In a castle in the sky, memories unravel the truth.
There lies Yan, a woman who delves into her ghost-infested past, knowing it will give her the answers she seeks. What she doesn't know: if she stays in her past for too long, she may never wake up...
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All is so not well at the end of the well.
The graffiti that spells out "DISQUALIFIED AS A HUMAN BEING" in kanji plasters itself majestically near the bottom rung of the ladder, cast into view by the pale moonlight swaggering across the dry floor. But this, I vehemently believe, is just the beginning of the unveiling darkness that lurks beneath the surface.
Because, what comes next is a caterwaul, and the presence of a familiar yellow humanoid sweeping the cold air. Again, the Hypno is there. Just what does he want from me?
In a language I can't understand, he cries ever so shrilly, eyes locked with mine, and for a while, a connection comes through and snaps. So much sorrow and concern piles in his gaze, cut short by footsteps. No, his expression masks an unspeakable regret only keen eyes can uncover.
Is this a warning or a call for help? Who is to come? What is to come? I can't tell, not by the splish-splash amid the consistent footsteps, not by the darkness crawling into my mind to ravage the thoughts into some ruinous entity, not by the moon and her surreptitiously serene glow.
My legs will not listen. My legs drag me toward the sound that booms in my eardrums, but fades no sooner than it rends them. My legs, I now realise, are no longer mine. No one can duel fate and ask for fair change. Because fate isn't some bartender that can concoct a molotov cocktail unless he wishes to, and I have resigned to this wry fate for a longer time than I'd like to admit. Thus, it is only right my drunken sprint heeds fate (whatever disgusting being it shall be) and springs me into the razor claws of a demonic being.
My involuntary scream bounces off the cruel, cold walls, as my eyes slide back to take in the horror in its true form. A purple-skinned fiend with wicked green eyes brimming with envy—the envy of being alive—grabs me by the throat. A mirthless cackle hits me as its mouth shifts, a Jack-o-Lantern reanimated. Thick fog envelops us, but that's not the point. The problem lies with the green will-o-wisps circling me in my captive state.
Now I am certain, this must be Spiritomb's true form, the cursed face carved out from myths standing clear before me. But it makes no sense.
I did travel through time, but definitely not that much to warrant some 500 years back. Is this all a figment of my imagination? Are the ghosts of my past toying with my mind?
I can't be sure, but I am only certain this predicament does not bode well for me. Why did I agree? If I never chose to remember, then such a memory—a nightmare—will forever be eradicated from the world. But of course, Yan, you must understand, is a stupid little girl. Her birdbrain knows no bounds, and she has been nothing short of a burden to me. The name itself is a curse, and so is this twerp, a jinx that should never have been born.
So why did fate toss me into existence like a die in a casino? Then all my faces must be wailing, scratched and worn under the pressure of its blood-soaked nails, its iron grip, and I have no place else to go.
