A path through the gloomy forest led to a mansion that looked as if it had been haphazardly pieced together from random building materials. Flowerbeds belonging to the estate lined the path, and the black flowers growing within them were unmistakably the Spirit Flowers Jenkins had eaten before.
He wasn't greedy enough to pick them, instead stepping up to the porch beneath the eaves. The door was unlocked. Passing through the foyer, he entered the living room. The room's decor was strange and whimsical, like a scene from a fairy tale. A rabbit-shaped clock hung on the wall, and the black kettle simmering in the fireplace was shaped like an owl. The people sitting in the living room, however, were anything but whimsical.
Upon the red carpet sat a small coffee table and a sofa. On the sofa, seated in a row, were an old beggar with the body of a man and the head of an owl, three little girls holding an apple, a sullen poet, an old crone, a little boy, a portly gentleman, and a charming lady.
Directly across from the foyer's hallway was a red wooden door. Instinct screamed at Jenkins that it was the exit.
He ignored the group on the sofa, strode quickly to the door, and twisted the handle. It was locked.
"Excuse me," he began, "does any of you have the key? I seem to have run into some trouble."
He was forced to turn back and ask.
"Every one of them has a key," the old beggar replied. "Perhaps you could ask their opinion. Someone might be willing to give you one."
The old beggar continued to pluck at his strings, and amid the grating noise, the figures on the sofa spoke one by one:
"No. Your story was soulless. I couldn't feel your thoughts."
"No. Your reasoning was mere sophistry. It was not the answer."
"No. Your directions were wrong. I got lost again and ran into a terrifying woman."
"No. Eating myself didn't make me feel full. I'm even hungrier now."
"No. I wanted a fierce battle, not that kind of fierce battle."
A muscle in Jenkins's jaw twitched. He asked again, "Then what is it you want?"
The pests on the sofa replied once more:
"We want to eat your hand. It might be as delicious as an apple."
"I want your brain, to see what you're thinking inside."
"I want your skull. It might be nice to sit on while I think."
"I want your eyes and your feet, so I can find the right path."
"I want your innards. I love to eat those."
"I want your manhood. Oh, I hope it's as handsome as your face."
Jenkins finally turned to the old beggar playing his instrument. He swore he had never heard such a dreadful sound.
"Satisfy any one of them, and you'll get the key. I didn't expect you to make it here unscathed, but to think you can leave without paying a price... that's absolutely impossible."
The tone of his voice, combined with the sound of the strings, truly infuriated Jenkins. But he had already used most of his abilities along the way, even deploying Mechanical Light for one illusion. If a fight broke out now, he would surely lose.
"So, what will you leave behind?"
the old beggar asked again, adding, "The water is about to boil. I think your organs would be tastier if they were cooked."
Jenkins, of course, had no intention of leaving any part of himself behind, but he still hadn't figured out a solution. His eyes scanned the row of corpses on the sofa. Each one had pockets in their clothing; the keys were probably inside.
Rush them, snatch a key, and run?
He formulated a simple and efficient plan, then concluded that the probability of being torn to shreds was significantly higher.
As he stood there, at a loss, a shadow flickered in his peripheral vision. After a few seconds, he feigned a casual glance to the side. It was his long-lost landlady, Mrs. Coppler. She probably knew the strange creatures of the Mysterious Realm could see and kill her, so she had deliberately hidden in a corner only Jenkins could see.
Compared to the last time he saw her in the material world, her soul-form was now exceptionally transparent, and her gray spirit was stained with black flecks. Her face was haggard, but she looked more like a person now, and less like a malevolent spirit.
Seeing that Jenkins had noticed her, she reached out, pointing through the wall. Following her gesture, Jenkins saw the three girls huddled together. One of them looked exactly like Mrs. Coppler's child. He even surmised she had been captured by the Mysterious Realm...
She's taking this risk to save her child?
A strange emotion flooded Jenkins's mind. He felt a pang of regret for having been so single-mindedly focused on killing the ghost outside.
Of course, it was only a slight regret, an emotion born of impulse.
But the writer who prided himself on "not being a good person" was by no means a sentimental man. He saw himself as a refined egoist who looked out only for himself.
"Alright then... I'll trade my hand for the key."
The words had barely left his mouth when the three excited girls rose from the sofa, speaking one after another in that choral voice of theirs: Follow current novels on novel-fire.net
"Are you sure? You want to trade your own hand for—that!"
The girl at the front was now holding a silver key. From its size, it had to be the key for the red door.
"Of course. I know what's more valuable."
Jenkins nodded and held up his hands.
"So, how will you be taking my hand?"
"Don't be in such a hurry, sir. You really do have such beautiful hands..."
The girls started walking over as they spoke, with the one holding the key bringing up the rear. Jenkins glanced at the corpses on the sofa. They acted as if nothing was happening, each absorbed in their own world—reading poetry, filing their fingernails. Only the old beggar was still watching him.
"Are you really sure you want to trade your hand for the key?"
the owl-head asked again.
Jenkins gave a steady nod and walked toward the excited girls, then suddenly reached out and pulled the one in front into his arms. The charming lady on the sofa immediately let out a soft "Ohh," as if she had just realized something.
The girl who had plunged into Jenkins's embrace—or rather, been pulled into it—opened her mouth to bite his hand, but he deftly dodged. The two of them, seemingly locked in an embrace, "danced" across the carpet, unconsciously moving closer to the door.
In truth, Jenkins was in agony. Heaven only knew what he was holding, but he felt as if his soul was freezing solid. And even though the girl hadn't managed to bite his hand, his skin was already showing signs of decay.
If not for the passive effect of his Contact with Death ability, he would have likely died long ago.
Finally, they stumbled to the door. He counted to three in his mind, and suddenly, a transparent figure flashed past. The key in the rearmost girl's hand flew from her grasp, landing precisely in Jenkins's own.
Her aim was much better than his coin-tossing skill.