Chapter 196

Chapter 196. The Mark (1)

On the train, I carefully examined the photo again with Liam. He needed to be ready to hold me back if I became too absorbed in it. His hand firmly supported my back.

Take a deep breath. What was about to unfold would be beyond my control.

An alien scene unfolded before me. A vast space that must have once been magnificent and beautiful was now neglected, with faded and broken tiles scattered about, covered in cobwebs and dust.

In the center of this space, jarringly out of place, sat an enormous table. The tablecloth was eaten by insects and covered in mold, with rotting apples placed on top.

Looking away from the table, I noticed a drawing that nearly filled one wall, done in what looked like black paint. Some specific shape or pattern.

I slowly turned my head. Someone was there. A white, pale face met mine. And then…

“…!”

I jerked back, throwing the photo away. Liam caught it, set it on fire, and held it out the window until it had completely burned to ashes.

Before the memory could fade, I began drawing what I’d seen in the photo on paper Liam handed me. The pattern especially – I focused most on accurately recreating that pattern that had filled my vision, threatening to overwhelm my mind.

I must have felt I couldn’t let myself forget. When I came to my senses, I had already filled an entire page with black sketches. It felt like returning from a trance. Why?

Liam excused himself briefly to check my eyelids and examine my condition. Only after confirming I was fine did he begin carefully studying the pattern I’d drawn.

His eyes narrowed and his lips set firmly. I watched him and asked.

“…Can you tell what kind of text it is?”

“Not yet. I’m not certain.”

Liam muttered. He traced the pattern with his finger thoughtfully, then flipped through several pages of his notebook before showing it to me.

The notebook was packed like a scrapbook with pages torn from various books, articles, and black-and-white photos. I could feel the texture of the worn dark brown leather cover under my fingertips. I briefly turned to the back pages. Every page was filled with similar materials. This must be Liam’s cult tracking notebook.

Liam asked me.

“Was this the pattern you saw?”

I frowned as I examined the pages from top to bottom. Then, in what appeared to be a photo taken by someone who had infiltrated their cult gathering, I spotted that pale face from my hallucination.

The scene I’d witnessed came flooding back.

The musty tablecloth and rotting food. That white face staring at me.

I frantically rubbed my arms as a sudden chill ran through me. Visible goosebumps raised on my skin.

“That’s the pattern. It was here. This hall.”

Liam carefully spoke at my words.

“…Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’m certain. I can guarantee it.”

His face darkening, he muttered.

“…This case is bigger than we thought.”

Even he seemed unfamiliar with a case of this scale. I swallowed hard, watching Liam’s grave expression.

* * *

Liam called Pierre Germain to request an investigation into the cult organization. We planned to head straight to the company once we reached London.

Unfortunately, little meaningful information emerged. No website, no traceable location. Despite the conveniences of 21st century internet, they seemed to avoid using it.

The only information Germain uncovered was that the cult’s name began with “Huntington.”

‘The Brothers of Huntington,’ or alternatively ‘The Watchers of Huntington.’

We couldn’t understand why they chose such a name. But their self-designation as ‘Brothers’ suggested a cohesion incomparable to other cults.

According to Bradley Miller, Turner had brought enormous wealth to the village community and even restored the health of sick and weakened elderly. This wasn’t something an individual could accomplish alone. There had to be a power backing him.

The unidentified pale face in the photo behind Bradley’s family picture – its appearance in Liam’s cult tracking notebook meant this figure was a member of the Huntington Brothers, and they were the power behind Turner.

We decided to trace their threads one by one using this ‘someone’ who appeared in both photos as our lead.

But they seemed to notice they were being tracked. The attacks began as soon as we arrived in London.

The first attack came just after we’d gotten into a taxi outside Liverpool Street Station.

A truck that had been following from afar suddenly rammed our taxi. We knew it was an attack because the truck specifically hit the back seat where Liam and I sat, leaving the driver’s side untouched.

The impact shattered the window, sending cracks everywhere as the taxi spun. Thankfully, we were wearing seatbelts and weren’t thrown from our seats or suffered any fractures, but the shock transmitted through the car’s frame as it hit a lamppost made my shoulder ache. What grudge do they have against my arms and shoulders? It feels like the same spots keep getting injured.

We groaned, still reeling from the impact. Liam’s beautiful forehead was bleeding, probably from hitting the broken window during the collision, and I’d scraped my palms trying to brace myself.

Startled people ran over to pull us from the taxi. Voices rang out in confusion.

“Are you alright? Good Lord, look at the blood! Someone call an ambulance!”

“No, no…”

I struggled to my feet.

Flames were starting in the truck that had hit us. When I tried to check on the driver, the seat was already empty. A hit-and-run in broad daylight in central London!

“…I’m fine.”

Mild concussion maybe? A nauseating sensation was wreaking havoc on my insides. I took some shallow breaths.

Liam held me tightly in both arms. I could feel his heart pounding wildly and his trembling breath against my back. He whispered in my ear. Strange.

Yes, strange. Definitely strange.

We’d only just begun our investigation, merely requesting information from Germain during our train ride. Though Liam had long watched various cult groups to ensure they didn’t cross lines, no one should know about Liam Moore, who moved quietly underground, erasing his presence. And Pierre Germain, once known as Plurititas, wouldn’t carelessly run his mouth.

Could information have leaked to someone in that short time?

Or had they sensed Turner’s death? Had the magic that caused Turner’s death exposed our identities to them as well?

Seemingly recovered from his dizziness, Liam picked up his phone. The corner of the screen was cracked but it still worked. He called Germain.

“Mr. Germain. We’re at Liverpool Street Station. Please send a car. We’ve been attacked.”

Never dreamed we’d experience something straight out of the movies.

After gathering our wits, we decided to leave the area first. No good drawing more attention – too many people had already gathered. Liam pressed the handkerchief he’d pulled from his pocket to his forehead while firmly holding my hand with his other hand as we started walking.

Soon Pierre Germain arrived driving himself. The meddlesome old man grinned at us.

Judging it unwise to head straight to the company, Liam decided we should recover our bodies and minds at home first.

In the car heading home, Germain kept teasing us about surviving the traffic accident. Then he left us near our house after giving strange advice like ‘be careful,’ ‘ignore strangers who talk to you,’ and ‘don’t follow anyone offering candy.’

Then the second attack occurred.

We were walking wearily hand in hand, exhausted. Until then, we’d thought nothing could top a daytime hit-and-run, but these lunatics seemed determined to never leave us alone.

A man wearing a hat pulled low and a tightly wrapped scarf walked toward us from across the street, then suddenly swung a knife at us. He seemed to have targeted the residential area’s lack of pedestrians.

Fortunately, we’d already noticed something was off from the stranger’s suspicious attire, his hand gripping his pocket, his gait. Liam, having sensed the man was targeting us, immediately countered his attack, twisting the man’s arm and disarming him. His movements were incredibly skilled, like someone well-versed in such encounters.

In the blink of an eye, a red jackknife clattered to the ground. Having lost his weapon and realizing this attack had also failed to kill us, the man shoved Liam and ran.

I stared wide-eyed at how easily Liam was pushed aside. He used to bounce around fighting monsters, but now he seemed to have only the strength of a normal person. Who’ll protect him if not me? Poor thing. I patted his wrinkled clothes smooth as he let out a long sigh.

“These attacks are getting frequent.”

“Yeah. And they knew where we live. We only learned their name, but they’re already this close to us.”

“True,” Liam muttered. The waterproof dressing from the first attack was still on his beautiful forehead. He reflexively rubbed his forehead, wincing. He seemed to need time to think.

After leaving him alone for about five minutes, he finally spoke to me in a serious voice.

“…Looks like there’s a mole in the company.”