Mad Hatter's Guide to Clearing The Game
Chapter 120: Ch118. Scrybay

Chapter 120: Ch118. Scrybay

The air inside the Scrybay shifted.

Heavy, charged like the moment before a storm. Miles felt something cold grip his chest, his pulse quickening as an invisible force tugged at him. Not at his body, but at something deeper. His thoughts? His memories? His very presence?

Whatever it was, it was being pulled toward the Scryer.

The figure behind the counter did not move. The static on its screen-face flickered erratically, flashing images too fast to decipher – broken glimpses of unknown landscapes, shadowy figures, a twisted clock melting into the ground.

The humming in the air grew stronger, the objects in Miles’ pack vibrating as if caught in an unseen current.

Then, just as quickly as it began, it stopped.

The pressure vanished, leaving Miles breathless. He staggered a step back, his muscles tense, his mind reeling.

"What the hell was that?" He demanded, clutching his chest as if to make sure he was still whole.

The Scryer’s screen flickered again, settling on an image of a shattered mirror.

"A test." It rasped. "You passed."

Miles’ breath came slow and uneven, his body still adjusting to the sensation of being unraveled and stitched back together. He clenched his fists, grounding himself. The Scryer’s screen-face continued to flicker, the static giving way to a slow, pulsing glow, like the embers of a dying fire.

Kurt, ever composed, leaned against the counter with a smirk.

"Well, that was dramatic."

Miles shot him a glare, but before he could respond, the Scryer spoke again.

"You carry echoes." The voice was less rasping now, more solid, as if speaking through layers of interference. "Fragments of paths not walked. Choices not made."

It reached out a spindly, metallic hand and gestured toward the items Miles had brought. The gears, the core, the essence of the Clockwork Rabbit. All remnants of a battle long past, now thrumming with a strange resonance.

"The blood remembers." The Scryer continued. "And the steel listens."

"What does that mean?" Miles swallowed.

The image on the screen shifted – a flickering lantern, swinging in the dark.

"It means you are not the first to carry these burdens. But if you find your purpose, you might be the last." The Scryer’s voice deepened, the words weighted with something ancient. "You wish to forge something new, yes?"

"That’s why I came here." Miles nodded.

Kurt pushed off the counter, crossing his arms.

"Alright, Scryer. You said he passed. So, what now? Are you going to tell him what he needs to know?"

"Knowledge is not given. It is taken. Earned." A distorted chuckle crackled through the static.

The lights in the Scrybay dimmed, leaving only the eerie glow of the floating relics. The Scryer raised its hand, and the four objects from Miles’ pack lifted into the air, orbiting in slow, deliberate circles.

"To understand your weapons, you must first understand yourself."

A low hum resonated through the room, vibrating in Miles’ bones. The items twisted and spun, shifting into shapes that were at once familiar and foreign. The cogs of the Clockwork Rabbit bent into sharp, jagged edges. The core pulsed like a heartbeat. The essence flickered, caught between light and shadow.

Then, the Scryer extended a hand toward Miles.

"Make your choice."

Tension filled the space, thick as tar. Miles hesitated, his fingers twitching at his sides. He looked at the floating relics, at the shimmering possibilities before him. Each one held power, but power was never without cost.

Kurt shifted beside him, silent for once, watching with a sharp silver eye.

Miles exhaled slowly as he reached forward.

The moment his fingers brushed against the first item – the [Core] – the world lurched.

A rush of images flooded his mind. Visions of a past that was not his own, echoes of battles fought in distant, forgotten times. He saw flashes of Wonderland, of twisting gears and golden eyes watching from the dark. He felt the weight of something immense settle onto his shoulders, something vast and unknowable.

The items pulsed, shifting again, reacting to his presence. The cogs melded together, forming the rough outline of something yet to be shaped. The core pulsed vividly, almost as if it still had a life of its own, sending arcs of energy through the construct. The essence coiled around it, whispering secrets in a language Miles could almost – but not quite – understand.

The [Core] melded with the [Essence], and as soon as the melding was over, Miles felt a pull from inside himself toward the strange sphere that was formed from the union between the two items.

And the [Harbinger’s Scythe] materialized itself from a whirlwind of black sparks, floating in the air and humming in a way that Miles had never heard before.

It reached out to the sphere formed by the [Core] and the [Essence] that once belonged to the Clockwork White Rabbit and danced in the air along with them until they merged with a final burst of light, fusing as if they had always been one.

The result left Miles with eyes wide and mouth agape.

The weapon stood tall and menacing. It was the same black scythe that Miles knew, with an aura that seemed to swallow the very light around it. Its sleek, midnight shaft tapered into a sharp spike at the base. The blade arched gracefully, its edge razor-sharp and forged with a dark metallic sheen that caught glimmers of eerie, spectral light, and intricate carvings decorated the blade, resembling wings unfurling toward its deadly point.

However, at the heart of the scythe, just below the blade, where the glowing crystal once pulsed faintly with an icy blue hue, there was a golden crystal in its place, and in the very center of it, the crystal carried what seemed to be the depiction of a clock.

The scythe fell into Miles’ waiting hands, cold and familiar, unmistakably his.

It was not just a weapon forged from metal and remnants. It was a weapon forged from the echoes of those who had come before him.

And from above, just as soon as Miles caught his new [Harbinger’s Scythe] – if that was even its name, still – two other items fell at Miles’ hands, clinging at his wrists like shackles, but not quite.

"Peculiar..." The Scryer’s screen flickered into an image of a tall cliff whipped by a revolt sea. "I’ve unraveled many meanings. Some for destruction, some for coin, some even for the sake of lost souls. But none of them had the meaning of protection ever before."

Miles stared at the strange – and yet too familiar – vambraces that now held on to his forearms. Their sleek texture embedded with carvings that resembled cogs. And, for the briefest of moments, Miles was sure that the cogs were moving, but when he looked closely, they seemed to be as still as carvings.

Kurt whistled in awe, but before he could say anything, the Scryer broke the stunned silence.

"Now..." Its screen flickered into the image of a gallows. "I’m curious to know as how another player has ended up in The Horizon..."