It had been two days after Jack left Ironpile Town. His spectral form were still drifting to the direction of Calmcoast. It had already been half way.
But the sudden gnawing sensation halted him on his track.
It was a psychic static. A discordant call for help echoing in the ghost frequencies.
He knew that feel. Injustice, suffering, the psychic residue of trauma. He'd become intimately familiar with it these past months.
It was like when he sensed Linna's ghost in Highcliff Town. Or when he felt Johnny's ghost in Ironpile Mine.
But this was different. This was more potent. More... primal.
It wasn't just the faint whisper of a lingering spirit. This was a goddamn signal fire.
His logical mind screamed at him to keep moving. Calmcoast. Beaches. A break from the endless parade of misery and evil.
But he was curious. He wanted to know the source of that uncomfortable feeling. It was a trait that had made him killed once. And pulled him in big troubles, Many times.
Besides, he felt that nagging sense of responsibility. That desire to be more than just a passive observer, kept him rooted. Furthermore, he had to deliver judgement to become stronger.
And this... this seemed to be a great opportunity for judgement.
He was not the ignorant ghost like he used to be. He learned enough knowledge of Mystic Arts in Ironpile Library. He knew what this discordant call was.
It was the echo of supernatural resentment. Someone with latent supernatural ability was in pure despair or died while carrying extreme emotions.
It was why ghosts existed in the first place. Not everyone who got screwed over became a ghost. Only those with potential for something more.
"Damn it!" Jack muttered to the empty air. Calmcoast could wait.
He turned. Following the faint psychic clues.
The trail led him towards a disused railway line. Tracks overgrown with weeds. The sleepers were already rotten and crumbling.
He followed the line. It was a path to nowhere. A forgotten link leading to a place the world had abandoned.
After several minutes following the railway, Jack arrived at what was left of Whitecoal. He could see the name on the dilapidated railway station.
He remembered reading about it in the Ironpile library. Whitecoal... a mining town built on a false hope.
There was a large deposit of coal found there. There was a high expectation. It was predicted that the town could grow even bigger than Ironpile. But...
The lumps of coal mined there were not normal. They were contaminated with something nasty. Poison and radiation rolled into one.
First, there were the health problems. Miners coughing up blood. Kids born with deformities. Then came the 'accidents'... Cave-ins. Explosions. Deadly Miasmas.
There was even whispers of something more sinister. The town died quickly. Abandoned by its settlers not even five years after it was first built.
He floated through the empty streets. He passed collapsed wooden houses. Their windows were like vacant eyes. Lost in past memories.
The wind whistled through broken panes. Carrying the scent of decay and despair. No people. No animals. Not even rats. Just the heavy silence of a place where hope had gone to die.
He used his spectral senses. He reached out. Searching for a lingering presence. Nothing. No restless spirits. No echoes of the past. Just the pervasive sense of wrongness.
The source was clear. It pulsed with a dark energy. It was a beacon of misery. At the edge of town, where the rail line terminated.
An old locomotive.
Rust-eaten and broken. It sat on the tracks like a skeletal beast. Its headlight was a shattered socket. Its whistle was choked with debris. It radiated a domineering sense of dread. A concentrated dose of malevolence.
He circled it cautiously. Probing with his different sight modes.
[Fear Detection]. Nothing.
[Aura Detection]. Strong Reddish Aura. But it covered the whole locomotive. It was not like there was a ghost trapped in the locomotive.
[Karma Detection]. Black. Negative Aura. But again, it covered the whole locomotive. It was definitely a cursed object. But... was it alive? Did this object turn into supernatural entity?
Jack observed the old thing more carefully. Undetected. Invisible. He could imagine the history clinging to the metal. The sweat of overworked men. The dreams of fortune. The despair.
But there was something else there. Something darker. Hidden deep within the town's suffering.
He needed more information. He needed to understand further. He needed to see what had tainted this object with such potent yet miserable power.
It was time for some Mystic Art Ritual.
During his time learning from the Encyclopedia, Jack didn't just study cantrips and spells. He also read and memorized many types of rituals. Especially useful ones like what he was about to do.
A ritual for 'True Origin Revelation'.
Jack drifted away from the locomotive. He phased through the crumbling buildings. Searching for the ingredients he needed.
He knew what to look for. All local herbs, pretty common in Elrush Kingdom. Red rosemary to enhance perception. Seerheart sage, to connect to the past. And mystic mugwort, to bind the spell.
He found them growing in the overgrown gardens. Like tenacious weeds clinging stubbornly to life. He gathered what he needed. His [Mysterious Control] plucked the leaves and stems.
He spent the next three days drying the herbs. Spreading them on a flat rock in the weak sunlight. Three days were the requirement for the rituals. He could not cut corner here.
With nothing to do but waiting these three days, Jack decided to practice his Mystic Arts. Instant casting cantrips. Using grimoire to cast [Lesser Ward] and [Magic Missile]. Repeatedly, once the cooldown was over.
Three days later. At dawn, he crushed the dried up herbs with his [Mysterious Control]. Grinding them into a coarse powder.
And then he waited. Until dusk came, casting long shadows across the abandoned town. It was the time for him to mix the powder with a drop of his own essence. It was supposed to be blood. But well... he couldn't bleed.
He placed the mixture on the ground in front of the locomotive. It formed a small mound.
He focused his will. Channeling the energy he had learned to manipulate. He activated the cantrip he had memorized. The mystical power vibrated in the air.
Fire Spark!
A tiny spark of blue flame flickered to life. It ignited the dried herbs. A plume of acrid smoke rose into the air. Swirling and twisting in the gathering darkness.
Jack stared into the smoke. He focused on his desire. Finding out the origin of the problem with the locomotive. His spectral eyes were strained to see the past.
The air grew thick and heavy. The scent of herbs were getting stronger. But, there was the scent of something else. Something metallic and sickening.
The locomotive shimmered. Its rusted surface seemed to dissolve into a swirling vortex of colors. Jack felt the town around him faded away.
And then he saw it.
The memory burned in his mind. Raw and clear. Three figures in white robes stood around the locomotive. Their faces hidden in shadow of their cowls.
They were drawing symbols on the metal frames of the locomotive. These symbols closely resembled runes for... Prosperity, Peace, and Fortune.
But it wasn't paint they were using. It was blood.
His vision followed the traces of blood to the center of the ritual.
A large hexagram was drawn on the ground. Within the hexagram, seven lifeless children lay, arranged in a circle. Their eyes wide and vacant.
Jack's spectral stomach churned. These bastards!
The figures continued their work. Chanting in a language he didn't understand. But he could feel the intent behind their words. The pure desire for prosperity and wealth.
Jack observed more carefully. Holding back his rage. And, he saw that many things were simply... wrong.
It was not just wrong on moral ground. It was wrong on many things. The fundamental concept. The materials. The symbols. The sequence. The mantras. All wrong.
Sacrifice rituals were dangerous. They had to be studied very carefully. And, they must be done in perfect details. Or, the result would be disastrous.
But this ritual here... The runes were sloppy, poorly drawn. The symbols in the hexagram were distorted. There were even unconnected parts of the lines. A major taboo in mystic rituals.
The sequences for the ritual didn't make sense at all. They didn't draw the runic symbols in one clear direction. Another major taboo.
The mantra used was... questionable. It seemed like a jumbled mess of half-remembered knowledge and wishful thinking.
These three men weren't seasoned practitioners. They weren't master occultists. They weren't even still-learning apprentice.
They were... complete amateurs.
The vision faded. The smoke dissipated. And Jack found himself back in the abandoned town. The rusted locomotive looming before him. Under the cold light of the moons.
"Amateurs. Damned amateurs!" Jack swore under breath. "Conducting a sacrifice ritual without fully understanding it. Those fucking idiots."
Jack felt his rage building. This was much more complicated than what he had expected. This wasn't some ancient evil. It wasn't some carefully planned ritual designed to unleash unspeakable horrors.
This was a dumb attempt fueled by stupidity, ignorance, and greed.
Which meant… it was much more unpredictable.