Secrets Supplicant?
Literally, it meant one who prayed to hidden existences.
Galad mulled over the name, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. It really does sound like a cultist title…
"So, what abilities does a Secrets Supplicant have?" he asked.
Dunn's calm voice carried a weight that pressed down on the carriage:
"Secrets Supplicants can perceive certain mysterious and terrifying beings. They possess knowledge of sacrifices and rudimentary ritual magic. However, they also suffer distortions in cognition, and aside from spiritual sensitivity, their bodies remain as weak as ordinary people. More importantly… they are far more prone to losing control than most Beyonders."
"...Huh?"
Galad's face twitched. Prone to losing control? What kind of sick ability is that!!! And physically no different from an ordinary person? No wonder he had managed to bludgeon Siris with a candlestick. Compared to Seers or Sleepless, this sounded utterly pathetic.
He clicked his tongue in annoyance.
"You mustn't underestimate them," Dunn said, his tone still even. "At Sequence 9, they are indeed weak. The true danger lies in their tendency to lose control. But their higher sequences… are infamous for being evil, insane, and dangerously versatile."
Galad exhaled slowly, his chest heavy with unease. Half of him wanted more details, but the other half dreaded what he might hear.
Just then, the green-eyed Nighthawk, who had been silently observing, chuckled and finally spoke.
"If you really want to understand a Secrets Supplicant's powers, shouldn't you be asking yourself?"
He leaned lazily against the wall, a poetic sort of charm in his posture.
Not as handsome as me though, Galad thought pettily.
"Excuse me, Mr. Nighthawk."
"Leonard Mitchell," the man interrupted smoothly, flashing a grin.
"Mr. Leonard, what do you mean?"
"No need for 'Mr.' Leonard is fine." He tapped his temple lightly. "The potion itself carries knowledge. The moment you digested it, that knowledge was branded into your mind. Try meditating, and you might uncover it."
"...That simple?"
Galad blinked in disbelief, but curiosity gnawed at him.
Leonard patiently taught him a meditation method. Following the instructions, Galad closed his eyes and sank into silence.
The night was quiet. The carriage wheels creaked softly against the road. Neither Dunn nor Leonard spoke.
Soon, Galad's thoughts grew clear—and something alien surfaced within him.
"I… feel it." His voice was low, uneasy. "Knowledge of sacrifices."
His expression twisted, disgust flashing across his face. "Twisted, depraved knowledge... sacrifices of flesh and blood, lives, even despair itself… all dedicated to some unspeakable existence."
Dunn leaned forward slightly. "And besides that?"
"...Ritual magic," Galad muttered, brows furrowed. "But most of it is insane, built solely around pleasing evil gods. Distorted rituals with distorted results…"
Dunn nodded gravely. "That matches the records." He noticed Galad's pale face and ordered softly, "That's enough. End the meditation."
"Okay."
Galad answered—but did not stop.
Strange… I should've stopped. Why am I still sinking deeper?
An unseen force seemed to push him downward, pulling him into the darkest depths of his consciousness.
Who do the Secret Supplicants worship? Who are the existences these rituals serve?
Mad whispers drove him onward. His mind crawled like a worm through a narrow, crushing tunnel, bones shattering, flesh writhing—and at the end, he saw it.
Beneath a blood-red sky, atop Siris's mangled corpse, beneath an inverted cross… Praises carved in flesh and blood converged into a single name.
True Creator.
Galad trembled violently. In a tongue he had never learned, joy and despair twisted together, and he chanted uncontrollably:
"The Lord who created everything"
"Stop!"
Dunn's roar shattered the illusion.
Galad's eyes snapped open. Dunn's heavy hand pressed on his shoulder, his other already drawing a revolver. Leonard had risen too, hunched forward like a predator ready to strike.
Only when Dunn saw clarity return to Galad's eyes did he exhale and lower the gun slightly.
"What were you doing?" Dunn asked coldly.
"...Checking the potion's knowledge," Galad said weakly.
"You nearly chanted the True Creator's honored name in Hermes!" Dunn's eyes were dark.
"Eh? That's… serious?"
His head throbbed, filled with fragments of alien knowledge. At the edge of his vision, faint, writhing black lines lingered, and illusory limbs scratched at the corners of reality.
"Serious?" Leonard sneered. "If you'd finished chanting, you'd already be a Lunatic like Siris."
Galad swallowed hard. His gaze flicked to Dunn's revolver. So they would've killed me on the spot…
Holstering the weapon, Dunn said grimly:
"The True Creator is the evil god worshiped by the Aurora Order, the very 'Lord' Siris mentioned. You told me before, when you hallucinated, you saw a hanging giant?"
"Yes." Galad nodded… then froze.
Could it be…
"The hanging giant is the classic image of the True Creator," Dunn confirmed.
Galad sucked in a sharp breath, his scalp tingling.
No wonder Siris said I carried the aura of the 'Lord'...
"Why… why is this happening?" he murmured. And why did I see Him even before crossing into this world?
"I swear, I wasn't trying to invoke Him." His voice was hurried, defensive. "The honored name was etched into the potion itself. The moment I glimpsed it, it… it forced itself out of me."
Dunn's gaze lingered on him, deep and unreadable.
"I believe you. But next time—don't."
Galad bobbed his head like a chicken pecking rice.
Silence fell. The atmosphere in the carriage grew stifling. None of them spoke again until the carriage rolled to a stop.
Outside, a sign glimmered under gaslight:
Blackthorn Security Company.
The building stood quietly in the night, as if guarding the city's dreams.
The carriage door opened, and a cool breeze washed over Galad's face, clearing his mind. Suddenly, he recalled something.
"Mr. Dunn," he said quickly, "my sister was a bit rude to you earlier. She's young and doesn't know better; please don't hold it against her."
Dunn had one foot on the cobblestone but paused. Turning back, he asked calmly:
"Do you think I would mind?"
Galad stayed silent. You probably wouldn't… but I still had to say it.
Dunn studied him for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
"Your sister has been taking very good care of you."
"...Huh?" Galad blinked in confusion.
Dunn pointed at his hair, his nails, and his clean but worn clothes.
"You were half-mad before, incapable of looking after yourself. Yet your hair and nails are neatly trimmed. Your clothes, though old, are spotless. That's your sister's work. Even when facing me—someone far stronger—she dared to retort, just to shield her brother."
Dunn placed his cap back on his head, stepped out of the carriage, and let the night carry his words away.
"How could I mind a little rudeness from such a kind, noble lady?"