空 四 空

According to 🐭 Prodigy's Limited S-tier costume has a luxurious, exotic style 神童限定金是繁华的异域风格

New: Grave Keeper new high tier costume is added

New: Guard 26 new high tier costume is added

New: Professor Whimsy costume is added

New: Geisha BLK Silhouette costume is added

Likely Prodigy related skill

Chance Narrative Let the dice decide the story, with rewards and penalties left uncertain. In this exploration, destroying Porcelain Vases increases the rarity of dropped Classics, but also raises the chance of attracting nearby Anomalies. (Exclusive to "A Bringer of Doom") Interlayer Narrative Voices from beyond the page seep into the text, rewriting the author's rules. In this exploration, enabling voice can drive away nearby Anomalies. Recurring Narrative Characters reappear again and again, the plot shifts, and the prose layers over itself. In this exploration, more Anomalies will appear, but their damage is reduced. When three Anomalies gather, they are instantly destroyed and drop Classics. Standalone Narrative All plot and conflict converge here. The other pages are blank, and only here does the curtain rise. In this exploration, all Anomalies and Containers will spawn on a single floor.

Season 44 2026.09.10 - 2026.11.19

A Clean, Neat Page from the Diary After her mother "left," the child's life in this manor became highly regular, or rather, to call it "life" may not be quite accurate, for I could only ever see her in a few fixed places: Dining Room. Each morning, she appeared there, not to eat, but to sit by the window and gaze thoughtfully at her doll. Foyer. As noted before, she would sometimes speak to the statue. As time passed, she began to stand in silence before the front door. Yet she never once stepped outside, though the door had never been locked. Corridor. This was the strangest place of all. She would appear there at night and run without pause, sometimes as though fleeing something, at others as though pursuing something. The rest of the time, she would likely remain in her room. What I could not understand most was this: why would she not leave? She had already lost her mother here. What was left in this place of painful memories that could make her stay? Or was she, like me, searching for something? Or waiting for something? Soon, I found my answer. That day, she rose very late. It was the first time I had seen her eat in the dining room, toast spread with glistening honey. Then, in the afternoon, when she entered the foyer as usual, a sealed envelope awaited her there, its flap stained with soot. She opened it, and her face showed sorrow, yet also relief. That was what she had been waiting for. An invitation to the final game.

Mr. Hartrick added that Tracy seemed changed after that night. It was as though she no longer had to maintain a particular posture in defiance of her own helplessness, as though she had finally found something in which she could place her certainty. This seemed a good sign, yet Mr. Hartrick remained troubled by it. His unease was confirmed when Tracy disappeared without a word. Long afterward, another stranger returned to the workshop, but brought no news of her. ("You see... you must understand that I did not know her, and was never permitted to come close. I cannot call myself her friend, and I was certainly no elder to her.") I shook my head. His certainty eased the awkwardness in the air. I promised Mr. Hartrick that I would continue my investigation, with the cooperation of the friends who had known her. Perhaps Tracy Reznik truly resolved never again to accept the understanding or proximity of others. Even so, I remain convinced that her refusal was guided by reasons of her own. Completing her revenge exposed the choice that awaited her. To remain where she was, adapting to an ordinary life that could never be entirely repaired, had never been an option for her. She wanted to find a way to keep those she loved from ever being separated from her, and she had always been skilled at solving every problem. Perhaps she would choose a path far beyond the bounds of reason, one that demanded a price. Her departure was inevitable. Thus, the brief affections formed by chance became something destined to fall short for both herself and those around her. Whatever the truth, the gentleman who had waited in the workshop for someone to arrive ultimately became silent evidence. His concern had grown from all that Tracy had endured and all that others had witnessed, sustained by the responses she herself had failed to notice. Even amid careful judgment and difficult choices, deviations still occur. Self-directed feeling is itself a deviation, and Tracy had always longed to bring it back into existence.

Tracy came of age beneath the shadow of her family's deaths, while bills fell upon her like snow. Throughout it all, her workshop remained open as usual, and no trace of her suffering could be found upon the face of the clockmaker. Mr. Hartrick's concern for Tracy did not end there. In fact, he had come to understand that Tracy was a child who always placed "handling matters without fault" before confronting her own feelings. She continued, whether consciously or otherwise, to shut herself away. For a time, determining the right distance between his family and Tracy became difficult. Perhaps she found it difficult to separate herself from the past sufficiently to place her trust in others. Perhaps she refused to take part in the lives of those around her. Perhaps he was, at times, too clumsy and inappropriate in his manner. Or perhaps she was simply immersed in some old dream of her own, unwilling to be awakened. Mr. Hartrick entertained many theories, but in every possibility he could imagine, he was no more than a passerby who had shared a brief encounter with the young woman. ("She was always occupied with the work in her workshop. I saw that lively machine of hers, the one shaped rather like her father's. Perhaps she was simply so lonely that she forgot to take proper care of herself. Once, I invited her to dinner without thinking. The cheerful shadows of my family were reflected in the glass. She paused for a moment. Her expression did not change, but she politely declined." "I regretted being so forward. After that, I found other ways to make sure she was doing all right." A faint smile finally appeared in Hartrick's clouded eyes. "At the time, my eyesight was nowhere near as bad as it is now, but I was always devising some reason to ask for her help.") Tracy rarely turned down the "troubles" that brought Mr. Hartrick to her from one aspect of daily life or another. For a long while, this was nearly the only human relationship she maintained outside her professional dealings, however minor it may have seemed. She also sent him letters from time to time. Before Tracy disappeared without a word, Hartrick told me of an incident that had made a deep impression upon him. One night, the lights in the workshop across the street failed to come on at their usual hour, and Tracy did not knock upon his door as they had agreed. In the end, Tracy was found collapsed over the worktable, burning with fever and apparently caught in the grip of some nightmare. ("My wife and I settled her in, but she still seemed unable to find any peace between sleep and waking. We knew perfectly well that we could not give her the company of her family, nor could we presume to give her something she refused to acknowledge. You understand, miss. Those we love often leave an impression upon the heart that nothing else can equal. After losing them, one may turn that impression over and over, or call it back to life, but one cannot replace it with another thing. Such a process lasts longer than any of us shall live." "So it had to be her 'father.' My wife and I quietly withdrew a little farther away. The moonlight by the window happened to illuminate the remote control belonging to that machine, and we spent some time figuring out how to make it move, more or less, according to our wishes. Then 'Father' came to the child's bedside and, as he had always done, placed her palm within his own." "I am entirely certain that night meant something to Tracy. Perhaps even the cleverest child can be confused at times, or perhaps there was an explanation for everything. To a feverish child, a father's palm would be slightly cool, yet familiar and steady. Her breathing gradually grew calmer, and at last she fell into a deep sleep. Under our direction, 'Father' then returned, exactly as he had come, to the place where he had once stood.")

Mr. Hartrick told me he first learned of the "Rezniks" because of the explosion. He had followed the crowd to the scene, where the acrid smell still hung in the air. The police had only just arrived and were working together to disperse the gathering onlookers. Amid the noise and commotion, the bereaved girl was led away from the ruins of the place she had called home. Together, these sights formed an immovable silence. The wounds on her palms were covered in soot, presumably caused by the force with which she had turned over the debris around her. In the aftermath, Tracy Reznik remained calm and compliant with the police, though she refused their suggestion that she leave the scene for a time. Even after being kept beyond the cordon, she kept asking them questions about the details of the site and the progress of the investigation. Such stubbornness is common in anyone suddenly struck by bereavement. It often springs from an impulse to "deny the reality" of what has happened. Yet, knowing what I did of the girl's disposition, I suspected that her conduct, both within and beyond the cordon, concealed an intention that went beyond mere emotion. If she meant to test her own suspicions regarding the facts, she had to act before every detail was arranged into an official declaration that the matter was settled. In any event, her trembling fingertips betrayed the suppressed fragility of one so young, however fiercely she tried to conceal it. Fortunately, Mr. Hartrick did not leave her to manage alone. Once matters had temporarily concluded, he brought the strange child clean water and iodine. As he carefully wiped the dirt from her wounds with gauze, the emotions so heavily amassed within her finally found a narrow opening and escaped in the form of tears. ("No, no, I did not ask any further questions, nor did I offer words of comfort." Mr. Hartrick hesitated. "I simply thought that someone ought to tend to the dirt and the wounds. Besides, with a proud child by nature, it is less embarrassing to leave her a quiet space. I once had an apprentice who was much the same." "I was not her guardian. I happened to see her name while helping her attend to the formalities. I took it upon myself to offer some assistance, though it was hardly worth mentioning. In any case, I remained until her father had been properly buried. She was still very young, and her relatives may have grown distant on account of the debts. She had every right to choose not to leave." "The fact that she allowed you to help her says something in itself." "Thank you. Thank you...")

Tracy Reznik: Investigation Field Notes II Having traced the course of the electrical accidents around Canterbury, I decided to return, one last time, to the workshop belonging to Tracy Reznik. Throughout my investigation, the little workshop had remained empty and quiet. Only the departed, fixed within a framed photograph in the corner, stubbornly wore a smile, as though they had never stepped away from happier days. This "last visit" was impulsive, prompted by a habit of my own. There can be no doubt that efficient research and investigation must remain the firmest priorities in any assignment. Yet once my work is concluded, I generally allow myself a brief span of private time to attend to the feelings accumulated through close involvement in a particular case. Rather than turn to some light diversion to occupy my mind, I am more often drawn back by the feelings within me to the story's point of origin. This visit yielded an unexpected discovery, and helped restore a fuller account of Tracy Reznik's story. The source of my information had always insisted that no bond existed between him and Tracy Reznik resembling that of an elder and a younger person, or even that of ordinary friends. Looking back upon the brief period before Tracy resolved to leave, I believe that this conviction began with a certain inexpressible understanding between them. Mark's death, together with the facts quietly at work in the shadows, became a shock violent enough to shake her entire life. Tracy Reznik had spent months walking through the trenches of fate. She buried a part of herself, then took up certain convictions for which a price would have to be paid. Tracy Reznik II But to return to that chance visit. When I pushed open the door of the workshop once more, I found, quite unexpectedly, that someone was waiting for me. He was a gentleman of perhaps fifty years, his calloused hands clasped before him with visible unease. At the sound of someone entering the vestibule, that unease immediately became a mixture of hope and restraint. He narrowed his eyes with some effort, as though trying to make out the details. Perhaps he suffered from an ailment of the eyes. The gentleman, who introduced himself as Mr. Hartrick, asked whether I was a friend of Tracy Reznik's, or had returned at her request. When I answered in the negative, I caught a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. Following the natural rhythm of conversation, I waited for Mr. Hartrick to say more. The older gentleman opened his mouth, apparently searching for some identity or position that might justify his urgent presence there, then swallowed his words when none presented itself. ("Then are you a friend or relative of Mark or Tracy?" "No, no. At the time, I was merely a factory worker across the street. I could hardly say I knew the Reznik family." Mr. Hartrick touched the frame of his spectacles. "I had only just moved in before the incident. Tracy helped me with a few things, that is all." "You wished to learn how she was." "Yes, madam, if you are investigating...")

new cryptic notes narrative