Unwritten Mythos

In a quiet park under the dim evening light, two old men moved with the grace of practiced discipline. One was sword dancing, his blade flowing through the air like a silver streak, cutting arcs of elegance and precision. The other, with slow and deliberate movements, practiced Tai Chi, his every gesture a careful balance of strength and calm.

Their paths crossed, and for a moment, they exchanged knowing glances.

"Do those eight gates of yours really hold a living gate?" the swordsman asked, his voice soft, yet laced with curiosity. The blade in his hand gleamed faintly under the twilight.

The Tai Chi master clasped his hands behind his back, not pausing in his movements as he replied, "Of course there is. The Tai Chi transformation cycle is ever-moving. What was once the living gate a second ago shifts in the blink of an eye, rotating to another position. It's the nature of the art."

He gestured slightly, as though directing the flow of the invisible energies around them. "If any of them had thought to carry a compass, they'd have noticed the magnetic field distorting each time the gates changed." He smiled faintly, amused by the idea.

The sword dancer, Swordsmith, chuckled under his breath, the sound barely a whisper. "And yet... no one has ever come out of your eight gates."

Juan, the Tai Chi master, shook his head with an almost melancholic sigh. "Swordsmith, you must understand. Fate is an unyielding river. To meet me, to face my gates... it is their fate. Whether they find the way in, or the way out, is not for us to decide." His eyes held a quiet but unrelenting truth, as if the weight of his words came from years of experience.

"It's their fate that binds them, whether they fall to it or escape it."

Chaos Insurgency 8th seat: Balance.

Chaos Insurgency 12th seat: Swordsmith.

...

Within the crack space, Mei moved with a methodical grace, rearranging the odd collection of objects she had gathered over time. Rows of towering bookshelves lined one side of the room, their spines heavy with knowledge and dark secrets. In the center stood a table, its surface adorned with peculiar items: a vase etched with devilish patterns and a diary resting beside it, worn from use. Near the base of the table, a strange flower resembling a sunflower thrived—except instead of petals, it sprouted large, blinking fly-trap eyes.

Across the room stretched the enormous body of a snake, its coils so vast that its head and tail were pinned to opposite walls. Three hollowed-out cavities marred the creature's middle, glass partitions separating the open wounds from the flesh. Despite its clear agony, the serpent could not move, its head immobilized in a cruel fix.

Mei approached the first of the hollowed-out sections, her expression unreadable as she retrieved a bowl. "What is this?" she mused, her voice soft but sharp, like the crackling of distant thunder. She let the bowl float lazily in the air beside her as she moved on.

At the second hollow, there was a piece of paper, inscribed with a cryptic phrase: "People live because of the linen clothes and learn from you?"

Its meaning eluded her, but Mei seemed unfazed, allowing the paper to float beside the bowl.

Reaching the third cavity, Mei found something more intriguing—a crown, encrusted with dark blue gems that shimmered with a cold, otherworldly mist. "This," she said, turning it in her hands, "is actually interesting." It was the fifteenth creation birthed from the tortured giant snake.

The snake had been dosed with 009 Splitter's potion, becoming something like a new version of 009, though Mei didn't see it as a true successor. Instead, the creature had been repurposed—a living factory. From the three holes carved into its body, new objects emerged, each torn from the snake's flesh as the wounds repeatedly healed and reopened.

The pain was unimaginable, but the snake had no choice but to endure it. It couldn't resist, neither physically nor mentally. Larger than the original 009, this snake could produce more at once, but there was a problem—there was no way to tell which creations had purpose or power. No instructions. Just the constant churn of strange and possibly useless objects.

Mei cast her gaze to the growing pile of items that hovered, suspended above like a mountain of forgotten toys. She sighed, unimpressed by most of what had come from the snake's suffering. The crown, however, held her attention as she drifted back to her seat, flipping open her future diary.

"Dates, dates, always dates," she muttered, scanning the pages filled with vague premonitions of things to come. She summoned a floating quill, a recent creation from the snake's body. This pen required no ink, its tip able to write on any material. Mei had yet to uncover its full potential.

Writing tomorrow's date in the diary, she penned a question: "What is 002 doing?"

There was no immediate response. She closed the diary and waited, her patience rewarded when it trembled softly. Opening it again, new words had appeared:

"002 built a new home under the deep sea. Though incomplete, he has named it 'Rlyeh.' In the afternoon, 002 converted a small fishing village's inhabitants into Fish-Men, using it as a temporary base above water."

Mei snapped the book shut. "Interesting." She thought for a moment, then asked aloud, "What am I doing tomorrow?"

The diary stirred, and more words formed on its pages:

"Tomorrow morning, you receive a book from the giant snake. It's called 'Human Constellation Shines.' You find it intriguing and spend the day reading, gaining deeper understanding by afternoon."

Mei raised a brow, reading the final lines: "By the evening, you realize that you haven't scared the snake yet today..."

With a smirk, she lifted the quill once more, writing: "Is there any information more... relevant to my interests?"

The diary shuddered again before revealing its latest secret:

"Someone yearns for your presence. Though they are incomplete, their potential is fascinating. What seems an ordinary ability at first glance, they've elevated to remarkable levels. You'll find them very interesting."

...

On a street somewhere in Xina, a man stood still in the middle of the sidewalk, dressed in a gaudy clown costume. His painted face, though crafted for mirth, was a mask of misery. A passerby tossed a coin at his feet, expecting some kind of circus act. But the man just forced a wide, toothy smile, a grotesque parody of joy, and looked up at him without a word. The passerby muttered a curse under his breath and walked away.

The clown bent down, slowly picking up the coin, his smile vanishing as quickly as it had come. And then, with a suddenness that startled no one, he collapsed onto the ground in a defeated heap, his body forming the shape of a letter. His chest shook with bitter laughter that echoed through the street—empty and hollow.

"Ha ha... ha ha ha..."

A young mother and her daughter happened to be walking past just then. The little girl, curious and unafraid, stopped in her tracks, breaking away from her mother's hand to approach the fallen man.

"Mr., what are you doing?" she asked, her voice pure and innocent.

The clown jolted up from the pavement, eyes locking onto the child's. She looked at him with a gaze so clear it seemed to pierce through the layers of paint and pain.

"I..."

Before he could respond, the mother called out sharply. "Come back here!"

She grabbed her daughter's hand, pulling her away from the clown without hesitation. "Didn't I tell you? Stay away from crazy people!"

The little girl protested, glancing over her shoulder. "But, Mom... he looks really sad..."

Her mother scoffed, "What's there to be sad about? If you go around feeling sorry for every beggar, you'll end up marrying one." She yanked the girl along, their figures disappearing into the crowd.

The clown lay back down, staring at the sky. The bright sun hung overhead, its warmth mocking the coldness in his soul. Slowly, he raised a hand to shield his eyes from the light, though it did little to hide his sorrow.

"To punish criminals, we put them in cages. To protect animals, we put them in cages."

A voice interrupted his musings, and a middle-aged man strolled over, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and disdain.

"Are you saying that protecting animals is a joke?" the man asked.

The clown—Arthur—glanced at him once before letting his face fall again, staring back at the pavement. "No," he muttered. "I'm saying they've all lost their freedom."

The man shook his head, unimpressed. "Don't get philosophical with me, Arthur. Don't forget, I hired you for this job. I didn't pay you to lie in the sun at the front of my shop."

Arthur sighed and slowly got to his feet. "Yes, yes... of course."

"If I wanted to make real money, I would've hired some elegant performer. Not a sad clown."

The man crossed his arms, scowling slightly. "But you were convenient."

Arthur turned to him with a dull stare, his painted face cracked with weariness. "Convenient, huh. One dollar a day... does that still make someone dry?"