There weren't many people in the library. In fact, it was nearly empty.
The third floor was even quieter.
The floors were well soundproofed, so the gunshots from the lobby below had sounded faint by the time they reached the third floor. The few locals reading here hadn't noticed a thing.
So, just as he'd expected, Gilan found the book on a shelf in the corner of the third floor.
The book his Apocalyptic Dream had guided him to.
He pulled it from the shelf, brushed off the dust on its cover, then opened the blackish-brown leather binding.
The title was clearly printed across the front matter:
Chronicles of Fayelane Town History
A smaller line beneath it read: The town annals, 1812–1911.
So it's a history of this town.
Gilan thought as he continued reading.
He read quickly, skimming the hefty volume's first half to get a rough sense of the town's history and secrets.
Fayelan was actually built on the slopes of a dormant volcano. The area was rich in coal, and the volcanic ash left behind by past eruptions had, over the centuries, given rise to vast forests. These conditions had allowed the town's coal-mining and logging industries to flourish.
The volcano's crater had gradually filled with water, forming a lake.
The Black Lake of today.
The volcano had once had no name. That changed in 1885, during the war more than twenty years ago, when an army called the Expeditionary Exploration Team arrived. Its commander, Lieutenant Colonel Dolomite, named the volcano after himself.
Later, the lieutenant colonel had his men build a prisoner-of-war camp on the shore of the Black Lake. But the army had been stationed there for less than two years when every last person died under bizarre and mysterious circumstances, and a great fire burned the camp to the ground.
It wasn't until locals risked entering the camp's ruins that they uncovered the secret: the Expeditionary Exploration Team had been conducting inhumane experiments on its prisoners.
But that was only the beginning of the nightmare.
Afterward, wandering figures began appearing along the lakeshore. Any locals who went near them vanished without a trace, and rumors of the Demon of the Lake grew more and more widespread.
Flip...
Gilan leafed quickly through the yellowed pages, then suddenly stopped at one.
His eyes narrowed.
"At the end of 1883, a man calling himself the 'Wandering Hermit' came to the town of Fayelan and secluded himself beside the Black Lake... It was said that he was a native of the town and knew many of its older residents. People marveled at his youthful appearance and believed what he told them."
"After returning to his hometown, the hermit, named Rembrandt Eddie, used his profound knowledge and alchemical skills to cure many locals of difficult ailments, earning their affection."
"But in the spring of the following year, Rembrandt vanished without explanation. The townspeople believed that the scholar, who cared deeply for his home, had merely gone away for a short time and would soon return... Sadly, he never appeared again."
Gilan continued reading, but found nothing else of value.
He took a deep breath and closed the hefty volume.
Could the disappearance of this 'hermit,' Rembrandt, have something to do with the Expeditionary Exploration Team that arrived in town the following year?
Gilan furrowed his brow.
Could the Prisoner Monster I encountered before leaving the movie last time have been one of the prisoners from that camp? Maybe they mutated because of some accident and eventually became the 'demons' the locals speak of? It's certainly possible.
As he pondered, a faint sound suddenly reached his ears.
Clothes rustled, and footsteps shifted.
"Heh. Here you are..." Gilan wasn't surprised. A murderous glint flashed in his eyes as he drew the snub-nosed revolver from its holster and turned, firing at the two figures trying to approach.
Bang! Bang!
The gunshots rang out sharply in the silence.
The two Cultists wearing Reindeer Masks took bullets to the chest and fell to the floor.
Gilan looked past them and saw eight or nine more Cultists of various heights and builds closing in, each carrying a logging axe.
"Offering! You scum! You'll become one of us!"
"The Elixir of Immortality is almost ready! Kill him!"
"Drain his blood! Cut out his heart! We'll all live forever!"
"Hahahaha!"
The Cultists, both men and women, let out warped, frenzied cackles.
Their eyes bloodshot, they raised their axes and charged at Gilan.
They were already too close for him to keep shooting. Gilan didn't retreat. He surged forward, leapt up, planted a foot on the bookshelf to his right, and sprang over several Cultists' heads with a thud, landing behind them.
"Die!" Gilan landed, twisted at the waist, and threw a heavy punch.
His fist blurred through the air and struck a Cultist squarely in the cheek.
Pfft!!
The man's mask and face crumpled and shattered. Tiny shards burst in every direction, and the force of Gilan's punch sent his body spinning forward. He hit the floor and skidded several yards.
Gilan could clearly feel the surging power within him. Grinning, he scooped up a fallen logging axe from the bloodied floor, where several broken teeth lay scattered.
"Hah!" He roared wildly, raising the yard-long axe in both hands and bringing it down on another Cultist.
Splurt!!
Gilan moved too fast for the short, plump Cultist to react. The axe cleaved open his head, spraying blood and brains everywhere.
With a smack, Gilan kicked the corpulent body away and wrenched the axe free. Blood streaked the blade as he swung it diagonally at the next man.
"Die!!"
Splurt!!
"Die already!!"
Crack!!
Clang!
With a savage expression, Gilan swung the logging axe, treating the Cultists in front of him like moving pine trees. Four or five of the closest were killed in seconds by his brutal blows. Severed limbs and headless corpses littered the floor around him.
The remaining Cultists weren't frightened at all. Their eyes red, they shouted and charged.
As Gilan chopped down one of their companions, another Cultist brought his axe down on him.
"Offering!!" he shrieked fervently.
"Get lost!!" Gilan released the axe and swung a punch sideways, striking the man's arm like an iron bar.
With a snap, the man's forearm broke at a right angle, and his axe clattered to the floor.
Gilan narrowed his eyes and kicked. The attacker's chest caved in and shattered. Blood seeped from beneath his Reindeer Mask as he let out a horrifying groan and flew backward. He hit the floor, twitched a few times, then died on the spot!
With a hiss, Gilan pulled the logging axe from the corpse.
He turned to see the last Cultist weaving toward him. They swung their axes almost simultaneously!
Clang!!
Whoosh—whump!
One logging axe's blade chipped, leaving a notch the size of a fingernail. It flew from its wielder's hand, spun through the air, and cleaved through a bookcase before vanishing from sight.
Gilan remained half-crouched, bent at the waist. His felt hat, tousled blond hair, and fair cheeks were spattered with blood... Behind him, the Cultist's head spun through the air as thin streams of blood sprayed from the neck.
Thud!
The headless corpse hit the floor.
Gilan stood upright again, drenched in blood.
He lifted his head, his eyes bloodshot from the slaughter.
"Anyone who wants to hurt me... deserves to die..."