C116: intermission: Path to the Divine and the Deviant Path

A figure staggered against the wall, his body swaying unsteadily as he leaned his full weight onto the cold stone. His chest heaving as a jagged, rasping sound escaped his throat.

“Hahaha,” he laughed. It was a hysterical laughter directed at nothing but his own sudden misery. The sound echoed in the narrow space, completely at odds with the state he was in.

His signature peach-colored top hat was a ruined mess, scorched by fire and coated in a fine layer of gray ash. The fine silk of his suit, once the pride of a high-end tailor, was now torn in several places, revealing the edges of his waistcoat beneath.

Burn marks spread across one sleeve, and a smell of smoke lingered around him.

Yet despite the blood trickling from a shallow cut on his temple and the precariousness of his position, the man didn’t seem concerned in the slightest.

The "Autumn Detective," James Holmes, lifted his head and glanced around, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings.

“This alley is strange.”

He had never seen this road before.

The alley stretched ahead of him in a long, narrow corridor. The ground was paved with uneven cobblestones, their surfaces slick with soot and damp from the ash-laden air.

Some stones were cracked, others slightly sunken, creating an irregular path. Dark residue filled the gaps between them, forming thin lines like veins running through the road.

On either side, tall gray walls rose, their surfaces stained with age and streaks of rainwater that had long since dried into uneven trails. Small cracks crawled along the stone, leaving jagged imperfections.

It was unmistakably an alleyway, yet it extended far longer than any alley should. The perspective seemed off to James, as though the path stretched further the more one looked at it.

James had rushed into this passage without thinking, driven by the impression that someone, or something, was close on his heels.

At least, that was what it had felt like.

Was it possible that Easton City had fallen into such chaos that even he could get lost in a district he had visited?

“My.”

James straightened himself, brushed dust and ash from his peach-colored coat.

Afterward, he took the scorched top hat from his head and folded the ruined buckram.

Within seconds, the hat was reduced to a neat, flat square of peach-colored paper, which he slid carefully into his breast pocket.

*Swish.*

With a flick of his wrist, he produced a fresh pack of papers from his sleeve. They were small, no larger than a common note-card, their color the same soft peach.

With a casual wave of his hand, the papers lifted into the air, swirling in a miniature cyclone around his palm.

The sheets blurred together, folding and interlocking until a brand-new peach top hat appeared, pristine and without a single blemish.

He settled the fresh headwear back onto his crown with a satisfied tap.

“What a useful ability.”

[Only you would use it for such trivialities.] In response to his comment, a stream of black ink flowed out from the lining of his coat. It curdled in the air, forming legible black text that hovered directly in front of his eyes.

James grinned.

“It is all thanks to your diligent support, Miss Watson!”

He regained his composure and began walking forward along the narrow alley. On either side, the gray stone walls loomed high. The windows above were barred with iron and the doorways recessed.

High overhead, a faint yellow dome shimmered. It was the defensive barrier that had been deployed across the northern sector of the city.

Although the inner city had been somewhat stabilized by the local church priests, the outer districts remained chaotic.

The wind continued to rage, carrying a heavy rain of white ash that fell from the sky like a winter storm. From the distance, the muffled roar of thunder exploded, followed by a sudden stretch of light that lanced across the blackened clouds, illuminating the horizon in brief flashes.

“The Demon of Dispute Order attacked us so openly. How very strange,” James mused, his eyes narrowing as he stepped over a pile of discarded crates.

That organization had never been this aggressive toward the Kingdom. Or at least, they hadn't been so openly like this for the past few years.

They were infamous throughout the underworld, and everyone knew the identity of the power backing them. It was the Holy Praelium Empire, a nation built on war and dispute.

If the Holy Praelium Empire was now openly attacking a major city of the Conquesita Kingdom like this, it suggested a shift in the global balance. Did they no longer fear the wrath of the White Monarch? Or had something changed at the top of the hierarchy?

“Why now?”

James’s mind spiraled, sorting the information into a sequence.

He reached into his chest pocket and pulled out a black-capped pen, and as he did, a peach-colored notebook materialized out of thin air directly in front of him.

“The Marchioness’s daughter got kidnapped,” he wrote, the pen gliding smoothly across the paper.

Beneath his line, black ink appeared, bleeding onto the page to form its own commentary.

[“She has a Yi constitution; her body can be utilized as a vessel for a ritual.”] The ink wrote alongside him, as if a second person sharing the same page.

The sound of scribbling reverberated against the alley, as James continued forward, his steps steady against the uneven cobblestones.

“Now is July of 1548. It is almost the time of the new year celebrations,” James noted, his eyes scanning for any sign of his pursuers.

[“The Holy Praelium Empire will soon begin preparations for their annual war with the Praetus Empire.”] Again, Miss Watson’s ink swirled into existence, providing the context that James required for his deductions.

Those two empires had long stood at odds. Every year, they clashed, an endless cycle of violence and pride.

It was a contest between powers of the divine. Both the Dispute Monarch of Praelium and the Crimson Monarch of Praetus belonged to the Violence Faction. Their rivalry was well-known, and through their followers, their influence, and their chosen champions, they sought to prove which of them stood superior.

“What reason could they possibly have to attack the Conquesita Kingdom so openly at a time like this?” He wrote the question into the notebook, emphasizing his confusion with a large question mark that took up half the page.

His mind continued to organize the fragments.

He already knew that the Demon of Dispute Order had long been involved in shadowy dealings beneath the surface of society. Their activities were aimed at weakening the influence of the White Monarch, the entity that sat at the absolute peak of the current power structure.

But even for the Dispute Monarch, this level of aggression seemed reckless.

[“Unless His patience has run out.”]

“I wonder, is it involved in that nonsensical prophecy?”

During a tour of the Praetus Empire, James had once heard a secret prophecy that he dismissed as nonsense.

"One day, a champion will rise from the flame of suffering. She will conquer the Empires, unite the two empires as one as a whole."

However, James dismissed it as nonsensical for a sole reason. How could mortals compare to a Monarch? Unless, of course, that mortal managed to advance to the highest Stage, claimed the throne of both the Monarchs of Violence Faction.

The only reason it stuck in his mind like hot glue was because of the unique symbol that came with the prophecy. An eye symbol, in an upside-down pyramid.

It was a strange symbol. James had never seen something like that before, but it fascinated him. To the point that he could not sleep properly for a whole week thinking about the prophecy.

[“James, stop that thought. We are getting off-topic.”]

“My apologies, Miss Watson.” James cleared his head as he continued writing.

“The Holy Praelium Empire and the Golden Land are known to have a close relationship. Do they wish to bring a specific curse under their control? Or is the illicit experiment to determine if any other Deviant Path exists still ongoing?” James mused, his pen hovering over the paper.

[“These crude humans understand not what they trifle with.”]

“The Path to the Divine: The Official Path and the Deviant Path,” James wrote in the notebook, as the black ink continued to seep beneath his words. The information he needed to remember gradually emerged.

The concept of “Paths” was not unfamiliar. It was the foundation of everything within the Stagefarer world.

The Path to the Divine referred to a structured system of advancement, corresponding to a series of named potions and rituals that granted individuals access to supernatural and mystical powers. Once consumed, they would become a Stagefarer of that specific path.

There were many known examples. The potion of the Warrior Path, the Inspector Path, the Vampire Path,.... Each path granted a distinct set of abilities, and each one followed a defined progression, called the Stage.

The Stagefarer of each path must go from the Entry Stage. Then to the Apprentice Stage, Foundation Stage, Silver Sky Stage, Golden Radiant Stage, Incandescent Stage, Supreme Stage, and finally, Monarch Stage.

In total, there were twelve Official Paths. “Official” meant that these paths were common knowledge among the Stagefarer world, and acknowledged by the Monarchs themselves.

Their advancement rituals were well-recorded and relatively safe. Furthermore, if one became a Bless of a Monarch, then their advancement would be guaranteed success.

Each of these paths belonged to a specific Faction, with a distinct color code, and contained two other neighboring paths that shared a common origin. These included the Harmony Faction, the Violence Faction, the Moon Faction, and a mysterious, vanished faction whose name had been erased from history.

James’s pen paused briefly.

[“The Deviant Paths.”]

Beyond the twelve Official Paths, there existed something far more unstable and abnormal that defied all established logic.

These were the "Deviant Paths," Paths that simply should not exist.

There was no written record of how one became a Stagefarer in a Deviant Path. There were neither known potion formulas, nor verified rituals. Because of that, those who walked such Paths often manifested themselves as a Curse rather than a sentient human being.

However, within the last few years, a disturbing theory had spread through the underworld.

It spoke of experiments involving Stagefarers who had lost control, yet, instead of the usual color code, a new kind of Curse emerged from them. These entities exhibited strange abilities and colors that had never been documented in history.

They all followed the same pattern.

“A Stagefarer consumes a potion from a path belonging to another Faction. Thus, a Deviant Path Curse was born.”

Normally, such an act was a death sentence. One could not drink a potion or participate in a ritual from a different Faction once they had already committed to a specific Path. A Stagefarer could not walk two Paths at once.

The moment one attempted to ingest a potion from a different Faction, their essence would collapse, leading them to lose control and transform into a Curse.

And yet, the theory of Deviant Paths had changed everything the underworld knew about the climb toward the divine. It had driven countless madmen, desperate Stagefarers, and unethical doctors and scholars into obsession, fueled by the knowledge that other unknown Paths existed.

That taboo had become the foundation of a new line of experimentation.

[“The White Monarch, the Crimson Monarch, the Dispute Monarch, the Moon Monarch, and the Famine Monarch, such are the Monarchs of the Official Paths, the existences akin to the Divine.

[“Should one seek to lay claim to the power of the Divine, one must, at the summit of one's Stage, inevitably confront these paramount beings.”]

[“Since there can be one, and only one Monarch upon each Path.”]

“Thank you for compiling the information, Miss Watson.” James smiled and continued writing. “However, no record exists of any Deviant Path's Monarch.”

If the Deviant Paths truly existed, if they could be studied and stabilized, it meant that for mortals, the Path toward the Divine was no longer an impossible dream.

"..."

But to James, he knew all along that the Deviant Path existed; that was why he was so adamant that the Golden Land’s reason for their crude experiments was to intentionally create Deviant Curses.

"Miss Watson. Are you acquainted with any others who share our Path?" James couldn’t contain his curiosity, asking the question into the empty, ash-choked air of the alleyway.

The black ink paused briefly. Then, instead of returning to the notebook, it manifested directly in the space before his eyes.

[“...Only you.”] The words hung there, stark and lonely.

"Such a privilege, Miss Watson. To think I should be so singular in your eyes." James offered a playful, charming smile, adjusting his peach top hat.

[“...I hate you.”] The ink shimmered with a hint of what might have been irritation before dissolving back into his coat.

“Miss Watson. I'm fascinated. Your knowledge of the divine is truly boundless.”

James knew all along, there was no Monarch in the Deviant Paths. He also knew for a certainty that the Deviant Path existed, and that even a human could walk such a path without losing their mind, even if there was never a single record of success.

James smiled slightly, “It’s truly a wonder to walk such a Path myself."

Because he was a living example, a human in the Deviant Path.

Origin Faction: Reader Path.

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