In myths, the serpent coiled around Midgard could grow without limit. This project's name perfectly captured what it was meant to become.
Like building blocks, it would grow without end.
Crystalline formations concealed all ugliness: proliferating tumors, animated flesh. The scholars studied the madmen deeply influenced by the Deep, trading for the knowledge of so-called lunatics.
But the scholars were far too proud to admit that academic research could be hindered by faith. They only borrowed from it.
"Careful. We don't have much stock left."
The stock referred to dead victims of Originium Infection. High-quality specimens often came from large-scale wars, while others had to be collected personally from the sewers of major cities. It was a mature supply chain. Some were made into dolls, while others were burned directly into ash. Even in death, the infected could not rest in peace.
But thanks to that person, all major and minor conflicts in the world had completely vanished.
The sorcerers had lost the fertile ground from which they harvested quality specimens.
"Precisely because of that, since we have no room for a second attempt, we should pour all our efforts into the first wave of attacks. Strike the power station like lightning."
The scholars might have been ingenious at research, but their strategic awareness was clearly lacking.
Naive. Brainless.
The moon rose amid the birch forest. Its cold light was cut into countless fragments by the branches, whose shadows were especially black, like piles of firewood rising from the ground.
They stood and silently crossed the birch forest, stopping in a hushed graveyard.
Rustle.
That was the sound of crows taking flight. Two soft black feathers drifted down from the treetops, landing without a sound.
In a silence quieter than death itself, the corpses began to speak.
"Before wondrous knowledge,