"Another night, another dream. I didn't even get to finish reading The Secrets of the Worm," Sasser muttered as he propped himself up with effort. "Hey, Jeanne—" he mumbled groggily, instinctively reaching his hands toward the softly crackling fire in the hearth, which looked like it would never burn out. This hearth reminded him a bit of the place where he had imprisoned the soul of a witch, but not quite—it might just be a strange gift from an Outer God, lit by their incomprehensible will. Beyond that, it didn't seem to serve much purpose. "...Where is she?"
Sasser smacked his forehead and looked around.
It was an oddly styled room—if he had to say, it resembled Plain's place. Two wooden doors were thrown open. It was nighttime, and clusters of white-gold acacia, draped in vines, hung just outside. A soft breeze occasionally scattered petals onto the old wooden floor. The moon was veiled behind a pale mist, yet its light was gentle, mingling with the candlelight and the glow of the hearth.
The room was rectangular. The whitewashed walls were partially paneled with carved wood—each panel bearing abstract cross-shaped reliefs that didn't quite match any traditional symbol of the Church. The carpet bore pale green plush floral patterns. Along both walls stood wooden tables and cabinets, filled with books and strange mechanical devices. There were blood-filled test tubes, glass vials, jewel-polishing tools, crude metal grinders, and bizarre weapons mounted on the walls—serrated machetes, segmented staves, scythes, and cleavers seemingly made of interlocking fangs. Whether they were artisan creations or monster limbs, they glinted under the mingled glow of moonlight, candles, and fire.
Nothing in the room particularly impressed him—his old lab had been far more horrifying. But somehow, something felt off. Something just... didn't add up.
He gripped the armrests of a wheelchair—wait, a wheelchair?
He looked down at his hands, frowning. They were the wrinkled hands of an old man. His clothes looked like the kind worn by hunters who had emigrated from the Lersel continent—smooth, well-oiled dark leather, tidy and worn.
"I'm curious—are these things that exist in this world, or did you bring them here with the Outer Gods?"
"That's where I was born," came the voice of the doll.
Expressionless, Sasser stood. "I don't mind you dragging me into this, doll," he said, "but could you not wrap me in this kind of skin?" He inhaled deeply, letting his breath compress in his chest, and channeled the maze of Volvados into his soul. Fire surged through him.
He muttered a few nearly inaudible incantations.
White flame burst from his skin like blades, shredding the hunter's garb and the old man's skin. The false flesh covering his soul flared red, then crumbled like worn-out snakeskin, finally dissolving into flecks of black ash—like two burlap sacks incinerated midair.
A deep red demon spread its wings wide in the room, then folded them with the flames.
"Ah... you've escaped as well, hunter of this world. This dream once welcomed others like you," said the doll again, her amber-like eyes locked onto him. She was tall—half a head taller than Sasser—with skin seemingly no different from a human's. Though her finger joints were clearly segmented, her lips moved with the delicate poise of a noblewoman when she spoke.
"Do you give everyone the nickname 'hunter' the moment they show up?" Sasser stepped closer, eyeing her. "You've already read my memories—I'm a black sorcerer, formerly of the Senate, not some forest-dwelling peasant living off traps and bows."
"Perhaps it's nostalgia," she said calmly, her tone as distant as ever. "I was created to bless hunters. Though I've long since left that dream behind, some marks cannot be erased."
"Are we even talking about the same kind of hunter?" he raised an eyebrow.
"I think... probably not."
"So, you're a servant of an Outer God?" Sasser cut to the chase—he had little patience for philosophical nonsense.
"Yes. Before the god left, it asked me my wish. The hunters once told me of the Church, of love, and of divinity. Back then, I grew curious about human love. That wish was fulfilled—my curiosity rewarded with a gift from the god."
"And your curiosity led to a bunch of memory-wiped wanderers falling in love with you... Are all Outer Gods insane? No, don't answer that. That was rhetorical."
Sasser stared at the doll, who still towered slightly over him, and fell into thought.
"I am a doll who loves all people," she stated evenly, without any trace of emotion. "That was why I was made. Perhaps I never had any wish—only the question of whether those I love ever loved me back."
"I don't care for that kind of nonsense. I doubt we'll ever see eye to eye," said Sasser, shaking his head. Like most former mages of the Imperial War Corps, he was pragmatic—rarely impulsive, always restrained. "So, you love me too? Whatever. I owe my logic professor an apology."
"If you're asking, then yes, I love you."
"Thank you. I'm honored," he replied flatly. "Now, would you happen to know which priests have visited you lately?"
"Due to the god's vow, I cannot reveal their names, Mr. Sorcerer."
"Has a priest of Hood visited?"
"I'm sorry... Though newborn gods cannot affect the dream world, many ancient ones have walked here. I cannot say more."
This doll was harder to deal with than Jeanne—and in a completely different way.
Getting anything useful from her seemed unlikely.
Still, her earlier comments implied that many gods in contact with the Outer Gods had passed through here. Just like he always complained—this world's gods loved meddling in mortal affairs.
Sasser stood silently under the doll's gaze, deep in thought. Many names flickered through his mind—The Boar of Five Tusks, the Autumn Worm, the Winter Wolf God, even the tyrant of snow, Leist, said to slumber in Darujhistan...
But what use were those names? Even if he knew they had visited this place, how could he possibly guess what those deathless beings were planning?