Black Lake

Gilan's leather shoes crunched against the gravel beach, the sound echoing softly.

As he drew closer to the wooden cabin in the middle of the lake, he discovered a scorched clearing hidden in the woods to his left. Piled within were many collapsed, charred logs, along with the remains of tents, tables, chairs, and metal trunks.

Gilan surmised that this area was likely the ruins of the prisoner-of-war camp for the "Expeditionary Exploration Team."

He did not head over there, choosing instead to investigate the cabin on the lake first. Glancing up at the sky and remembering that he needed to return to the Black Lake Inn by noon to meet up with the others from the collective, he quickened his pace.

Before long, Gilan stepped onto the wooden pier.

Whether due to the passage of time or neglect, the small pier had decayed severely, causing it to sway unsteadily beneath him and emit creaking sounds with every step.

Gilan remained calm, lowering his center of gravity and moving forward with measured, steady strides.

His peripheral vision caught the surface of the lake on either side. The water reflected the silhouette of the cabin, undisturbed and calm, yet the deeper parts of the lake were pitch black, filling Gilan with an inexplicable sense of oppression. He did not know what lay beneath, but he felt an intense sense of danger.

The pier was about twenty meters long, and fortunately, he reached the cabin door without incident.

The interior was sparsely furnished, containing only a bed, a desk and chair against the wall, and a long chest in the corner. The open chest held moldy clothing, while the wooden walls, floor, and ceiling were covered in black-green moss, thick with spiderwebs and slick with dampness.

Gilan endured the stench inside, raised his gun, and began to search.

Looking at the neatly arranged but moldy books, water glass, ink bottle, and quill on the desk, Gilan couldn't help but wonder. It seemed the alchemist Rembrandt, who had lived in seclusion here, had not left by choice—it looked more like he had encountered some accident and vanished suddenly.

He stood before the desk and, using the sliver of light filtering through the window, began to flip through a diary lying on the table.

"Winter, 1883, December 25th, overcast... Today is 'Christmas.' Although I am not a believer in the Dawn Era, I still praise Omer. He is the pioneer and beacon of humanity, worthy of respect... Perhaps I should use my own power to do something for the people of my hometown? Perhaps treat their illnesses? Well, although I am not skilled in this, concocting some common anti-miasma medicine or remedies for pain and colds should be no problem..."

"Winter, 1883, December 29th, rainy... I have been back in my hometown for over a month now, and I find myself growing fonder of this place. It is quiet, undisturbed, and perfect for meditation and research... I cannot help but lament: having traveled for forty years in pursuit of deeper knowledge and to climb to a higher 'Origin Rank,' how much have I lost, and looking back, was it worth it?"

"Spring, 1884, March 1st, overcast... My recent research has hit a bottleneck, which always makes me fantasize about how wonderful it would be to have a 'Philosopher's Stone' in my hands. Alas, that is merely a supreme alchemical object existing in legends, much like how I always fantasize that an 'Elixir of Immortality' exists in this world."

"'Life Alchemy' is a taboo in the mystical circle and a hypothesis that violates the laws of truth, yet I am unwilling to accept that I will one day die of old age... Even though I am a 'Long-Lived One' with a natural lifespan of 150 years, I still crave immortality so that I might have more time to explore the truths of the world."

"Spring, 1884, March 6th, overcast... Something is wrong here. I am so slow to realize it. What kind of power could invisibly influence a 'Long-Lived One'?"

"Spring, 1884, March 9th, rainy... It is He! It is this dormant volcano! This is a place where He once lingered; only this can explain the lingering scent of sulfur, the most evil of all ancient dark gods—the 'Duke of Sulfur'!!"

"Spring, 1884, March 10th, heavy rain... I am not willing to leave just like this. I want to go to the bottom of the lake. If I can find even a trace of Him, I might be able to glimpse what lies at the pinnacle of the 'Path of the Flaming Sword'!"

"If any successor finds my diary, please remember this fool who sacrificed himself for the truth. His name is Rembrandt Eddie, a Rank 4 'Whisperer' of the 'Furnace Star Coin' path."

"May my power of hypnosis not backfire upon myself."

Gilan finished reading the diary, his head spinning.

It was packed with so many technical terms that he felt completely bewildered.

He could only be certain of one thing: this alchemist had entered the bottom of the lake and never returned.

So, the "Elixir of Immortality" truly does not exist... The diary also mentioned the "Path of the Flaming Sword." Could this alchemist named Rembrandt also be a "Spirit Mystic"? But why did he call himself a "Long-Lived One"? And what are the "Furnace Star Coin" path and a "Whisperer"?

Gilan was filled with questions.

However, at that moment, the hand he was using to touch the diary suddenly erupted with a blinding, iridescent light.

Gilan reflexively raised his hand to shield his eyes, but the next second, he fell into a trance.

In the haze, he saw a flashback...

It was a man in a gray robe with short, curly brown hair; his face was obscured. Outside, the rain was pouring, and inside, he was hunched over the desk, writing in his diary with a quill.

After the pen stopped, he turned and left the cabin, drank a strange potion in the rain, and then plunged headlong into the lake... Gilan noticed a detail: at this time, the Black Lake was still very clear, a deep blue.

After the gray-robed man fell into the lake, he never surfaced again.

But soon, the lake water seemed to be stained by ink, gradually turning a black-green color.

After that, spring passed and winter came; another year went by.

An army arrived at the lakeside with prisoners in tow, launching a massive construction project as a camp rose from the ground.

The army was stationed on the banks of the Black Lake, and their water supply came entirely from the lake.

The bearded officer in charge was deeply obsessed with ancient creatures. Every night, he would read by lamp, flipping through atlases of extinct animals. He was particularly fanatical about "mammoths," even hanging various paintings of them in his tent to study.

Soon, the officer issued an order, and the prisoners in the camp became subjects for human experimentation. Screams echoed incessantly, day and night.

But it wasn't long before the entire prisoner-of-war camp underwent a terrifying transformation.

The prisoners screamed as they turned into monsters that feared no bullets; some grew wings, some could burrow, and others sprouted multiple legs... The soldiers underwent similar mutations, though their bodies grew the fangs and claws of beasts. The bearded officer himself transformed into a giant mammoth.

A deformed, grotesque mammoth!

On its chest grew his original, twisted, bearded face!

But those eyes had long since lost their humanity, replaced by pure malice!

"Hah!" Gilan stumbled in the vision, his hand reaching out to steady himself on the desk and accidentally knocking over some bottles and jars, which clattered loudly.

He panted rapidly for a moment before he finally regained his senses.

In the silence, Gilan raised his arm and stared at his hand.

The iridescent light on his five fingers slowly swirled and vanished.

It was the power of "Iridescence"... I never expected to trigger an "Apocalyptic Dream" through a film! No, it wasn't a dream; it was a flashback. It used the diary as a medium to show me key fragments of the past!

Gilan climbed back to his feet, recalling the scene he had just witnessed, his heart filled with shock.

He seemed to understand it all now.