The receptionist turned on her heel, her footsteps fading down the long corridor as the officer waved a dismissive hand. Once the heavy silence of the hall settled around them, the officer turned his full attention to Agastya.
He placed a hand flat against his chest and offered a slight, formal bow. "Let me introduce myself to a new member of our Spectrum Team," he said.
He then straightened himself, a relaxed ease replacing his formal posture. "I am a marksman of the Spectrum team—Dictor Spehead."
Dictor turned and began a slow, measured stroll down the corridor, gesturing lazily for Agastya to follow. "This is the Elartra Supernatural Organisation. So, as you were told, we kind of save the world."
He trailed a hand along the cold stone wall as they walked. "There is too much to explain right now, but you will slowly learn for yourself as you work here."
Suddenly, Dictor stopped. He turned and looked at Agastya, his eyes sweeping over the baker's physique with intense, analytical curiosity. "By the way," he said, abruptly changing the topic, "you have a well-shaped body for a normal baker."
Agastya immediately crossed his arms over his chest, his assassin's instincts bristling under the scrutiny. "Ewww. How did you see my body?"
"Well, I have a special ability which allows me to see through anything," Dictor explained, tapping the corner of his eye. "Even the things inside your clothes, and from far away. After all, I am a marksman; my eyes should be keen enough to see long distances."
"Pervert," Agastya murmured to himself, looking away.
"Ah! Don't misunderstand," Dictor said quickly, holding up his hands in surrender. "I don't have any interest in men. I was only scanning your body condition."
Dictor cleared his throat and started walking again, his boots echoing in the quiet hall. "So, listen. There are quests we take, like collecting different things and all. Our job is to go to the other worlds and retrieve the things that come from there." He glanced over his shoulder. "Also, only Awakeners have the ability to go there."
Agastya's steps faltered. He was stunned to hear the term. "So, are there other worlds out there?"
Dictor nodded, continuing his steady pace as he led Agastya deeper into the facility. "Yes. There are many. Though this branch has only three worlds' Access Ceprum Machna—ACM. We use it to open a wormhole-like portal and go there."
"Why is there a need to go there in the first place?" Agastya asked, his assassin's curiosity getting the better of his caution.
"Hah! That." Dictor let out a dry chuckle and shoved his hands into his pockets. "You know, when we started to go there, we didn't know anything. First, the gates started to appear in our world, and many monsters and people attacked us through them."
He slowed his pace, letting the weight of the history sink in. "But with that, many people awakened and started to protect everyone. For some reason, the gates never appeared after that."
Dictor paused, stopping entirely to look Agastya in the eye. "But with that came the illness. Many people became Awakeners and didn't know about it, like yourself. After being Awakened, if they don't drink a potion we make, they catch an illness. If they don't get treated in time, they die."
Dictor's expression darkened, the casual marksman replaced by something colder. "The worst part isn't just that they die, though. The thing is, after they die, a portal opens to a different world and the Kynolds come in."
"But there aren't any cases like that in the newspapers," Agastya pointed out, narrowing his eyes.
"Well, you don't see them because now there aren't any cases occurring." Dictor resumed walking, his tone matter-of-fact. "We have many branches that find them and get involved. Second, not many people awaken. The last case of someone dying and a portal opening was around a hundred years ago. Now, there aren't any."
He tapped the side of his head, a faint, knowing smile returning to his lips. "And when it does happen, we have a technique to make it all go stable in less than a second, and make people forget the whole thing from their brains."
Agastya frowned, turning the information over in his mind. "But there isn't any history about it," he pointed out. "I mean, about portals opening."
"Well, you would never hear about it, since it is kept securely under wraps. Not even I know too much about that side of things," Dictor replied. He waved a hand dismissively, his body language making it clear he was refusing to discuss the organisation's cover-ups any further.
"Anyway," Dictor added, shifting the topic back to their current operations, "to create the potion, we need to cross over to gather materials. We also collect resources to research cures for the Aether disease, along with many other ailments that are common among the populace."
Dictor continued his slow walk down the corridor, his boots clicking rhythmically against the stone floor. "And it isn't just organic materials, but many artifacts and other valuable items. It will be much easier for you to understand once you are fully involved in it."
Agastya matched his pace, his practical, assassin's instincts cutting straight through the lore to the most important detail. "So, what are the earnings?"
Dictor chuckled, casting an amused glance over his shoulder. "Getting straight to your own interests, I see." He paused for a moment, letting the numbers hang in the air. "You will earn a base wage of nearly 300 Elartraum per week. On top of that, any quest rewards will be divided among the team members."
He added. "We don't just operate in the other worlds; we also maintain order in this one. To cover your activities and grant you authority, you will be officially registered as a police officer—a civil servant."
Dictor eventually stopped in front of a heavy door. Unlike the iron gates they had passed earlier, this one was made entirely of wood, and it looked startlingly new.
"Do you see this wood?" Dictor asked, pausing to let Agastya examine it.
Agastya nodded, his eyes scanning the surface. "Yeah. What is it?"
"Would you believe me if I told you this door is more than five centuries old?" Dictor asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.
Agastya frowned. The wood seemed far too pristine to be that old. Its surface was polished to a high sheen, interrupted only by a few intricate designs carved into the grain. As he looked closer, he noticed lines of text etched into the wood, precise and highly structured, looking almost like ancient mathematical sutras.
"This wood was brought over from the other world," Dictor continued, tracing a finger near the carvings. "And the writing on it is an ancient script. You will have to learn it, because the people of the other world speak this language. It is called Sanskrit—you could call it the mother of all languages."
Dictor pushed the heavy wooden door open. "This is the potion room. Or, as some prefer to call it, the alchemy room."
A thick, overwhelming aroma spilt out into the hallway—a potent mix of damp earth, sharp mint, and something strangely sweet yet rotting. The sprawling, hall-like room was packed with herbs of every conceivable kind.
Some were sealed tightly in glass jars, while others lay open on tables. Agastya's eyes widened as he noticed movement; inside a few of the jars, the herbs were jumping and writhing against the glass. They were alive.
In the centre of the massive room sat a large, cluttered desk. It was strewn with loose leaves, heavy iron scissors, measuring cups, glass vials, and various unidentifiable materials. Every wall surrounding them was lined floor-to-ceiling with small wooden drawers.
Suddenly, the central desk began to shake violently.
From underneath the heavy oak table, a man scrambled out, panting. In his hands, he was tightly gripping two violently struggling plants.
One resembled thick, wiry grass, while the other was a small stem topped with a vicious, red flower. The man was desperately trying to pull them apart, as the red flower had already clamped its petals around halfway down the grass.
"Don't eat that!" the man yelled at the plants.
With a grunt of exertion, he forcefully separated them. But he was too late. The red flower snapped backwards, its petals moving like a jagged jaw, and forcefully swallowed the severed half of the grass.
The man's grip tightened in absolute frustration. Muttering under his breath, he slammed the red flower into a heavy marble bowl on the desk.
He immediately grabbed a pestle and began crushing the flower and its stem. Only after it was ground into a thick, pulpy paste did the bizarre herb finally stop moving and die.
Dictor cleared his throat with a polite cough. "Looks like you are as deep into your research as ever, Markques."
The man looked up toward them, wiping a streak of sweat from his forehead, and smiled tiredly. "Yeah, I am."
Markques looked like a relatively young man, but he had heavy, dark bags under his eyes that spoke of severe sleep deprivation. He wore thick spectacles and a stained alchemist's robe draped loosely over his normal shirt and trousers. His hair was jet black, perfectly matching the deep, exhausted colour of his eyes.