Mysteries of the masks of humanity

[Lazy-reader]

The transition from dying to waking up is never smooth, especialy when a tiny piece of that primordial silence hitches a ride by sticking to your soul.

For the seventeen-year-old boy lying on a stiff, foreign mattress, the memory of his own demise was still a cold weight in his chest.
He opened his eyes. The ceiling above was cracked, yellowed plaster. The air smelled faintly of coal smoke, cheap ink, and damp wood. A gas lamp, hung from the wall.

Tingen, the thought bloomed in his mind with unsettling clarity. Loen Kingdom. The Northern Continent.

He didn't know how he knew, but the knowledge was just there, stitched into his brain alongside his modern memories. He was a teenager again, now named Julian, somehow inside a world he dimly recognized from a story he once read.

He looked down at his new hands—thin, calloused and pale.
Suddenly, a violent spike of localized pressure shattered the quiet of the night.
It wasn't a physical sound. It was a psychic shockwave that made his teeth rattle and his vision blur into static.

A few streets away, a ritual was being performed consisting of four steps, a counterclockwise march, and food offerings, Klein Moretti was inviting the gray fog into his reality for the first time. The sheer, overwhelming aura of a Sefirah rippling through the spirit world violently snagged the protagonist's fragile, newly-anchored soul.

Before he could even gasp, his vision went entirely dark, the dingy rented room vanishing. The crushing pressure of the gray fog receded, blocked out by a sudden, absolute stillness.

His eyes opened to find himself sitting on a plush armchair, he floor beneath him was polished black marble, reflecting the light iluminating his surroundings. Heavy, dark drapes hung from unseen heights, and the quiet notes of elevator music from an invisible phonograph echoed softly in the background.

The drapes were blue, the chair was blue, the light had a blue tint, even his hair was blue (his new memories say it was supossed to be a dark brown).

'This is the Velvet Room', somehow there was no doubt in his mind about it, but as he looked across the long, ornate table in front of him, there was no long-nosed old man, there was no hot blonde assistant holding a book. The long table was completely empty, save for three items resting under a soft spotlight.

"This can't be what I think it is".

Julian stood up, his footsteps echoing in the massive, hollow space. He approached the table and looked down at the items.
The first was a large, leather-bound tome with a blank, silver-embossed cover. When his fingers brushed it, a phantom voice echoed in his mind: The Persona Compendium. A registry of the human collective unconscious. Currently empty.

The second item was a single tarot card lying face down. He flipped it over. The image of a young man carrying a bundle, walking blithely towards a cliffside with a dog at his heels, stared back at him. 0 – The Fool. As he held it, the card dissolved into pure, golden light, sinking directly into his chest.

A sudden, sharp warmth ignited in his soul. In the room, a figure manifested. It wore a high-collared, blood-red tailcoat, a black masquerade mask, and boasted a pair of massive, jet-black feathery wings. Arsène. The Persona of the Trickster, born from his own innate desire to rebel against an unjust, maddening world.

'Wha-?'.

But right behind Arsène, deep within the shadow cast by those black wings, something else stirred. It was silent, and cold. A towering specter draped in a dark cloak, bound by heavy iron chains, carrying a ring of silver coffins upon its back. Thanatos. The executioner of the underworld. It did not fully awaken—it was too massive, too heavy for his weak soul to wield—but it slumbered within him, a permanent anchor to the concept of death.

"I'm not even gonna ask".

Finally, his eyes fell upon the third item: a crisp, white envelope. He picked it up and broke the wax seal. Written in elegant, sweeping cursive, the note read:

"To the guest of this velvet room.

A great distortion has fractured the boundaries of reality, weaving your fate into a world drowning in inherited madness. In this realm, gods are built upon the ruined minds of their creators, and to know the truth is to invite destruction.
But humanity possesses a shield, a mask to face the world.
You will find no master of this room to guide you, nor an attendant to manage your records. This version of the Velvet Room is now your own inner sanctuary—a Sefirah born of the human soul.
You must become its master. You must become its attendant. As you forge bonds with the inhabitants of this world, the room will expand, the Compendium will fill, and your Wildcard will grow.
The journey ahead is perilous, Trickster. Do not let your mask slip.
— I."

The note dissolved into blue butterflies, scattering into the dark corners of the room.
Julian took a deep breath, the sheer weight of his reality settling into his bones. He wasn't just a survivor in this world of mad gods and cosmic horrors; he was the new and sole custodian of humanity's collective strength. He was the attendant of souls now.

Julian took a long, calming breath, finaly catching up to his new reality.

"Oookay, okay… it looks like that's how things are going to be from now on then, it's better than being powerless or turning into some freaky monster the first day that's for sure"

With a thought, he willed himself to leave. The wooden doors of his mind snapped shut, and the blue light faded away.
He snapped his eyes open back in his dark, rented room in Tingen. The phantom pressure of Klein's ritual had finally leveled out into a distant, buzzing hum. Outside his window, the gas lamps of the street flickered through the mist.

Somewhere nearby, Klein Moretti was waking up with a bullet hole in his head and a mind full of gray fog.
The story has begun, and he has to start catching up already.

 

[Lazy-reader]

The transition back to reality left a physical mark.
Standing before a small, cracked mirror in the corner of his room, Julian struck a match and lit the gas lamp. The hiss of the fuel filled the quiet room, casting a warm, flickering glow across his features. He froze.

His reflection had changed.
His hair, previously a standard, unremarkable shade, was now a deep, velvet blue—the exact color of the drapes in the room of his soul, his eyes matching the same hue.

'It was permanent?!'

It wasn't an aura or a trick of the light; the very pigment of his strands had been altered by the room's awakening. In a world where unusual physical traits often signaled Beyonder mutations or divine corruption, this was dangerous.

Fortunately, in the dim, foggy streets of Loen, a deep hat or a dark cap could hide it from casual glances. But to anyone with Spirit Vision, he knew he would look entirely anomalous.
He closed his eyes and sank back into his mind, willing himself to return to the blue sanctuary.

*Click.*

The elevator notes sang. He opened his eyes to find himself back in the Velvet Room, but this time, he looked down at his clothes. His standard Tingen attire had been replaced by a sleek, midnight-blue attendant's uniform, complete with silver buttons, and a blue leather mariner cap.

The realization settled heavily in his chest: he wasn't just a guest. The room was treating him as its worker, preparing him to eventually inherit the empty seat at the end of the table.

To protect humanity from the Outer Deities, he would have to become its ultimate investigator, fusing personas, managing the Compendium, and guiding others through their psychological awakenings until he reached an existence comparable to an Above the Sequence God.

"Let's see what I can do". He murmured, stepping away from the long table, then focused on the feeling in his chest, calling out the name. "Arsène!"

With a burst of blue fire and the sound of breaking glass, the giant, winged phantom materialized behind him. The air in the Velvet Room vibrated, but unlike the real world, this space absorbed the shock perfectly.

The compendium flew open, its pages fluttering, his understanding of the Persona's capabilities flooded his mind with clarity:

* Eiha (Dark Element): He could manifest a condensed bolt of curse energy. In the real world, this wouldn't just cause physical damage; it would directly corrode the target's spirituality and mental stability—a perfect counter to Beyonders who rely on stable anchors.
* Cleave (Physical): Arsène could deliver swift, blade-like strikes using its massive, clawed wings or demonic agility.
* Sukukaja (Agility Buff): A supportive spell that would temporarily increase his own physical reaction time, speed, and evasion in the physical world.
* Sensory Masking: As a Persona born from the concept of a phantom thief, Arsène could naturally shroud Julian's presence, making him incredibly difficult to track via divination or spiritual detection.
*Psyche shield (intrinsic/passive): The natural ability of all personas to strengthen and protect the human mind and soul against madness/corruption, (massive increase due to Velvet Room).

That last one was a very welcome surprise. "I guess it wouldn't make sense if it wasn't there".

He practiced channeling the energy, watching blue flames dance across his palms without burning his skin. Satisfied, he recalled Arsène into his shadow and willed himself back to the waking world.

The next morning, the Julian began his reconnaissance.
He knew from his knowledge of the story that Klein Moretti had just survived a supernatural tragedy and would be deeply paranoid, expecting the police or worse to knock on his door at any moment.

Approaching him immediately would only trigger Klein's defenses and potentially involve the Nighthawks before he was ready.

'I will give him two or three days', he decided, pulling a dark flat cap low over his forehead to hide his blue hair. Let him discover Sefirah Castle, meet the Nighthawks, and calm his nerves.
'In the meantime, I need to know exactly where he is'.

Using his knowledge of Tingen's geography, he navigated the misty, cobblestone streets toward the lower-middle-class residential districts. It didn't take long to find Daffodil Street.

He walked casually past the rows of terraced houses, keeping his hands in his pockets. Thanks to Arsène's passive sensory masking, his presence felt entirely mundane to the few neighbors out hanging laundry or heading to work.

Then, he spotted it. Unit 2.
Through the front window, he caught a brief glimpse of a young man with brown hair and a scholarly, stressed demeanor, talking to a younger girl and an older brother. It was Klein, looking remarkably pale but very much alive.
'Found you'.

Julian didn't linger. He kept walking, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips. The piece of Thanatos dormant in his soul hummed slightly as he walked away, acknowledging the proximity of the man who had just played with death.

He had the location. He had the power. Now, he just had to wait for the right moment for the meeting of Fools.

 

[Lazy-reader]

The Velvet Room was an anchor, but his physical body still required food, shelter, and an identity that wouldn't draw the premature attention of the Church of the Evernight.

Sitting at the small wooden desk in his rented room, Julian examined his documents. His new body belonged to an orphan, who had recently finished a basic apprenticeship at a local printing shop before the owner went bankrupt. It was a normal, unremarkable background.

"I need a new job that gives me flexibility". Julian murmured, adjusting his dark flat cap in the mirror to ensure not a single strand of blue hair peeked through.

"Something that lets me move around Tingen without raising eyebrows."
He decided he would look for work as a freelance delivery messenger or an assistant at one of Tingen's independent bookshops the following morning.

But for now, he had to understand the economy of his own soul. Closing his eyes, Julian focused inward. He didn't enter the Velvet Room this time; instead, he simply reached for the reservoir of energy inside himself, spirituality.

It was the universal currency of supernatural power in this world. Unlike Beyonders, who expanded their spirituality by digesting potions and advancing Sequences, Julian realized his capacity grew through the refinement of his own mind, the strengthening of his Personas, and the deepening of his Social Links.

He raised his hand, and without summoning Arsène, he concentrated.
A tiny, flickering ember of jet-black fire sparked at the tip of his index finger. Eiha.

It was significantly weaker than when Arsène was fully manifested—little more than a burning match compared to a torch—but it was functional. Using skills without manifesting the Persona saved an immense amount of spirituality, allowing him to stay under the radar. The only exception to this penalty was Arsène's passive trait: the sensory masking.

Because needing to summon a three meters tall supernatural being in a burst of flame to be able to hide is counterproductive, the ability to conceal his presence and blend into crowds functioned at near-full efficiency even while Arsène slumbered in his shadow.

'This isn't a turn-based game', Julian realized, a sharp gleam in his eyes.

'The skills listed in the Compendium should be just the baseline definitions. Arsène isn't a collection of stats; he is a manifestation of rebellion. I can get creative with how I shape this energy.'

He could potentially use the curse energy of Eiha not just as a projectile, but to coat a dagger, or use Sukukaja's wind-based agility to cushion a long fall.
Furthermore, because his power utilized standard spirituality, Julian knew he could eventually learn traditional, non-Beyonder mysticism.

He could perform generic magic mirror divinations, brew basic herbal remedies, or participate in standard rituals by praying to orthodox deities—or even to himself, once his room developed further.

But right now, he was weak. Channeling even that tiny ember of Eiha left him feeling slightly fatigued. He needed a place
to train. He needed to fight.

 

[Lazy-reader]

Finding a mundane mask in Tingen proved surprisingly easy. Thanks to his clean record and quiet demeanor, Julian secured a part-time position as an assistant cataloger at the Dewdrop Bookstore near the city center.

The wages were meager, but the job gave him an excellent excuse to handle old maps, historical texts, and weird folklore without raising the suspicions of the local authorities.

With his mundane identity locked in, Julian spent the rest of his morning navigating the bustling crowds of the Tingen open-air market. The scent of cheap tobacco, fresh fish, and damp earth hung thick in the air.

Julian kept his dark flat cap pulled low over his blue hair, letting Arsène's passive sensory masking turn him into a mere ghost in the crowd. He strolled past the vendors until his eyes locked onto a familiar, slim figure carrying a small paper bag of ingredients.

It was Klein Moretti, looking slightly more rested than a few days ago, but his eyes still scanned the crowd with hyper-vigilance. He was a man drowning in a sea of secrets he couldn't share.

Julian closed his eyes and took a breath.
'Alright then, it's showtime, focus'

Julian deliberately stepped into his path, dropping his sensory masking just enough to register as a physical obstacle.
Klein paused, blinking politely to step around him.

As he did, Julian leaned slightly forward and murmured in a low, perfectly clear voice:
"A counterclockwise march. Four steps. And a few food offerings. It's quite a high price to pay for a headache, isn't it?"

Klein froze. Every muscle in his body went rigid. His eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated terror as his hand instinctively twitched toward his coat pocket—where his revolver rested.

To Klein, this unknown teenager had just casually recited the exact, forbidden transmigration ritual he had performed in total isolation.

Before Klein could panic or draw a weapon, Julian gave him a calm, reassuring smile. "There's a quiet cafe two streets down. The Copper Anchor. It has private booths in the back. Let's have a chat."

Without waiting for an answer, Julian turned and walked away. After a tense, agonizing second of hesitation, Klein gritted his teeth and followed him.

The private booth of the Copper Anchor smelled faintly of roasted coffee beans and old leather drapes. Once the waiter served two cups of cheap black tea and closed the wooden partition, an oppressive, suffocating silence filled the space.

Klein leaned forward, his knuckles white as he gripped the table. His voice was a harsh, trembling whisper. "Who are you? How do you know about that?"

Julian took a slow sip of his tea. His deep blue hair caught the faint gaslight, making Klein's eyes narrow in suspicion.

"I cannot tell you everything," Julian said calmly, his tone carrying an unnatural maturity that didn't match his teenage face. "In this world, knowledge is a physical weight. If I gave you my true origin, or the full nature of what I am, the sheer weight of it would fracture your current, fragile spirituality. I am protecting both of us by keeping some cards face down."

Klein swallowed hard, his mind racing. He tried to activate his Spirit Vision, but as he looked at Julian, his spiritual perception encountered a blank space. It wasn't like the gray fog, but a deep, velvet darkness that gently pushed his gaze away, refusing to let him see Julian's astral colors.

"But," Julian continued, setting his cup down with a soft click. "I can tell you a story. It's not a book I've read from cover to cover, but rather a tale I once heard snippets of, back home. A tragic, grand and terrifying fable."

Klein listened, barely breathing.
"It is a story about a man," Julian said, his eyes locking directly onto Klein's.

"A man who thought he was merely transported to a foreign, parallel world. A world of steam, of machinery, of crimson moonlight, and a deep gray fog. But the cruel twist of the story is the direction of his journey."

Julian leaned closer, lowering his voice to a whisper that felt like ice.
"He wasn't sent to another planet, Klein. He was thrown thousands of years into the far, terrifying future of his own home. He was a ghost walking the ruins of a forgotten era."

Klein's heart skipped a beat. The implications of Julian's words shattered his understanding of his situation, sending a wave of existential dread through his soul.

The future? Earth's future?.
Before Klein could spiral into a panic attack, Julian delivered the final, crushing blow.
"The story is about a man named Zhou Mingrui."

The name hit Klein like a physical punch. His breath hitched. The ultimate secret of his true identity—the name he had buried deep beneath the persona of Klein Moretti—had just been spoken aloud by a stranger in a Tingen cafe.

"How..." Klein's voice cracked. "Who are you?"

Julian stood up, adjusting his coat and pulling his flat cap back over his blue hair. The heavy, mysterious aura vanished, instantly replacing the cosmic investigator with a normal, part-time bookstore assistant.

"That will be all for today," Julian said, offering a small, polite nod. "Your mind needs time to digest this. I will contact you again soon so we can talk more."

"Wait!" Klein reached out, but Julian was already stepping out of the booth. "How will you contact me? I work for—"

"I will find you," Julian interrupted smoothly. "Do not worry."

With that, Julian
blended into the cafe crowd and disappeared into the foggy street.

 

[Lazy-reader]

Klein Moretti did not walk back to Daffodil Street after his startling cafe encounter with Julian; he practically sprinted, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

Zhou Mingrui.
The name echoed in his mind, deafening and terrifying. The cheap paper bag of market vegetables felt heavy in his trembling hand.

He had spent the last three days convincing himself that he was a lonely transmigrator in a strange, alien world. Now, a teenager with deep blue hair had shattered that fragile comfort. Thousands of years into the future. Earth's future.

The moment he crossed the threshold of his home, he barely acknowledged his sister Melissa's greeting. He muttered an excuse about a sudden headache from his history research, bolted into his bedroom, and locked the door.

He didn't hesitate. He took four steps counterclockwise in a square, reciting the Mandarin incantation, desperate for the absolute safety of his mysterious sanctuary.

The crimson light erupted, and Klein's consciousness shot upward, landing squarely on the ancient, high-backed chair inside the majestic, silent palace above the gray fog.

Safe within Sefirah Castle, Klein finally let out a breath he felt he'd been holding since the cafe. His hands were still shaking. He needed answers. He needed to know if the blue-haired teenager was a manipulative specter or a terrifying truth-teller.

Spirituality surged from his astral body as he conjured a fountain pen and a piece of parchment. He wrote down his first divination statement:

'The blue-haired teenager named Julian spoke the truth in the cafe.'
Klein unhooked his topaz pendulum, holding the silver chain steady over the paper. He closed his eyes, sinking into a meditative state, repeating the statement seven times.

When he opened his eyes, the topaz was rotating in a rapid, heavy clockwise circle.
True. He wasn't lying.

Cold sweat beaded on Klein's forehead. His breath hitched as he stared at the swirling gray mist. If Julian was telling the truth about his identity and the nature of this world... then what about the timeline?.

Hurriedly, Klein grabbed another piece of parchment. He wrote a second statement, aiming to probe the terrifying chronology Julian had hinted at:
'Thousands of years have passed since the era of Zhou Mingrui.'

He raised the pendulum again, his heart drumming a frantic rhythm against his spectral chest. He closed his eyes, visualizing the modern skyscrapers of his past, the bustling subway lines, the ordinary life he had lost.

He repeated the words, letting his spirituality sink deep into the informational sea of the gray fog.
When he opened his eyes, the pendulum wasn't just rotating clockwise—it was spinning with a violent, erratic speed that nearly snapped the chain.

The divination was an absolute, undeniable confirmation.
Klein sank back into his ancient chair, staring blankly at the infinite palace.

The revelation crushed him. He wasn't on an alien planet. He was home.
But his home was dead, buried beneath millennia of history, a forgotten prehistoric era covered by a sea of fog, steam, and a mutated crimson moon.
—
Two days passed in a blur of hyper-vigilance and profound existential exhaustion.
The boy did not attempt to contact him during that time, leaving Klein to stew in the heavy weight of his new reality.

Klein threw himself into his auxiliary work with the Nighthawks, all while keeping his eyes wide open for any anomalies that might validate the strange teenager's presence.

Then came the afternoon of the second official Tarot Club meeting.
Klein pulled the consciousness of Miss Justice and Mr. Hanged Man above the gray fog.

The meeting proceeded with its usual rhythm—Audrey Hall shared news of Backlund high society and her budding interest in the Spectator pathway, while Alger Wilson traded superficial mysticism tips and ocean lore.

To his members, Mr. Fool remained the same unbothered, primordial deity lounging in his bronze throne. But internally, Klein was hyper-focused, his mind constantly rewinding back to Julian's words.

When the meeting concluded and the columns of crimson light pulled Audrey and Alger back to reality, Klein returned to his physical body on Daffodil Street, feeling the deep spiritual drain of maintaining the connection.

Focusing his remaining strength, he crawled into bed, his thoughts a chaotic mess of steam, crimson moonlight, and the looming ghost of his true identity.
He finally drifted into a deep, heavy sleep.

Klein did not wake up to a normal dream.
He woke up sitting in a plush, indigo-blue armchair.

The floor beneath him was polished black marble, reflecting a deep, velvet-blue light. Heavy, dark drapes hung from unseen heights, and the quiet, rhythmic notes of a phonograph playing jazz, originating from seemingly nowhere, reached his ears.

Klein instantly bolted upright, his hand flying to his waist—but his revolver wasn't there. He was in his spiritual body.

"Welcome to the Velvet Room," a voice resonated from across a long, ornate table.
"A place that exists between dream and reality, mind and matter. It is a room that only those who are offered a contract may enter, usualy…".

Sitting in a high back blue armchair at the far end was Julian. But he wasn't wearing his mundane market clothes.

He was dressed in a sleek, midnight-blue attendant's uniform with polished silver buttons and a blue leather mariner cap, his vibrant blue hair barely visible.

"You... you pulled my soul here?" Klein asked, his voice echoing in the vast, hollow space.

He tried to mentally connect with the gray fog to force his way out, but the connection felt distant, muffled by the great density of this room.

"Think of this place as a sanctuary of the human mind," Julian said calmly, resting his white-gloved hands on the table.

"A realm born not from the flesh of a higher being, but from the collective unconscious of humanity itself. Inside this room, the corruption of the cosmos cannot touch us. It is the only place we can speak without being overheard by the Gods."

Before Klein could respond, the silent atmosphere of the Velvet Room violently shifted.

A sudden, massive patch of grayish-white fog began to seep through the seams of the marble floor. The ancient, primordial aura of Sefirah Castle sensed its master was being detained and forcefully breached the mystical boundary.

The gray fog swirled aggressively, trying to shroud Klein and pull him back.
At the same time, the Velvet Room reacted.

The blue drapes rippled like tidal waves, and a brilliant, indigo light erupted from the ceiling, compressing the encroaching fog and keeping it from overwhelming the space.

The two cosmic powers—the Gray Fog and the Blue Room—slammed into each other, grinding together in a tense, silent stalemate. Neither destroyed the other; instead, they formed a perfect, localized equilibrium right in the middle of the long table.

"Incredible," Julian murmured, watching the gray fog churn against his blue light. "Your domain is truly remarkable, Mr.Fool."

Klein flinched at the title but forced himself to calm down, his mind flashing back to his frantic divinations from two nights prior. He knew Julian held the keys to the future.

Klein slowly sat back down in his armchair, looking across the divided table. "You know what that fog is. You know who I am".

"And my divination confirmed every word you said in th
at cafe. It's time to start giving me real answers. Who exactly are you, and what do you want?"
__________

Klein got kleined