The Price of Omniscience (LOTM X MARVEL)

Chapter 13: Chapter 10: Into the Fog of Revelation



The events of the previous night clung to Adrian's mind like soot in the lungs—dense, choking, impossible to shake. He could still hear the muffled screams echoing in that shadowed alley, see Agatha's effortless might as she turned ancient vampires into dust with a flick of her wrist, their ashes swirling upward like black snow into the fog-shrouded dark. Each memory carved itself deeper with every heartbeat, leaving his nerves raw.

But now was not the time to linger in fear.

Panic, however justified, was a luxury he could no longer afford. Not with reality unraveling at the seams. The name Campbell wasn't just a whispered rumor anymore—it was a confirmed threat, a malignant force operating in London's occult underbelly. And worse still, the Book of Black Art existed. Not metaphor, not myth. Real, and in dangerous hands. If Adrian hesitated for even a moment longer, the cost would be paid in lives.

He had to act.

He had already gained scraps of information—fragments drawn from the mirror, pieces confirmed by Agatha. But fragments weren't enough. Not anymore. Not for what was coming. He needed direction. Precision. A target. And only one place could give it to him now.

Sefirah Castle.

It existed within him—within all Seers—a realm beyond time, accessible not by steps or doors but by will, ritual, and fate. It was a place where symbols ruled, where destiny could be glimpsed, where reality itself answered to the proper call. A place that tested the soul even as it offered revelation.

Adrian sat down in the creaking wooden chair tucked in the corner of his rented room. The mirror lay before him on the table like an offering—its surface cracked, yet strangely whole, reflecting candlelight like broken constellations. He took a steady breath and closed his eyes, reaching inward with practiced precision.

The shift came swiftly.

First, a pressure in the air—as if an ancient presence had turned its gaze upon him. Then, the cold. Not the kind felt on skin, but in the bones. In the soul. And then—fog.

Not London's fog.

The fog of Sefirah Castle.

It wrapped around him, gray and endless, folding in layers like silk and smoke. The room dissolved. The world tilted. In an instant, he was no longer Adrian White the fake psychic. He was something more.

He was The Fool.

He sat upon the Fool's Throne—tall, narrow, forged from glass and paradox. Around him spiraled staircases that led both nowhere and everywhere. Behind him, stained-glass windows shimmered with impossible stars, casting kaleidoscopic light on the ancient tiles. The air thrummed with silence—the kind that came before revelation.

Lifting the mirror, now pulsing with swirling silver mist, he spoke the ancient words, the ones that gave voice to the Seer's rite:

"The Fool who Dominates Fate,

Ruler of Sefirah Castle,

Keeper of Mysteries…

I pray thee, show me the location of Campbell—

and the book of Black Art."

The words rang through the Castle like a bell struck underwater. The throne shuddered. The fog spun faster. And then, far above, a single point of golden light opened—an eye behind the veil, peering into possibility.

The mirror came alive.

The mist parted like theatre curtains, revealing a scene sharpened by purpose. A figure emerged—a man draped in black robes, gaunt and cruel of feature, his posture coiled like a serpent ready to strike. Vampires surrounded him, their heads bowed not in loyalty, but in fear. Power crackled through the air—ritual lines glowed underfoot, ancient symbols drawn in blood and salt.

Campbell.

Adrian didn't need to hear his name to know it.

The man spoke, voice distant yet unnervingly clear:

"Most of the preparation is almost complete. Soon, we will summon Belathauzer—and bind his power for our gain."

A chill ran down Adrian's spine. That name—Belathauzer—wasn't just occult nonsense. It meant something. A name lost to history, whispered only in the darkest texts Agatha had once warned him never to seek. An ancient demon, maybe even something older. Campbell wasn't summoning a tool—he was waking a catastrophe.

Then the image cracked.

The mirror warped and shimmered, the vampires' chamber twisting into jagged shadows. The scene melted, replaced by something far more tangible: a derelict building, crumbling brick, an iron gate rusting under the weight of years, a flickering lamppost barely illuminating the doorway. Adrian recognized it instantly.

A warehouse by the docks. He had passed it more than once.

That's where they were.

And just as suddenly as it began, the vision ended. The light vanished. The fog pulled back, and Adrian was back in his room—mirror cold in his hand, skin clammy, breath sharp in his chest.

But now he had confirmation. Now he had a target.

He moved without pause, gathering his coat, his watch, and the mirror. The words spoken by Campbell still echoed in his head, but more than that, so did the feeling. That gathering storm. That turning tide. This was no longer a mystery to unravel—it was a catastrophe to prevent.

Agatha's offer to meet, once casual, now felt like destiny itself knocking.

He stepped into the street. The fog had thickened again, clinging to London like a funeral shroud. The city was quiet. Watchful. He crossed through alleys and empty thoroughfares until he reached Limehouse—a place forgotten even by the forgotten. There, wedged between buildings old enough to groan under their own history, stood a narrow townhouse wrapped in ivy and shadow.

He knocked three times.

The door opened without hesitation.

Agatha stood there, her gaze sharp and unreadable. She stepped aside, and he entered. The air inside smelled of herbs, wax, and something older—power woven into the walls. Shelves of books, dangling talismans, and arcane diagrams surrounded them like a protective nest.

Adrian didn't waste a second. He told her everything—Campbell's plan, the summoning of Belathauzer, the warehouse, the ritual circle drawn across the city with five sacrificial points.

At the demon's name, Agatha's expression cracked. Her fury bloomed like a firestorm.

"Bastard Campbell." Her voice was a blade. "Only he would be arrogant enough to summon something ancient and expect to control it."

She began pacing, muttering to herself. Then she froze. "The five points," she said. "The pentagram—it's not just a symbol. It's a conduit. A ritual well. Each house is a container for suffering. He's going to kill everyone in those zones. The entire district."

Her voice dropped. "A thousand lives. That's what it'll take to anchor something like Belathauzer. A thousand deaths to birth a god."

Adrian felt the world tilt under him.

But he didn't flinch.

"I want to help," he said, his voice low but steady. "Tell me how to hurt them. The vampires."


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