A Night of Thick Fog and Soot (3)
Gretchen and I stepped inside the Eunwol Workshop.
A gentle scent of wood brushed against my nose. Still, for all how clean the exterior had looked, the interior carried a light coat of dust — clear enough that no one had set foot here in a long while.
Gretchen studied the room for a moment, then turned back to me.
"It looks like we'll need to tidy up a little. Would you wait just a moment?"
"Sure. Go ahead."
I glanced around, then made my way over to a rocking chair tucked into a corner of the workshop. Someone had clearly sat in it often. A thin film of dust covered it as well, but I brushed it off with my hand and settled in.
"Still — if a place like this existed, did we really need to book a room in the village?"
"We couldn't."
Gretchen's answer was firm. She kept talking as she bustled about, putting the workshop in order.
"A number of other witches know this place exists. That means another witch could show up at any time — so using it as a base isn't a particularly good idea."
"R-right."
"Yes. We don't plan on staying here long, either."
By the time she'd finished most of the cleaning, Gretchen caught her breath and looked over at me.
"Shall we begin, then? The physical manifestation of the Desire you inherited — and the subduing of it."
"Yeah. I'm ready."
I rose from the rocking chair and faced her. Reading the resolve in my eyes, Gretchen gave a small nod, turned, and started walking. I followed.
She moved through the cluttered workshop as if it were her own home, then descended a flight of stairs leading underground.
"This is…?"
We had definitely gone below ground — and yet, once we reached the bottom, there was sky. There was a sun. The space opened out like a broad, sunlit garden. At its center stood something like an altar, built of carefully dressed stone.
Gretchen pointed to the middle of it.
"Would you wait there for me? I'll have everything ready shortly."
"Alright."
Following her instructions, I took my place at the heart of the altar. Once she'd confirmed I was standing where I should, Gretchen activated the surrounding structure and began to weave a spell.
"Construct. Fleeting delusions, overflowing thoughts,"
"the water's surface that illuminates the unseen."
⟨ Mirror of Thoughtflame ⟩
The altar answered her magic. A strange, low hum rolled through the air, and highly concentrated mana gathered until it was visible to the naked eye.
"Doyun — the vessel of your Desire!"
"R-right."
At her command I drew Jack the Ripper's blade at once, its edge already shimmering with a faint silver flame.
Kiiing—!
"?!"
The blade reacted to Gretchen's magic. The silver flame that had only glowed faintly before flared brighter, swelling in size.
"It's about to appear!… Stay sharp, Doyun!!"
"I know."
I tightened my grip on Jack the Ripper's knife and braced for whatever was coming. In that same instant, the silver flame coiled around the blade spilled across the entire altar — and as it spread, the flame darkened, thickening into a dense, black fog.
"?!"
"F-fog?"
The mist was so heavy that Gretchen, standing beyond the altar, began to vanish from sight. And it wasn't only her.
"Doyun! Are you all— right now— get out—"
Her voice grew thinner and thinner, until at last the fog sealed off my vision and my hearing completely.
"Wh-what the hell is this…"
No matter how hard I waved my hands, the fog refused to clear. It clung to me as if it had fused to my skin.
Then, gradually, the fog began to lift. Or rather — the densest of it thinned a little. Mist still coiled around me on every side.
At the same time, an unpleasant smell brushed my nose. The fresh, almost restorative scent of grass from moments before was gone. In its place came the sour, stale stench of soot and coal smoke, sharp enough to sting. I had smelled this before.
I had smelled it in a dream.
"Where is this…?"
Fog laid thick across the ground. A sky that was faintly dark even though it was daytime. Horse-drawn carriages rattling past.
This place was…
"Whitechapel…?"
The infamous slum of the British Empire — the hunting ground of Jack the Ripper. Whitechapel Street.
"What? Why am I here…"
I walked slowly, taking in my surroundings, then pinched my cheek. It hurt.
"Gretchen said she was going to manifest the form of my Desire… Gretchen! Gretchen! Where are you?!"
I shouted into the empty air. Passersby glanced at me, then hurried their steps. Apparently I was being written off as a lunatic.
I swallowed my embarrassment and called her name again, but Gretchen never appeared. How had I ended up in Whitechapel? Was this nothing more than a hallucination?
I scratched the back of my head and looked around — and someone caught me by the shoulder.
"Inspector Blackwood! What are you doing out here?"
"Pardon…? Do I know you?"
I turned. A man stood behind me in a deep navy uniform, a leather belt and truncheon at his waist, a round-crowned hat on his head. When I asked in confusion, he looked even more baffled than I did.
"What on earth are you talking about? It's me, Inspector — Sergeant Jack Collins. I introduced myself only yesterday. Is this one of those city jokes going around?"
"Huh…?"
What was he talking about? Inspector? Me?
In that moment my gaze snagged on the glass window of the building beside me. The faint reflection looking back was not Han Doyun. It was a mature, middle-aged foreigner.
Only then did I realize the clothes I was wearing were not my modern summer outfit. I was dressed the same as the sergeant in front of me. The differences, if any, were that my uniform was a touch cleaner, and the rank insignia on my shoulder was of a different design from his.
"What in the world…"
"However much you may want to look the place over, sir, wandering about alone like this is asking for trouble."
"Trouble?"
At my question, Sergeant Jack Collins swept a look around us. Then he leaned in and spoke under his breath.
"The mood in Whitechapel's been rather grim of late, hasn't it? There are even stories of prostitutes vanishing overnight…"
Well — missing prostitutes were hardly unheard of, he added.
Missing prostitutes. Whitechapel. Put those two together and only one conclusion presented itself.
"Jack the Ripper, then?"
"Sir? Jack the Ripper? What's that, Inspector?"
"…"
He genuinely didn't know. So this wasn't the period of the Ripper's activity…
Then why — and how — had I been brought here? Time travel? But that didn't explain my body being completely different. Possession, then? Of some random man from centuries ago with no connection to me at all?
According to Gretchen, the goal had been to give physical form to Jack the Ripper — the vessel of my Desire — and subdue it. How things had twisted into this, I couldn't begin to guess.
"Are you all right, Inspector?"
"Forgive me. My head went blank for a moment."
The words left my mouth and I flinched. Somewhere along the way, my manner of speaking had changed — as if I were already growing accustomed to this body, little by little.
"Haha, I understand. When I was first posted here, it took me a while to get used to the air myself."
Sergeant Collins laughed heartily and tossed the joke my way. Then he shrugged.
"At any rate, if you've seen enough, we ought to be heading back. Superintendent Morgan was asking for you."
"Very well. Lead on."
"This way, then, Inspector!"
I gave a light nod, and Sergeant Collins set off at a brisk pace down the fog-choked streets of Whitechapel. I watched him for a moment, then finally followed. For now, I had no better option than to go with him.
"Is it always this dark here?"
"Sir? Ah — well, yes. The factories never stop, you see. The soot they pour out spreads like fog."
I had thought the city dark because of the thick mist alone, but that wasn't the whole of it. The entire atmosphere of the place was heavy. There was no life in people's faces, no hope — they lived only because they were alive. That bleakness had swallowed the city whole and turned it into something dark and oppressive.
"In a place like this…"
Jack the Ripper had appeared, had he?
Under Sergeant Jack Collins's guidance, I made my way back. Not long after, I found myself face to face with the man called the Superintendent…
"Hah hah hah. So you're Inspector Henry Blackwood, are you? A pleasure. I was too busy yesterday to manage a proper conversation. Thomas Morgan, Superintendent."
"Henry Blackwood, sir."
A heavyset man sat in the office chair — so heavyset I wondered whether he could even run if he had to. Hardly the picture of a policeman. Of course, one shouldn't judge by appearances alone… but he looked like the sort who might be deep in graft. A glance at his sleeve showed a watch chain that was, even at a glance, conspicuously expensive.
"Collins tells me you went out to walk the streets."
"Yes, Superintendent Morgan."
"And how did you find them?"
An unexpected question. I thought for a moment before answering.
"Dark."
"Is that how it struck you?"
Superintendent Morgan nodded as if he understood perfectly.
"Well. I suppose it might. Don't trouble yourself over it. The faces of losers aren't worth fretting about."
"!"
For an instant, greed slicked over his eyes.