty.

“The sewage originating from Oak Street and the vicinity of Cemetery No.4 converges at this point,” the manager articulated carefully, his eyes flickering between the buffer pool and the gatekeeper’s stoic profile. “Following your orders, we immediately severed the pipe connections in the surrounding area and meticulously examined the alarm systems of each buffer pool. We found no indications of supernatural contamination…”

Agatha absorbed his report in silence before posing her first question abruptly, “What’s the standard procedure for sewage treatment here?”

Her query seemed to catch the manager off guard, but he recovered swiftly, responding, “The treatment commences with high-pressure steam purification to eliminate any potential contamination. As you’re aware, this wastewater, having interacted with humans and traveled through shadowy, winding pipelines, often becomes a host to certain undesirables. Following the steam purification is the process of sedimentation and filtration. What you observe beneath us is the sedimentation pool. A second steam purification follows this stage. Subsequently, a portion of the treated water is recirculated into the factory’s system, while the remaining part… is released into the sea.”

As he finished his explanation, Agatha nodded subtly, then inquired again, “What is the approximate transit time for sewage from North Oak Street to this location?”

“Depending on specific circumstances, it generally does not exceed two hours,” the manager stated.

“And the duration of sewage retention here?”

“Water in the sedimentation pool is replaced every seventy-two hours,” the manager explained, his anxiety escalating as he wiped the sweat from his furrowed brow. “Our purification and inspection procedures follow strict guidelines and can’t be shortened below this time period.”

Nodding again, Agatha appeared lost in thought, her mind processing the information and aligning it with the “counterfeit incident” timeline at the residential building and the sewage treatment schedule. She mused aloud, “So, if the entity managed to escape via the sewage system, it should still be contained here…”

The manager, now visibly unsettled, couldn’t contain his curiosity any longer, “Gatekeeper,” he implored, mopping his gleaming forehead, “What… what exactly transpired? Is there some form of contamination propagating through our sewage network?”

“We can’t entirely dismiss that possibility,” Agatha responded, briefly casting a sidelong glance at the visibly shaken manager before turning her attention towards the assembly of guards, garbed in uniform black attire. They were methodically collecting samples and inspecting various equipment throughout the facility. “However, based on our tests thus far, the conditions here seem to be within normal parameters.”

“Yes,” the manager squeezed out a smile, the tension in his features not entirely masked, “Each corner of this place is monitored by an elaborate alarm system, purpose-built to detect any traces of sacrilegious contamination. Moreover, this treatment center houses three dedicated resident priests, who regularly perform tests on the water samples…”

“Resident priests?” Agatha interjected, her tone indicating that she’d recalled something crucial. She pivoted to face the manager, “Did you say there were three resident priests here?”

“Three… yes, three,” the manager stuttered, seemingly unnerved by Agatha’s sudden change in demeanor, “Is… is there an issue?”

“There should only be two priests assigned here. The number of resident priests at all levels of municipal facilities is meticulously regulated. Where did this third priest originate from?”

The manager’s visage hardened instantaneously, a sheen of cold sweat breaking across his forehead as a looming sense of dread gripped those eyes.

Observing his reaction, Agatha swiftly lifted her staff and placed it on his shoulder. A reassuring force suppressed the waves of “fear” threatening to overwhelm his consciousness. She commanded in a stern voice, “Listen, it’s crucial that you maintain your composure. Your next task is to gather all the resident priests and bring them here. Inform them that the gatekeeper requires further insights into the situation. Your demeanor should not betray any signs of distress, do you understand?”

The manager’s agitation seemed to have abated, albeit he remained slightly nervous. He nodded hurriedly, “Yes, I… I comprehend… I’ll proceed immediately.”

Agatha gave him an approving nod and retracted her staff. Just as he was about to retreat, she seemed to recall something of importance, “Hold on a moment, not only the resident priests. I want everyone present here.”

The manager swiveled around in surprise, “Everyone?”

“Everyone,” Agatha reiterated, her tone laden with a hint of unease. She further questioned, “Since yesterday, has anyone departed from this treatment center?”

“No!” the manager replied promptly, “The order arrived just fifteen minutes prior to the shift change. All the personnel on duty remained stationed here.”

“Excellent, gather all of them here. Explain it as a mandatory inspection. Keep the atmosphere light, and avoid causing any suspicion. Now, proceed.”

The manager, thinning hair slightly askew, nodded and swiftly moved away, visibly attempting to regain his composure. Agatha stood rigid beside the buffer pool, her gaze fixed on his retreating silhouette until it disappeared behind a distant door. Only then did she signal to the nearby guardians, who had already detected the developing tension.

The guardians, cloaked in their black attire, immediately sprang into action. They began to meticulously arrange concealed runes around the open ground adjacent to the buffer pool, interspersing the intricate network of pipes and intersections with a mix of essential oils and crushed incense powder. Once their preparatory work was complete, they took up strategic positions around the site, disguising their vigilance under the guise of continued facility checks.

As the guards dispersed to their respective tasks, Agatha hoisted her staff aloft and methodically traced an equilateral triangle in the space around her, each side extending roughly two meters in length. She positioned herself in the center of this geometric figure, leaning against her staff with both hands, the embodiment of tranquil anticipation.

A rhythmic patter of footfall began to resonate from the direction of the primary entry point. The manager made his re-entry into the treatment facility, his return to the vicinity of the buffer pool marked by a trail of a diverse group.

Amongst the throng were three conspicuous figures, ordained members of the Death Church. They were garbed in church robes and bore sacred insignia, a testament to their religious affiliation.

Under the manager’s direction, about a dozen employees of the treatment center assembled before Agatha. They formed a loose queue, nervously extending greetings towards the “Gatekeeper” that stood before them. The trio of resident priests veered away from the rank and file, courteously bowing to Agatha in accordance with the internal etiquette and hierarchical norms of the Church of Death.

Agatha instructed the trio of priests to disperse, her gaze then embarked on a slow yet meticulous scan of the sea of faces before her.

She sensed an anomaly.

Although she failed to observe any overtly suspicious expressions or erratic movements, and despite the absence of any perceptual oddities, the divine blessing of Bartok had validated the existence of an inconsistency to Agatha. It was concealed within the rhythmic cadence of their breaths, the pulsating throb of their heartbeats, and even in the casting of their shadows upon the ground.

Agatha blinked, mentally reassessing her surroundings to ensure her observations were accurate, and then the realization dawned on her.

Indeed, cognitive interference existed, one that persisted even in her presence, the formidable “Gatekeeper of Frost.”

Was this a manifestation of bold defiance? Or was it a consequence of ignorance towards the gatekeeper’s formidable powers? Or perhaps, was this cognitive interference simply uncontrollable? Agatha’s gaze gradually shifted, ultimately landing on the triad of priests.

Temporarily excluding the dozen or so workers from her speculation, one among these three priests was undeniably an imposter — but who could it be? “Utter the name of Bartok,” Agatha instructed in a low, steady voice, “May the Lord of Death keep vigil over us, illuminating the veil of deceit in this ephemeral world.”

“In the name of the Lord of Death, Bartok,” one priest initiated without hesitation, “may He remain our sentinel…”

The remaining two priests promptly followed suit, “In the name of the Lord of Death, Bartok…”

The triad of voices echoed in a sequential chorus, eliciting a frown from Agatha.

The ability to pronounce the name of the deity confirmed that they were neither sham constructs molded from mud nor adherents of a discordant faith. If they were, the intense dichotomy of faith would be sufficient to shred their sanity to fragments.

Yet how could this be? Could all three priests be authentic? Agatha’s mind was a whirlwind of conjecture, yet she maintained an outward visage of serenity. Nodding to the triad of men, she declared, “Next, I shall conduct some essential examinations. Your cooperation is appreciated.”

Simultaneously, her hand gravitated towards her left eye — the eyeball, astonishingly lively, immediately disembarked from its cavity, landing unerringly in her outstretched palm.

Holding this detached eyeball, Agatha directed its gaze at the trio of priests arrayed before her.

The image of the first priest materialized in her field of vision — an emaciated elder garbed in a linen robe, a chain as dark as obsidian protruding from the region beneath his ribcage. A brooding hound, chained at the end, tilted its head towards her, its maw rapidly coalescing into an abomination of polluted energy.

“Heretic! To think he would brazenly stand here!”

Agatha’s expression subtly shifted, but she was prepared. The moment the somber hound flung open its cavernous jaws, she had already deftly sidestepped, and the staff in her right hand was poised, its tip ablaze with pallid flames.

However, just as she was about to incinerate the heretic, another cryptic incantation permeated the air from an adjacent location.

The eyeball clutched in Agatha’s left hand jolted. The next instant, she was presented with the vision of a straw-haired young man with a pronounced nose, his hands extended towards her. A nebulous jellyfish, seemingly conjured from a miasma, hovered behind him.

That was the second “priest.”

A bout of vertigo struck her, and as Agatha struggled to regain her equilibrium, a third incantation resounded.

A woman with a ghastly pallor at the fringe of her vision was extending her hand in her direction. A feline entity, assembled from skeletal fragments and black miasma, was hunched next to the woman.

That was the third priest.

All the priests were imposters, and the chaos of combat filled the air from all directions.

The moment the trio of heretical acolytes initiated their assault, the surrounding guardians sprang into action, attempting to intervene. However, they too encountered formidable adversaries of their own.

The approximate dozen “employees” that had accompanied the manager had erupted into violent conflict with the nearby guardians.

In Agatha’s peripheral vision, she observed the bodies of the “employees” rupture upon impact, spewing a sludge-like substance with the consistency of viscous mud.

The manager, his hairline receding, was the lone figure who managed to dart towards a proximate pipe, emitting strident screams of sheer terror.

In the entirety of the wastewater treatment center… there existed but a single “human.”