The Wanderer's Guide to Somewhere (CLOSED)

[Independent Athletes from Quebec]

WORLD CUP 92 – GROUP A MATCHDAY 2: Independent Athletes from Quebec 1-0 Ko-oren
Scorer: ‘76 Enrico Hanson-Conavacio (assist: Zinaida Woodcarver)
Lineup: L. Shim; Cizeron - H. Kim (‘79 McKinley); Ukaleq (‘84 Yabusele) - Morin-Antonoff (‘63 Dyxkeson) - Miller (‘63 Coriolan); Wawanolett; E. Kweon - Babin- Woodcarver; Hanson-Conavacio ‘C’ (‘84 Huitema-Omeasoo)

Expected Starting XI vs Savojarna (2-3-4-1): S. Middleton; Cizeron - H. Kim (C); Ukaleq - Morin-Antonoff - Miller; Kweon - Litt - Wawanolett - Woodcarver; Korniloff-Kouyate

Dr. Heo and the Portal of Madness

PART 16 - Where The Streets Have No Name

Jang Joon-Gweon wasn’t sure how long he was out. When he had found himself lying on the ground, it seemed as if the impact of the brunt force felt upon the crash was more than enough to push him a mile underground, all the way to the seed of this earth.

Upon that moment he felt as if all the familiarities to his way younger self had come back again, somewhere on the Bel-Havre town. There few of the older boys, who would find Joon-Gweon odd and with an even odder ‘reputation’ attached to his name, were near him, chasing the unassuming twelve-year-old lad in search of lunch money, eventually cornering him in an arc shape through solid inner-town positioning and cartographic knowledge.

It was not a normal setup, so to speak. Out of desperation, especially as they would inch closer to him, Joon-Gweon would position his body lower, with his arms close to the ground to go for a leg grab. His body was crouching forward and his mouth was bursting outwards, but that wasn’t the scariest part about him. Joon-Gweon had blood and taste remaining in his mouth, he had once chomped off an intruder’s finger before.

Come on, fuckers, Joon-Gweon muttered quietly, waiting for a couple of steps as those playground bullies would slowly step forward. Come at me. 5-on-1 you cowards, come to the fuck over.

He would wait and throw his arms at one of them and then, with the massive explosion, would find nobody standing before him.

Oh, thought Joon-Gweon, as a thin layer of dust would appear before his eyes, before eventually settling down and dropping to the ground. At that very moment, he would move back by a couple of steps, finding himself too stunned to think of the next move. A flock of birds, themselves avoiding the explosion that had taken those schoolyard bullies out of commission, flew over the sky from some distance away.

And as strange as all of this sounded, Joon-Gweon would find himself under the impression that he had somehow miraculously taken down those schoolyard bullies who had heckled him for some weeks by now. All five of them, their necks twisted to the side and their limbs barely moving, had tastes of metal and dust all over them. With the wind knocked out of their airy heads and lungs, the boys would scream but would find their voices muffled out of fear and an unnatural force. ‘Shit,’ they would say, noticing that they had made a mistake, before running back to their mummies and daddies.

Then the holographic scene would end, only to be followed by the siren-like calling that had raised Joon-Gweon’s senses. This time, however, it had come from those of happier illusions, those that he had kept in his mind but had mostly left to himself.

This remarkable sound filled the stuffy atmosphere of crushed metal and blown dust..it was derived from the golden threads of concoctions that had surrounded Joon-Gweon in the tiniest strings. It was the sound Joon-Gweon had never heard before here, even in this city of famed musicians and artisans, but had acquainted a couple of times through his dreams: Hannah’s hums.

I am hearing this again and again… thought he, as It was the sound that, while nowhere reaching the power of her parents, the true professionals to their craft, was still the most enchanting thing that had come to his mind.

In the unlikeliest of places…where I can see nothing… Joon-Gweon said to himself, feeling the music as if the music was serving him as a travelling guide. It was the sound that had somehow connected him with Hannah on some of those nights, and it was almost as if she was whispering back to him, wherever this space may have been…Help, help, help, no…

‘Hannah!’ Joon-Gweon shouted back in the direction of her voice, perhaps as an unintended act of courage. ‘Hannah!’ It was all but futile, as he found himself hearing the sound go on, without returning back, and the layers of smoke had followed up with the metal and dust that had established themselves earlier.

In an avalanche of confusion, Joon-Gweon felt his ears ring and his hand bloody with cuts, as the pains all over his body were more than enough to bring him back to reality, as he struggled to find the direction from the initial round of pulls by the golden threads. From some distance, he could still hear the shouts and screams of those witnessing it all by the dimensional cracks established through Hannah and Isabel’s battle with the ‘Sea Monster’.

Now I need to get my fucking way and find the monster. The threads continued to draw him, closer and more powerful with each passing second, and now the threads, who would originally try to repel him, had recognised Joon-Gweon as the one to guide him to where they were at.

The direction of the thread’s movements was now clearer to him, as they had pulled him in a back-and-forth, kayak-like motion, across the port. No…all the stores being blasted…and dusted in a matter of seconds… said Joon-Gweon as he continued to look around his situations, even after clear signs that he was not in a situation to look around the damages done at the two-century-old Seoho Market.

There was a deep sense of wrongness in the dusted emptiness of the Perce Harbour and the Seoho Market’s normally-busy streets. On one layer, smoke, metal and dust caused people to hide in the hallways or the staircase of their nearest building. On the other hand, the lack of any sound other than that of her scream had come all but clear that regardless of what could be done to repair the losses suffered by the so-called extra-terrestrial attack’, this had required the young gun to come out.

Come on… struggled Joon-Gweon, as he breathed heavily in a struggle for orientation. Slowly regaining his own speed and weaving through the paper pamphlets and the smoke-dust layers, Joon-Gweon continued to follow the threads’ way.

Eventually, he would find his way out of the Seoho Market and to the western end of the harbour, only to be stopped just outside of the Old Port district when, almost as if he had reached the destination, the threads of golden concoction had stopped pulling him, disappearing into the air as he, narrowly avoiding a fall from the loss of said force this time around, saw movement on the ground, a body lying on the ground with a woman standing next to him.

‘No.’ was all he said. He then moved back a couple of steps to regain patience.

As he had feared it was Hannah, flat on her back and her head and body suffering multiple gashes that appeared certain. With the confusion of the ongoing situation, combined with the lack of visibility for most people, it had taken a while for Joon-Gweon to come clear with the fact that the ‘Sea Monster’, who had been summoned all the way from the Blood Sea’s farther reaches per the Creator’s wishes, was unexpectedly stronger than what he would have expected.

‘This can’t be..’ screamed Joon-Gweon from deep inside as he drew closer. However, the immediate sight he would be faced with the next moment was not Hannah, but Isabel.

In an immediate drawback he would raise his voice: ‘Ma’am, we need to get out-’

‘No,’ answered Isabel, as she gave a simple shake to his head. ‘Somebody has to do the deed, young man.’

As Joon-Gweon ground his teeth, he noticed that Isabel, within a matter of minutes, looked largely different from what he had recalled from their art gallery meeting earlier. Her hair, once dark with shades of grey, had completely turned pale and dry, while both sides of her face were fumigated the farther they were from the distinctive features of her brows.

‘Ma’am, aren’t you her teacher?’ Joon-Gweon vaguely moved his hand to the left in a pointing motion, but he could not bear to see Hannah’s sights. ‘The one who had brought her to see those abilities…if the way that I had exactly seen those were true. Then why couldn’t you do the work yourself?’ Joon-Gweon was a mix of red and charcoal on his face, as he looked back at Isabel.

‘Because it doesn’t work that way, and I do not have those abilities to move,’ answered Isabel, unsure if Joon-Gweon would understand much of what she was going to say back to him. ‘Unlike what you, dear young man, seem to think, there are limits to which each of our own abilities travel and function. I may be able to travel to nearby alternative dimensions and adjust decisions made by people where possible, but I cannot stop a literal object or force from taking effect with little time.‘

‘But you have seen how her forces work with the water and the keys…’ He said, still not as convinced.

‘Look, dear,’ answered Isabel. ‘What you have seen with Hannah Moran, who I have so far had the privilege to be her teacher, is very much correct. And I am here to help her, or anybody who have those abilities, figure out the ways in which these forces, which do come from the Shingoryeoite Crowns and the realms far and beyond, will be used for her good.’

‘But what about me?’ Joon-Gweon asked, his hands shaking back and forth, as he awaited Isabel’s answer to his question.

All of sudden, however, Joon-Gweon would realise that he already knew the answer to the very question, with Isabel smiling back at him. On times like this Isabel would normally keep her brave face on, preferring to limit the details of whatever possible response she would prop up in mind. This time, however, she would choose to explain things differently.

‘It is true that there is no way I could control the outcomes of what would happen on decisions I alter,’ Isabel said, her face warming up like a Gnejsian thaw after a long winter. ‘But what I can do is to connect the alternative realities that would come from….let’s say a switch or two turned the other way.’

‘So what you are saying is that Hannah and I were meant to be at that gallery’s Grand Hall?’ Joon-Gweon asked. Isabel was delighted that he had finally come to say it, after all this time of speculation. ‘And that I am meant to fight the monster, if the threads had read me correctly.’

Isabel nodded her thin head, satisfied with Joon-Gweon’s eventual realisation. It was a mark of success, one that she had not been particularly sure of, even with all the arrangements for them, done through the altering of all the parties’ plans. Now if the occasional-forgetful woman would have noticed that she had sent Joon-Gweon and about a half-dozen prospective members of the private collegiate club, that would lead into another tale of its own…

‘Yes, and you will figure out how the moment when you see it.’ Isabel said at last.

[Independent Athletes from Quebec]

Dr. Heo and the Portal of Madness

PART 17 - Throne

Jang Joon-Gweon was now levitating.

Okay, more like after several struggles.

It had taken approximately two failed take-offs and twenty minutes, one that was fairly expected for our young hero, for Joon-Gweon, for him to take off with the right energy, motion and everything else needed to fly into the air to fight.

Not to mention what had happened earlier where the necessity of adjusting time-realities where the previously-mentioned Isabel Jurado, who had long gotten used to the acclimatised self of her more-experienced student Hannah Moran, did not take account into Joon-Gweon’s inability to sustain longer, more concentrated doses of energy to fly. This problem would eventually come to heads when Joon-Gweon kept finding himself losing control, crashing out after a strong start to the take-off, causing the sea monster to notice the movement of a challenger and sniff around. But the monster, as expected from one of that size, moved slowly and without success, and would go back to standing clumsily several kilometres away from the harbour.

‘You said that you did not know how to fly, right?’ asked Isabel, as she came to quickly think about the unexpected situation. ‘I will say that I did not expect the crash, my apologies.’

‘No, professor. I do not,’ answered Joon-Gweon, as a light layer of dust settled between them following the second crash. ‘If I had known, I would be the one to fight that monster on the very moment possible, wouldn’t I?’

Fuck, was all that she said on the inside. It was there where Isabel realised that she did not calculate it correctly. As expected, this error in judgment was crucial, for there was no mistake in Joon-Gweon’s intent to enter the world of the Portals. But for all that, she had spent honing her craft, and figuring it out on the domains of Tamarindia, Wight and eventually Quebec, she did not exactly have the success of procuring enough of newer students, whose tutelage was considered to be difficult in nature. Even Hannah, only one of about four to five pupils who had managed to stay past a year under her guardianhip, already had minor degrees of familiarity and success controlling her abilities, something rather at the opposite end of spectrum in comparison to the seventeen-year-old lad.

This error would result in a pair of awkward crashes or near-crashes that, no matter Joon-Gweon’s innate abilities or Isabel’s ability to freeze and manipulate tiniest factors in past-time by seconds, were all too apparent. In that, the instructional error, not by design but by incorrectly applying it to someone not fit for it, was at fault. Eventually, the Professor, whose actual field of academic specialities had lied in Confusionism, had to apologise, before devising a new plan, one that would involve crashing the dimensional chambers, flicking the switches of the decisive orbits, and then having the water, a material that he seems to have a good hold of, push him forward.

‘Let’s try this,’ said Isabel, as she snapped her fingers into two. With Joon-Gweon’s hands both wet with the sensation of the water, Isabel was now able to play out the split-second decision to trigger the material's rationalisation into a force. This was more than enough to give a push, and after several seconds of previously-existing doubt, he was well on the course, and barring an awkward bug or two that had affected his earlier attempts, was safely on the course of levitating.

On course, though time is naturally slower when you are on the narrative course of take-off and settling yourself to the right altitude for the battle, thought he, as he would reach the fifty-metre mark. Five...ten...fifteen...thirty...fifty.

It was quite hard to see the sky when you were flying. When on flight, under such high speed and trajectory that would be better advised for machineries, it becomes difficult to see clearly, whether straight or on peripheral vision. Only your determination serves as a device that could guide your flight from falling apart. Jang Joon-Gweon was under no exception, for the teenager had the drive to defeat the sea monster, and his shaking head and eyes, pulled backwards almost in the peeling manner, were feeling the tension of it all.

That of the entrance into life and the journey of pain and fear, starting by facing 'The Creator's Creation'.

Once you were high up, everything had come down to perception. Not only would a man flying on his own have a hard time figuring out how to move effortlessly from one space to another, but he would also be faced with difficulty to navigate himself.

This was very much the case for young Joon-Gweon. It was already difficult enough for him to make his way here, especially after a couple of failures just minutes earlier, and it was even more difficult for him to figure out on how to defeat the Sea Monster. At least he was able to keep on flying, for Joon-Gweon had enough energy to sustain and extend the original force of power that Isabel had managed to set up by altering the split-second matter in travelling back time.

Now my feet won’t touch the ground, thought he, as he followed the gigantic, buzzing energy oozing from the Sea Monster in approach. Joon-Gweon did not move very quickly, moving in a zig-zag motion to distract and not give away his exact trajectory. In the surrounding vicinities, there were debris of ships, building structures and floating rubbish, as they, almost as if functioning like magnets, had managed to find themselves bound towards him.

And the closer we get… Joon-Gweon could feel the heat of the said creature. Every now and then he had to stop, just so Joon-Gweon would be able to rethink the plan, and avoid overheating by running into the heat source that was the sea monster. After a while, he would notice that the closer he had gotten, the stronger the debris held onto him, almost as if the pieces, when collected into thousands and millions, were starting to bind its movements.

Those pieces are being put together to stop it from moving, Joon-Gweon noticed, a couple of hundred metres apart. Slowing down once again, he listened to how it breathed. The gargling sound of its breath, as it inhaled and exhaled back and forth, was deafening enough to muffle away the surrounding noise of the sea.

The clouds were more than enough to provide him with a disguise away from being directly noticed, but Joon-Gweon’s presence, no matter how minuscule or unassuming the teenager had tried to present himself as, was apparent enough.

To seek and to be sought, was on his mind. There was a minor rumble of its stomach that moved the monster to take a step forward. And then followed a strange silence that had established between them.

Then, to the next moment, came a sudden, sideway motion of the sea monster’s right arm. The snatch attempt was so powerful in ways it had come out of nowhere, that Joon-Gweon had found himself almost losing control and risking being pushed back several kilometres.

Joon-Gweon was caught mostly unaware and tried his best to turn around in circles but he too found himself on a different trajectory to regain control, as the Monster caught notice of him. Its eyesight was nowhere near where it once was, but still serviceable enough at close distance, the monster turned around and continued to throw more punches, trying to beat away the fly-like presence of Joon-Gweon buzzing around him.

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

OOC: A couple of un-published RPs that I were going to work on them during WCoH with both my nations will be posted. Blame RL for a monthlong delay but better late than never anyways.

This will be the first of two, already posted for the WBC (not a problem since WCoH's been over for solid two weeks anyway!), and the second one will be posted with my ridiculously-lucky puppet of 'The Lodge' in coming days.

Dr. Heo and the Portal of Madness

PART 18 - Let You Down

'Gah,' said Joon-Gweon, as he regained control. Having dropped several metres and almost coming close to hit the water just moments before, he was still determining where and how to attack the monster - even with missed punches, there stood enough risk of Joon-Gweon just being beaten out altogether.

It was then that he would hear Isabel's voice ring into his ear: 'Can you hear me?' her voice spoke, and with some manoeuvring attempts Joon-Gweon could hear into his eardrums. 'Jang, I am speaking to you again. Can you hear me?'

Joon-Gweon's expression was a mix of desperation and confusion, as he hurriedly shouted. 'Yes, I could hear you!' shouted Joon-Gweon before asking. 'What should I do next?'

'So here's the drill. Can you make your way back to the eye level of the beast?' Isabel shouted, I'll try to interfere with the seconds-long margin to make sure they won't act so quickly. But you have to face it directly else you won't be able to beat it.'

He was slightly confused, unsure if approaching the monster directly to its head was the right idea. 'Okay and?' he asked once more, feeling slightly hesitant.

'Well...if this monster's from the so-called creator of this country, won't there be some form of projection?' Isabel continued to speak, her mind ahead of his. 'You have to face it directly to figure out the projections it wants to show you or anyone. It appears difficult at first, but you've got to do it because there's something about it that the monster may know or contain. Hannah tried breaking into it and didn't make it work, but you may be able to.'

'But still-'

'Just do it,' Isabel said. 'Everything has reasons. Believe me here and I will tell you once you are back on land.'

Isabel then hung up the line of communication, causing Joon-Gweon to face the monster alone.

'Well, alright.' said Joon-Gweon, as he took a deep breath and edged around the Monster by forming an outer circle. He could hear it shout intelligibly, but the shouts, instead of some guttering from earlier had come in a certain rhythm of syncopation and were accented appropriately.

It's no ordinary creature, as clearly as the Professor had mentioned. thought Joon-Gweon, noticing that it was more than enough to convince him of said possibility, as he climbed. His heart was rushing, perhaps in fear of what he was about to see, but also in anticipation of what it could possibly bring. What would it be able to bring...

He would continue to spend time climbing higher and higher over the altitude, diking the limbs of the monster that swung wildly in an effort to catch him. As from earlier those attempts would prove to be vain, with our protagonist being able to escape quickly through better anticipation, and it would take no time before Joon-Gweon stood at eye level with the Monster.

One step after another he moved closer. With his eyes closed for a minute, moving like a blind monk on his path to opening his third eye, he tried his best to ignore the attention of the monster.

Closer and closer. Joon-Gweon knew that he was entering at his own risk, for this may lead into a twirl of events that he may not be this young or capable to handle after all, and may involve intervening in the lives of others whom he's yet to know much, or at all. Or would I.

At the moment Joon-Gweon opened his eyes, and his gaze met that of the monster's, there was a sudden moment of connection that was recognised. Not exactly adversarial, as it would have been with another assailant or the challenger, but something different.

Oh, thought he in a light dose of surprise, raising his eyebrows quickly, before the world surrounding them would buzz into a mix of black and white and then into nothingness. He could still hear loud gutters of the monster, and that of his inner self, as both their inner pits spoke of their own fears that their minds would not exactly able to scrape the bowl of.

Then from the bounce of the sounds Joon-Gweon could see something built up from each and every moment they bounce off the invisible wall, which would start to show its contour shapes and then the bones, before adding dimensions of their own.

First, it was a cradle, that of a child barely of weeks in existence...Joon-Gweon would notice that the child on that cradle happened to be him, for the child held an abnormally longer left arm that would later benefit him in bowling actions (though rarely if ever used - he was a wicket-keeper anyway). Of course, if Joon-Gweon had wanted to go back and move away this would have been the time, but by this point, he was too deeply involved into the spiral of discovery.

The instinct, after all, kept him attached to the scene, especially as the golden threads would continue to form, bounce off the walls and form that of both his maternal grandparents - a much younger version of grandfather and his late grandmother too! - holding the cradle. They, though not exactly fitting the image of both his grandparents he had lived with for a majority of his life, looked so real and apparent in their joy...

'Sometimes happiness comes in not knowing,' a deep voice said some distance away, indicating that he was observing the young lad's observation to it. Joon-Gweon looked around, only to find nobody else.

'Weird, thought it's clear somebody said something to me,' Joon-Gweon said to himself. He knew that it may have been that tempting sound of the higher above, who had managed to bring him all the way here, and that whatever he said would suggest the opposite of what he was going to find out about in this journey.

Then he turned around, only to see the cradle and the grandparents being replaced by another vision. This time the vision was a lot hazier and shakier, almost as if the scene were taking place underwater.

'Help! Help!' he heard a female child, of around age five or six, shout, the murkiness of the water not allowing him to see even as he was able to hear and notice from the bubbles that she was struggling. He didn't exactly know how to explain it, nor did he know where he could say about it either. More shouts and struggles could be heard from that murky scene underwater, before the girl's parents would arrive just in time to rescue her, to conclude the scene. At that moment he immediately recognised the parallels to the dream he had earlier about their first dream-encounter off the shores of Perce's several-hundred islands.

That must have been Hannah, when she was little. he thought, as he watched the visions dissipate, before reforming into silver threads this time.

The third time the thought-threads were taking a little bit more time to be shaped and formed. In a self-selecting mode, it would take a couple of failed attempts, where the scenes of burning Tamarindian houses, the screams of the Wightling prisoners (they often say that Madrigal's nowadays their Prison number 24601), and then the sinking of the Montrealais' ship still out in voyage somewhere across the Blood Sea, before finding the right scene better suited for humanly realms.

Heavy fumes would surround him this time, and the pointed the frame of a rapidly burning car, which would then be followed by its driver, a man in his twenties, crawling from the carriage. A younger version of Dr. Heo was now pushing himself out of the car crash in middle of the road, and he would walk a half-dozen steps, before lying to the asphalt side lane as emergency sirens would be heard from some distance. The fire continued to burn over the carriage, but the sound started to become quieter and quieter...

'Okay, okay, can you hear me?' a familiar voice spoke to him this time, her voice breaking through the dimming of background noise. It was Isabel. 'You've made it there?'

'Yes, Professor,' said Joon-Gweon, still watching the sight of the ambulance. 'I am in middle of the wreckage, after seeing some...earlier visions of me and Hannah. Not the ones I had expected, but..'

'Okay, so here's the drill.' Isabel said, her voice starting to buzz on and off with the tight gap of space between communication channels. It was apparent that the tightness of the corridor were playing a role into it. 'Draw the fibre, make them yours and then get out of it. Once that's done. I'll get you out of there, you here?'

This time Joon-Gweon had a clearer grasp, right as the fibres of the threads started to wind down. 'Alright,' was all that he said, before his eardrums would be left clear again.

This time he, flicking his left wrist twice before drawing an arm motion randomly, would roll his arms around. They were not the most exact motions as he had seen from earlier scenes, but Joon-Gweon could feel his fingers tingle and arms surrounded by the fibres, which would then flicker all over and in front of him, that suggested something was doing right.

Now, as he would stare into the dissipating crash scene, he would slowly notice the weak, beating heart of the beast open up. It wasn't a particularly big nor bright object, but the way that it had stood in front of him, and the fear the risk of its destruction would generate, still got to his mind a little bit.

'Do it now, do it, do it...' whispered the sound of younger Dr. Heo. Fortunately the sound of the man barely left in consciousness providing a hint, that perhaps that's not what his younger self was saying. As shown from earlier, it may have been a higher being borrowing his body and illusion to do the work, and Joon-Gweon lightly lifted a smile.

'One...two...three!' Joon-Gweon yelled, crossing an X-sign with his arm before releasing his hands and arms forward at the heart. The recollected threads from the scenes would soar in turn, launched like millions of arrows, and would make the contact. Next thing he was finding himself speeding away from middle of the air in a twirl of sound, air and gravity, and then he would find himself heading to 'The Lodge', where Isabel, Dr. Heo and Hannah were set to retreat.

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

Dr. Heo and the Portal of Madness

PART 19 - Under Ground Kings

Joon-Gweon found himself crash straight to the floor, with his nose and forehead hitting the dirty, wooden floor, while the relative darkness of the room, combined with turbid air of the room, left him disoriented.

Am I being transported to nowhere again? thought Joon-Gweon, choosing not to move for a little bit. While on his way teleported from Perce he had shut his eyes to prevent the blast of light from hitting his face, and the impact of the crash had kept it closed as well.

His head, which had never lost its speed, was quick to realise that he was transported to a safehouse, but his mind was unsure on what to make of it. All the energy brought by the earlier anticipation were drained out of him, and while a recharge wasn't of option, there was no doubt that Joon-Gweon had to improve connectivity between the two.

'You aren't somewhere foreign, dear.' Isabel said on a much lower tone of voice, as she brushed off some dust on top of the beret she was wearing over her head. She was located on the other side of the living room, which had all but made her voice sound hollow and ring a bit as it reverberated to his side of it. 'And no, it's not really a safehouse either, though it did require lots to put ourselves back there, especially after all that.'

A light smile given off by Isabel, while Joon-Gweon was not able to see it, was enough to suggest that it was likely her place, or that of somebody familiar to her. Joon-Gweon closed his eyes for a second, before opening them once more.
This time they were back in focus, as he too got himself back, first by grabbing the nearest table he could find, before pulling them over with his grip to the table. The cold feeling of the table, that of which he had felt rightaway, reminded him that the house's condition wasn't ideal either, but he was left unsurprised, especially considering Isabel's demeanour up to this point.

Isabel's mouth would open again he eventually manged to find his way to stand upright: 'Welcome to my plain home, where everything and anything of your interest is available.' She then cleared his throat, before adding another note. 'Of course, the access itself requires more work than that, but you know.'

Joon-Gweon looked around. The living room had a sofa and a massive television, and all the necessary furniture for a middle-upper class flat with more than enough rooms for a single room. But what mattered more was how the living room was filled with bookshelves, consisting not just of plain academic books, but ancient periodicals, glowing papyrus pieces, and dozens of sketches that would peek between and out of the rest of the files.

On the other side, while Joon-Gweon was looking around the collections, stood Isabel with crossed arms, while Dr. Heo was sitting on a chair tucked closely to the kitchen table. 'The house has gotten messier since I had last seen you here,' Dr. Heo quietly said, not making an additional mention that it was over a decade ago when he had last visited his colleague at her four-room, manipulable Quartier-Calanien flat. '

'We are all getting older, my friend,' Isabel answered, her head not moving as she watched Joon-Gweon observing the bookshelves with patience. By now, Isabel was made aware to the fact that something stood inevitable between Hannah and Joon-Gweon, and that it was inevitable for him to come here in order to figure out what to resolve with the Creator's mind.

As she was thinking about it all, Isabel turned on the hologram of the very moment the young lad had approached the monster, before destroying it with contact. A mere touch, not exactly telekinesis but rather a physical one, but something's happened there, Isabel thought, as she watched the moment Joon-Gweon had struck the monster with brunt force. Most, even with the magical abilities, would not have survived, considering relative size difference, and yet the opposite had happened...

'with an uncontrolled rage that worked in his favour? To turn solid objects like that of a magnificent creature into liquid and gas?' Dr. Heo asked, with him also watching the very scene it had occurred. 'I know you were saying specific instructions to him, but those were definitely different than what you had in mind right?'

'Yes,' Isabel replied, giving a slow nod or two. At that moment she also noticed that Dr. Heo was made aware of her words and would make use of them, with the scene in hologram changing from the conventional accounts into something else.

'Well turns out you were brought here for a reason as well,' Isabel added. 'I don't think you would know exactly what I'm talking about, at least not to the very version of it, but his abilities do seem to rationalise matters at will.'

'So you are saying that Hannah Moran, daughter of two country greats and personal friends of mine, know how to control music and presumably water, while that young man, for some reason, is given the gift to take on the matters at his pleasure?'

Isabel gave a slight frown. 'Whether it's his pleasure or curse is another story,' Isabel answered, raising her eyebrows once more. 'You and I know both know what it means to lose those dearest to us, all because of what we have.' she then continued to speak. 'I don't think he wants any of those either.'

It was at that moment that Joon-Gweon turned around to look at them and spoke. The hologram stopped momentarily. 'I saw that,' Joon-Gweon said. This time, however, he just wanted to know more about it all. 'What...the hell happened? Can you explain what the hell happened when I collided into the Sea Monster?'

Dr. Heo looked back at him. 'The inevitable, that of which you were to be brought here apparently.' he would say, without going into details to cover his lack of depth. 'She can explain better.'

'Easy. Let's get back to the reason why you are here.' Isabel moved forward, her Tequiloa leather boots made out of leather clicking at each and every step of the way. 'Sometimes, some of us are born into abilities that we didn't even wish to ask. It's sometimes by a matter of chance, while for others it's hereditary, meaning that having a parent with those abilities probably gives you a good chance of having it as well.' Isabel then turned to his left to look at her friend. 'If you haven't heard of me or my friend, [i]Professeur Heo Dong-Soo[i] already, now you have. This will matter because my friend's taught the Queen, who's held those abilities dating back generations in the Royal House now, before, who have made voyages to uncharted territories. I, on the other hand, have had a good number of students who had those abilities but did not always manage to....activate them.' She concluded, not before slurring a bit, in the end, to suggest her disappointment.

'And what does having those abilities do beyond matter-altering abilities, or the ability to travel between time and dimensions, or to easily cheat on gambling tables?' Joon-Gweon asked again, trying to be more straightforward with it all. He was doing his best to remain somewhat light-hearted on it all, even though the serious demeanour in him was working against him on all attempts whenever this was forced.

'It's lot more straightforward than you would think, Mr. Jang, Joon, Gweon.' Isabel spoke louder. 'Have you ever thought of entering the spiritual world? The second world beyond that of our human existence that is, to the domains of the Emperor Yamarāja or other Emperors of their time?' Isabel asked, her eye colours briefly turning into opal-like mix of turquoise and blue. 'Or to travel into realms remain uncharted or undercharted, that's the better term to use. Some of the more chronicled travels from Quebec, for example, have involved visits to the Samgakju of Deltean marshes, or pre-contact Poafmersia in the pursuit of ancient Panjia meat of cure, but those aren't it.'

Joon-Gweon nodded twice, and then stopped after realising that she was trying to piece the puzzles together. 'And what about those glows that you speak of? The breakdown of the walls...that of the Creator...and whatnot?' A thought spilled out of his head. It wasn't a thought that was of his own, one that's rather forced out beyond his control, and yet it was said past the point of spill.

Isabel smiled, her eyes glowing to red this time in a mode of possession. 'Well, turns out there is something.' Isabel waved her wrists twice, on counterclock direction, before unveiling a map over the television screen: 'I've been researching about the recent occurrences of mysteries happening all over the land, and have been chronicling them. They suggest me something.'

https://i.imgur.com/PPTpWTk.png

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

Dr. Heo and the Portal of Madness

PART 20 - Vampires

Isabel unveiled the map of Quebec and Shingoryeo, pointing to the various points without a single word coming out of her mouth, and then would come to bridge them together in a web.

'The net is bigger than it appears, though it probably wouldn't be able to cover all that's needed to prevent us from breaking apart, or disappearing altogether,' said Isabel, looking back at the surrounding countries of the map. There one could see not only the familiar names of Ko-oren to the northwest and Huayramarca to the southwest, but also relatively lesser known nations of Lacfroid and New Gesem that had over time replaced their once-neighbours of Semarland. 'Do you see where the things have not exactly...gone right?'

Mmm, was all that was on Dr. Heo's mind, as he quickly noticed the direction her extra-regional colleague was intending to point out. This is not a normal map - the surrounding nations look a lot more populated in numbers, and all the routes south of Blood Sea lot more clogged up and tempestuous based on what this is saying.

The man his junior, however, would be quick to point out the problem. 'Yes, why is Andossa Se Mitrin Vega directly confronting Huayramarca? Most maps not from Quebec do not have this version, but the ones here and on the home soil do,' Joon-Gweon said. 'According to here you would go south of Montevicio and then to Baja Calania, where there exist two options. But elsewhere doesn't exactly have that.'

'Correct assessment,' commented Isabel, the time-master whose time had much been spent on 'theories of universal sentience, multiversal suprasentient agency, and exotic mathematics' (a 2021 roleplay by Tequilo was cited for a specific sake). 'I still remember witnessing everything a decade ago from now, of the Foxchester Accords and the Anaian Dawn, not to mention the return of the Licentiapasterra from the fog....but did not take into account the possibilities of a lack of...so-called, proper severance. Let's say.'

'So you are saying that there could only be so many maps from the outer circle, but those are imperfect because something's not done correctly when the Declaration and the Amendments were announced?' asked Joon-Gweon.

'Yes,' Isabel answered, though she had wished the Tamarindian in her would limit herself from saying much beyond what's needed for this purpose. 'There is a common saying back in now-lost lands of Wight that when something that's supposed to be as big as the Declaration itself, or travel to the Tea Party at the End of the Multiverse...time stops becoming time. And when that happens, sometimes you would end up with certain steps not being implemented due to checklists missing a box or two.'

'Okay, okay, okay, stop there for a second, please,' Dr. Heo asked him to stop. 'We all know that Gwangmoo-Twelve and the Cabinet had not noticed the impact the said AOxit would create. Almost as if they had gone without care and brought his friends, the guys to the left shore and the right shore alongside him?'

Isabel would just smile back, as she answered in a light smirk suggesting the level of difference in their understanding (for obvious reasons, duh). 'I do not know the mortal politics, my friend, and would rather speak of logistics and fallouts,' Isabel said, her eyes glowing up a bit. 'But what appears to me is that the plan, while valiant, may have flaws, one that would demand more without adequate preparation or consultation.

'It's like a certain foreign named...Fiktor Vin, whose name dances more like a Coq Au Vin, I don't even know anymore. Notes from the future would suggest that: "But it does not seem that our victory pleased the hockey world. It seems that most hockey powers would be happy to congratulate some other team instead, and since things didn’t work out the way they wanted, they saved their warm words for some other time".'

'Demanding respect when the state representatives would come to make accusatory comments against others without substantial evidence,' Joon-Gweon added. 'How classless. One that I wish I could agree, but cannot, because respect is to be earned both ways. As we have said for years with our rivals, respect comes in both ways. Like the Ko-orenites on cricket, Sylestonians on handball, Banijans on basketball and Mytanars on volleyball.'

'Okay, back to the actual topic please.' said Dr. Heo. 'So we have some serious fallouts from Foxchester that's causing cracks all over the Quebecois soil, ones that may or may not have caused the...higher above...to send that Sea Monster and have it come at all of us, and Hannah. Correct?'

'Correct,' was all that she said, as Isabel gave the map a light touch. With a single touch, each and every stroke of the map would glow into silver. 'Let me manoeuvre this quickly.' She then quickly gave a hand gesture to swipe over the map, which unlocked all the endpoints and sites from their symbols to a set of smaller, holographic sites with specific incidents occurring in those places:

[Celestial Dancers of Karegnondi Lodge]

OOC: Now, as promised, the long-overdue RP piece for Mt. Karegnodi before I move elsewhere. As it turns out...not a bad tool.

Dr. Heo and the Portal of Madness

PART 21 - Every Other Freckle

Mount Karegnodi

Mount Karegnodi is a weird, ancient mountain. At the height of it there's a lodge, one that's rarely used by the spirits of the Shingoryeoite 'Other-World', but there were occasional residents whose age and presence had gone far behind that of the original Shin-goryeo Fleet of 1404, and held reaches further and greater than that of even The Creator who had lived on the other side of the so-called Fourth Wall.

Words were that there used to be a troupe of celestial dancers who used to inhabit here. The dancers, dressed in the finest of silk and gold, were often said to be among the finest dancers, and their wings, filled with needles at the end of it, were more than enough to feed upon those who would fall in love with one of them. Of course, over a century had passed since the dancer troupe had last been seen, with most choosing to depart to the other worlds well beyond northern Calania, or to live with the humans who had long revered and feared them.

Nowadays, there were about a half-dozen who were there to enjoy a vacation from the usual caretaker duties of their respective local duties, and also to discuss the Quebec and Shingoryeo national baseball team's second straight appearance at the W.B.C. quarterfinals. While the WBC had already happened four to six months prior, with the Grim Reapers' heroic stories in Drawkland well documented, many were happy to recount the memories of their respective travels, ones that they had made in disguise as humans into the extra-terrestrial region of Sonnel.

The list wasn't particularly ordinary, for no living deity had an interest in visiting Mount Karegnodi. The 2000m mountain, which had located close to the southwestern tip of Mahan province in the City of Huronia, and facing against the South Detroit Free State, was designated to be a zone for that of the average spirits, the area they could enjoy on their own. And as with the nation where sporting legacies would be chronicled in lineages and memories by The Creator, the sportsfolk were reserved a ticket.

This had meant there would exist situations like that of the spirit of Sir. Kim Ji-Choon. Kim, the former Grim Reapers and Montreal Koreana manager, and Casey Sertbas, the five-time Quebec Series-winning manager with Montevicio Dodgers, would be able to enjoy their time on the balcony of their penthouse. Formerly the enemies on their past lives, the afterlife would come to see the two, symbols of their respective eras, come to make up for their differences, and end up lovers to complete a lover's knot conflict of the Quebecois sporting animosities between baseball and football lovers.

The lodge would also see occasional visits from that of political dignitaries, such as that of Inteachan-born Prime Minister Ali Ruaidhri Khan, and of course, civilians whose abilities as storytellers were rewarded by a rare ticket to enjoy an onsen or two in the space. Having let go of their past-life worries and grudges, the space would see the mending of real-life animosity that would fuel the self-functioning thermal power station at the bottom of the Mountain, and new-life relations developed. Some would call this the re-development of the 'Old Boys Club', sure but one could also argue that the Lodge was also a form of therapy for the dead souls.

Anyways the proceedings appeared to go as smoothly as one would expect. Video sessions were held, musical performances made, poker tables active, and invisible monis exchanged. For all that's concerned another weekend of discussing the Quebecois journey to the quarterfinals finish at the WBC-55 seemed to be going as perfectly as possible. And then, all of sudden, something had happened - it was late in the night - when the thermal generator had exploded at the bottom of the mountain, with the Lodge being blocked off from the bottom of the mountain, and into the humanly realms.

They were blocked off.

-----

Birdlands Highway

Now the scene's moved directly south, to the Birdlands Highway that crosses between inner northlands of Quebec and Shingoryeo to Lacfroid via crossing the Fleuve-Saint-Henri just north of Songak, before going along the southern riverbanks to Panmoon. Once the truckers reach Panmoon, the border town with a significant presence of the army base nearby, they would be given a quick customs check before being let into a tiny, twenty-kilometre strip of land that separates them and Lacfroid, a small, inland neighbour of theirs centred by the might of the 'frozen-lake' and its creator, the fittingly-named Riviere-Froide.

It was still early in the morning, at around five in the morning, when a container truck would come to have a rest stop halfway into the highway. For most part the Highway was quiet, with relatively little vehicle presence outside of fellow containers or a couple of vehicles involving commuters between the two cities. The border situations between the two countries, for the most part, have been stable anyway, with both nations having long-established agreements and enjoying regular travels. But there were no significant migration of people between the two nations, and thus the roads were mostly left for transportation of goods and occasional commuters.

It was then that Jean-Joseph Blount, a trucker who routinely travelled between Sangju, regional centre of Saguenay province known for its fresh produces of apples and many other agricultural products, and Lacfroidois cities, would come to notice the oddities just outside of the highway fence.

It was a particularly foggy, quiet Monday morning. It was around the equidistant point of the grey zone, with both Quebecois and Lacfroidois checkpoints ten kilometres away. The visibility was limited, especially with how heavy clouds were on the May morning, and there was exactly one rest stop in between. Radio stations from both nations were still working fine, but sometimes the drivers would have to be careful, for the unusual conditions may interfere on communications front every once ina few years.

'Good................morning everybody, this is Brent-A., this is not a test, this is Rock n'Roll-'

Then all of sudden the radio contact was lost, something that had come with particular surprise for JJ. That had caught particular attention for the 41-year-old, as he would look to the left and then to the right. 'Uh, okay,' said he as he tried to resume his radio connection, but to little success.

It was then that a shrieking cry would be heard from his left, out of nowhere. It would then be followed by a row of small lights flashing and exploding, at that moment which he turned to the left. He would only see the quiet, chrochet-like wave of lights, however, as they would develop like an ocean wave before exploding like kittens.

Jean-Joseph, finding it mesmerising, decided to hurry to move his truck faster and faster with hopes he could capture them while he's on his truck. So he rushed his truck to driver faster and faster, and about five minutes later, would come to make a stop at the service station on the highway.

The problem, however, was that it was not permanent. Once he had come to stop there and got off the truck, he could see nothing but the familiar woods of darkness, without light or noise.

Baffled and in loss, Jean-Joseph would immediately realise that he had tempted himself too much to look for something far beyond his right or authority, and returned to his truck.

---

Back in the safehouse...

The crack appears to be worse than indicated, thought Isabel, while Dr. Heo and Joon-Gweon would observe from some distance away. The scenes were a bit too small for her to notice the details, but from the initial impression, it was evident that something was wrong. From the sea monster and the Lounge's flooding, to the arson committed to the Rink of Dream and the rumours of darker, grimmer forces all the way out in the Pronghorn Island over the Blood Sea, everything was happening around them.

And while she didn't have the courage or crosscheck to confirm those suspicions just yet, all of the signs would suggest to the weakness of the barriers between the Spiritual and the Mortal realms over the Quebecois soil. While Isabel knew how to travel through the nearby alternative dimensions and alter minor human decisions in a matter of butterfly effect, something like this would require a different sort of magical practitioner.

Hannah, of course, was one of them, and others could also be procured. But Joon-Gweon, whose ability to rationalise matters with relative ease, was a rare kind. The potency of his magic was evident and perhaps it was inevitable he was going to have to use it.'

'Alright, let's have a look at this,' Isabel said, gesturing to Joon-Gweon and Dr. Heo that they should check what is going on. 'Actually, Jang. You are good. You should check up on Hannah rather - I will probably need Dr. Heo's thoughts on this. She's in the guest bedroom.'

---

Rink of Dreams

While Isabel and Joon-Gweon were busy talking, there was an additional scene that she would come to miss. Unsurprisingly, it's the most important one - one located with the yellow X in the middle of it.

Now it was Alexandre Browne-Hahm's cottage in the Rink of Dreams complex out in the north. With this being mid-may, and the previously-mentioned Prospero Lounge flooded, he decided to move remaining items of his belongings there and plan out his next move. The words on the town were that his colleague and the Hockey Quebec President, Adolphe Grasset, had usurped his spot to make a bid for the World Cup of Hockey Federation presidency while he was out doing other duties, so combined with all the catastrophic happenings at the Lounge and the humanly-spiritual borders, he knew he wanted to take a break from it.

So for now, he settled comfortably into his cottage. The living room was filled with all the memorabilia from his playing days, and the copies of honours and photographs he had taken as a hall-of-game goaltender. To keep the room look more like that of the average, plain-sounding Kingstonian lad as he once was a half-century ago, all the items and furniture were removed of all working magic. Some extra-life guests, if he would even have them here, would not be happy, but he could not care enough about that.

At least I'll be at peace here, thought Alexandre, thinking a bit simplistic over it if not foolish. Besides, if The Narrator's in need of approaching me, he could always ring the ding-dong and call it.

'Oh really?' the invisible voice of The Creator said to his ears. 'Listen, dear child of mine. Do not underestimate me, The Creator, for that may cost you not only this cottage, but also make you liable for possible damage to this world after it's all done.'

It was at that moment that he saw the still forms of The Narrator, who was more than alive but contained in the mummified form. Alexandre stood back in horror, as he struggled to contain the horrors of watching The Narrator in a mummified form. 'What was that?' Alexandre said to the thin air, hoping that The Creator would notice.

'Well, you see,' said The Creator, his voice speaking to them in the absentee form. 'I was not kidding when I said that none of you should underestimate me. The Rink of Dreams, for all the successes attributed to the Federation and your part for negotiating with the Spirits, are my own creations after all.'

It was at that moment Alexandre tried to escape by exiting to the balcony, only to see that the door was locked. Not only that, everything outside of the cottage was falling apart, as the 40,000-seat rink, which contained massive stands that held fans from all across the Multiverse for the 44th World Cup of Hockey, was burning down. And while the flames were yet to hit the surrounding village of holiday houses, which were designed to hold tens of thousands of people who would stay, Alexandre would quickly notice that the destruction of the rink, with the boulders and the columns crashing to break and the seats to be melted, was serving its intended purpose.

That The Creator, if he wished to, could easily build and break his creations. And that his inventions, that being the dead and the living, would have to find the solution to whatever that have been causing the paranormal activities.

Alexandre turned around and away from the sights of the burning, to ask The Creator's voice. 'So what's the next?'

'Summon the Loungers and the young boy. And the two St. Croix professors who have been tracking all of this.' said the voice.

'But how would I know?' he asked.

'Just watch,' said the voice, before revealing his face.

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

Dr. Heo and the Portal of Madness

PART 22 - Oceansize - Livewire

On the last day that had passed since the Battle in Perce Harbour, Hannah Moran was asleep.

Her eyes were frozen upon seeing the gaze of the Sea Monster, whose eyes held little to no interest in her anyway and filled with tears from the regrets and the what-ifs of her teenage days that had drizzled out of her eyes during that full day's sleep. Her breaths were light and movements constrained, with the nineteen-year-old's frame confined to the comforts of the guest room bed at Isabel Jurado's flat in Quartier Calanien, Joongyeong.

Her mind was still awake and aware, however, and the longer her eyes stayed closed, the less aware she was becoming of the current situation. As with the famous saying in Wight that when something that's supposed to be significant and life-ending is about to happen...time stops becoming time, Hannah knew that she was in the middle of an important situation that she, unfortunately, was unable to find her way back into consciousness.

So the monster's defeated, but there is more to come. Is there a barrier eroding between the worlds we live in, and we are on run, thought Hannah, as she thought about it on the evening. Her eyes were still closed, almost as if a bandage had been put on them, and the sensations felt in her fingertips perhaps too sharp to contrast with the numbness of her own vision. Like that, her minutes would turn into hours, and eventually, a full day would come to pass, even though it's likelier that Hannah felt it more like twenty-four years than twenty-four hours.

Lying on physical comfort, but constant mental disturbance, he felt somewhat helpless and hopeless. Knowing that the streets of the Quartier Calanien, those that she had come to the capitol's bright lights in search of the 'Midnight in Joongyeong', were just outside the flat, she knew she wanted to get out. But she also knew that she couldn't, for the circumstances involving her and the company would require her to keep quiet and any attempt in voluntary disclosure had meant death for those part of the ancient, Koreano-indigenous magical community in Quebec and Shingoryeo. So she was stuck in a bizarre, non-awakening state of body, without sight but with all the senses. For someone whose abilities had quietly saved many lives, and whose abilities had also brought curiosities in her life that would allow her to venture further into the mountains, deeper into the water and higher over the sky, Hannah felt powerless over it.

At that moment Hannah missed her siblings and parents, who were either out in Songak or at their ranch in Jolbo (shortened term for Jolbonopolis) as the country musicians of commonfolk, rural heritage would. There was a lot of bond that her and her three siblings - two younger sisters and a six-year-old brother - had built over time, and during her time as a student in St. Croix, and also as an early-stage apprentice under her professor, Isabel Jurado, a lot of seemed to be drifting away.

Am I making a mistake? thought she, as the noon would turn into an afternoon. Sirens were heard outside as a car crash was followed by that of the ambulances and the news vehicles, with all the sounds of witnesses muttering nearby. She could hear all the sounds of the people, some maybe her age and even of acquaintance, chatting, and visualise the sound of music into a tool.

It would be that ability to visualise and materialise music that would allow her to escape the bind, as she would sharpen the notes. First putting the crochets of her choice, Hannah would then link that with a lyric of her choice, before putting additional accidentals (sharps, flats, and doubles) to accentuate their sharpness. Then slowly she would sing the notes, which, upon their playing, would leave the grill of the musical sheet, and make their way to her bandaged face. One after another, the musical notes would function on their own, slowly removing the bandage while acting as scissors, robotic hands and gloves to make sure that the procedure would go well.

Eventually, she's freed of it, and was able to open her eyes. The first thing she was the pastel blue colour of the roof, and how bright the room was. Sun still shines over it, even on the gloomiest of the times we may have to face, thought Hannah, as she quickly wiped off the dried tears from her face with her right hand. Then she would slowly look to the left and the right, and was made aware of a single presence sitting on a chair next to the bed, watching her for several hours now.

Joon-Gweon was waiting for her all this time. With his face grim and mouth motionless, due to self-attempts to remain silent by holding back his emotions, it was all but clear that many questions were up in the air.

'You are Hannah right?' A deeper, somewhat familiar sound escaped out of Joon-Gweon's mouth, as the bitterness of each word inadvertently added to the space. 'I know...I shouldn't have..I couldn't have....oh what the hell am I talking about here.' Joon-Gweon couldn't bear to continue, the experience of the earlier battle, and the microdoses of realisations he's had to make, still ringing inside his head.

Then they became quiet, as the two stared at each other through side-eye motion. It was clear that he was anxious, as anxious as she was, over the whole situation, and wasn't exactly feeling comfortable telling her what was inside his mind. And as neither of them had the ability to read one another's mind, and with Hannah feeling somewhat curled up over the whole twenty-four hour recovery from it, neither had the courage to break ice.

So they just looked back at each other over and over again, this time with their eyes softly greeting, as they were unsure on how to pick up where they had left off. This wasn't to suggest that they had not tried inside their minds, as their minds were filled with familiar greetings of Hello's, nice to meet you's, and how are you finding this lovely afternoon's. But none of those could have explained the special sense of connection that had sparked between the two yesterday, in front of the legendary Leon Pyeon painting My Old Hometown.

Eventually it was Hannah who broke the ice after a couple of failed deliberations. 'I heard that you are also heading to St. Croix,' Hannah said, remembering from earlier than Isabel was supposed to visit a prospective student based in East Coast. She, knowing the difficult nature of accepting students with extraordinary backgrounds and willigness to deal with someone as high-character as her professor, had assumed Joon-Gweon's one of said candidates. 'What college?'

'Balliol, under the Seonggyoongwan University College.' answered Joon-Gweon, without flinching. 'Have yet to make my mind up on what to read, most likely history or PPE. Not that it would matter when I leave the country one day.'

'I see, so you are one of those who wish to escape within escapades offered by the university? Maybe with hopes that your cricket career will find your way out.'

'Not really, I'm waiting to hear back if the Navy ROTC's possible, for that also ensures my way out.' Joon-Gweon accidentally slipped those words out of his mouth, and continued to speak. 'I don't know you, so please pardon me, but what I would think is that it's probably easier for you to set up base here in Joongyeong, where the Clevenger-Moran name would get you places.' He then gave a light stop, perhaps aware that he was going to regret saying too much, but by then it was too late to take them back. 'I do not have that privilege, or the right to be happy here, for I have grown up exiled in Bel-Havre, that of which may affect us even if you feel otherwise.'

She was unamused.

'No, I don't care about that.' Hannah said, her light blonde hair moving on a breeze, as her gaze changed from empathy to that of embarrassment. 'And I won't say I'm happy or feel complacent about staying here...in Joongyeong either. Don't get me wrong, I'm often embarrassed of my hometown, the Jolbo (shortened term for Jolbonopolis) and have come all the way here to study in pursuit of changing the country for the better.' Using little-remaining energy of hers, she made sure to look concerned over Joon-Gweon, who she could figure out at the spot.

Then she asked him: 'What do you think I read?'

'Politics and Environment Studies?' Joon-Gweon asked.

'Yeah, much to the disappointment of the Professor Heo on outside,' she chuckled, to which Joon-Gweon only answered back with a grin. 'He's known mum and dad for years, usually because they all get involved on the PJLQ (author's note: PJLQ is centre-left party known for its strengths among urban middle class and rural agrarian class, as opposed to NPD, left-wing party known for its urban labour class support).' She then added, 'He does know people, including the Prime Minister and the Queen.'

'I see,' Joon-Gweon said, his voice slower than usual. 'Maybe I would be able to file petition to the Queen for a privilege.'

'For what?' Hannah asked.

He once again made that mistake of 'That's something that I..wish...I could tell you more, but not right now.' he drew his mouth back. 'I don't know if the plea's possible, and if one granted to a St. Croix student and cricketeer could do its full effort. but most importantly, I don't want you hurt if the guilt is to be judged on the grounds of association.'

'Alright then,' Hannah said. Few more seconds would pass, as the two would just stare at each other, before breaking the tensions again. 'We've met in dream before right? I know you wanted to ask that when we were in Perce.'

'Yes, we have,' Joon-Gweon answered, his eyes slightly losing focus as they struggle to balance the flickers inside his mind. 'I saw you drown before, both back when you were little and then just a year ago. We were just off the shores of Perce, in one of hundreds of those island and-'

'So we have.' she said. 'Maybe not in the way we would have expected, but you know, we're bound to meet at some point after all those dream-encounters.' Her eyes, too, were losing gaze. She had clearly recalled the times when the observer, who seemed lost, was watching her take on the tasks, sometimes solo, other times with Isabel and/or others.

There was a sense of optimism that she, too, would find out who it was, and that sense permeated as they bumped paths in Perce. 'I want to change the world, and the way we view this world.' she continued to speak. 'From the tiniest of creatures to the most encompassing of ecosystems...I knew I wanted to make a change for the future's finite. That's how I came to St. Croix, where I met Isabel.'

'And what did she say?' he asked.

'She told me that there is no shame in being able to traverse the two worlds - the one of the living and the one past the living.' Hannah explained. 'And that it's a rare gift to be able to access the other world, one that comes with having a magical ability, and that my troubles and experiences could be honed to make the world a better place, especially with the way I was..rationalising the water and watery fluids..and was armed with a toolbox of musical notes.'

'So not a direct supervisor, definitely not with what you are reading, but a mentor. To propel the cause.'

'Yes, someone who would understand me.' Hannah said. 'I don't know you, but if Isabel's bringing you here, there's got to be a reason behind it all. The reason to search for your purpose, perhaps happiness, and against all odds...'

'To mend and rebuild the boundaries between the two worlds, all over Quebec and Shingoryeo, and to serve the people.'

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

Dr. Heo and the Portal of Madness

PART 23 - Tropic Morning News

'So do you stay there, in Perce, when the school's done as well? Or do you go home?' asked Hannah, struggling to figure out if she had remembered much about Joon-Gweon as she tried to break ice again.

'Only during the school year.' Joon-Gweon answered, trying his best not to say too much about Bel-Havre Island. 'My grandpa still lives back on the island, so I stay there for weeks. But usually other things, usually meaning cricket, that keep me busy.'

'Do you like it when it's all cool and nice in the island though?' she asked, the Jolbonopolis girl in her remembering that his native province of Inteachan rarely snowed outside of the centre, where a major aerospace centre of Milson's Point was located, and that the definition of what's cold differed between there and northern Acadie, let alone Jolbonopolis. 'Not having to worry about shovelling snow and all that.'

'Not really, but it does get hard to travel on ferries between Perce and Bel-Havre, or nearby islands.' he answered rather calmly. He's heard of questions like this before, usually due to his background in rural Inteachan. 'Floating ice can be a bit of risk, and sometimes it's hard for ferries to leave and get to the other end on time.'

'I see, so maybe not as fun as it could be.'

'It's still a beautiful place. Inteachan the emerland isle. When you wake up in the morning, you could climb the rolling hills and look the sun rise, the wind breeze for hours and the sheep graze far away. Maybe you will fall asleep and not having to worry about freezing or being bothered..and you get to watch the sun fall.'

'It does sound as beautiful.' She smiled, her green eyes glowing like the colour of the Emerland Isle of Inteachan. She was interested in hearing about it, though deep inside, Joon-Gweon still held doubts on whether he would be able to tell her enough about the small island of his, where positive memories do remain but not enough to keep him from dreaming for bigger places. 'Though leaving home, and growing further and further from it seems harder.'

Everybody there respected Joon-Gweon for his intellect and the way he had batted the cricket ball - something that would have translated to even greater hype if he were born in Saguenay, the mainland province directly to the west where baseball reigned supreme - but like what's been said before, feared that associating themselves with Joon-Gweon, due to his deceased father's background as a far-right terrorist, would affect them to some degree.

In a bigger city this would have been less of an issue, but in small, closed communities like Bel-Havre getting out was the better way. Joon-Gweon's chosen pathway appeared to be via cricket and military, but even then his mind seemed to be in something beyond and farther because of the clouds around him. This was something that Hannah, who was coming from a relatively peaceful, pastoral environment, was trying to understand but with limited success this early into knowing each other.

Now it was Joon-Gweon's turn to ask. 'Do you travel much?' Joon-Gweon asked, trying to lighten up the conversation.

'I try to,' Hannah answered, giving a light smile. 'Having parents who travel for work helps. I don't always go with family, sometimes with friends on the go.'

'Favourite place to go?' He asked again, scratching his left cheek a couple of times.

'Well there's a place in Sala, Al-Tamazgha. Just two hours drive away from Khenikech, there is a fortress city out in the hills where the houses are covered in blue.' She would then point to the window, indicating how big the layers of houses would cover the hills. 'There, you would be able to climb the hills on the blue stairways, with the surrounding houses and their roofs blue and whatnot, while the lights and the flowerpots outside of it are all in bright, pastel colours.' She then drew he fingers back, before curling them in front of hers. 'Can you imagine?' she asked.

'You know, I always dreamed of going somewhere far, far away where I would not have to worry about life here,' said he, feeling slightly solemn and subdued, perhaps unintentionally so. 'And it's a desire that I know it could be a bit frightening, especially because of the uncertainties, and one I don't know if I could do.'

'But you still aren't giving it up, right?' she asked, the pollens of cheeriness coming out of her smile once again.

'Well if we've only got this life, and this adventure you'll get me through...' his voice trailed off, as she grabbed his hand left.

'We could,' she said, before reminding him that there's a whole world out waiting for them to save the world from dimensionally falling apart at the seams. 'But the present is now, and we have a world to save first.'

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

Dr. Heo and the Portal of Madness

PART 24 - Control

It had been a full day since Dr. Heo, his friend Isabel Jurado, and a pair of teenagers had managed to arrive at Isabel's Quartier Calanien flat in Joongyeong. While their return to it was a fairly straightforward procedure, the hours of waiting while on a semi-confinement state in this flat was leaving Dr. Heo tired.

I need to get out there... thought he, as he was deliberating on the hallway that led to the door to the third floor hallway of the flat building.

Dr. Heo was someone who never shied away from meeting people and being out on the public. His energetic self, one that had made him a well-known name first as a national team fencer (sabre) and then professor of history and comparative literature, reflected well into his professions and he always liked being out there for his children and extended family members.

And yet so much had passed since the past sixteen years since the passing of his wife Maureen, someone who had giveth and taketh arguably everything on his post-undergraduate life. There once was a time when he, in an effort to busy himself in a mountain of work, would actively involve himself in ensuring that his son Myeong-Shin and daughter Myeong-Yoon would receive the best opportunities possible. And both children did respond well, answering his parents' sacrifice in their pursuit for greatness on baseball mounds and basketball courts. Now, with his children all in their thirties, preparing themselves for the next phases of their life beyond the spotlights, the hayloft of what he had strived for in life beyond the reaches of academia started to empty itself out.

Maybe, at the sixth decade of my life, I need to get out there and actually seek for my own happiness, thought he, as he looked at the door that stood between him and the hallway that would lead him to the staircase back to the street. He was thinking about running away from all this, not because he disliked magic or anything of those kinds, but because he was afraid. For all the trust he held in his faith of the Gwangmoo Order of Shingoryeoite Mahayana Buddhism (which held its own Taoistic elements), and all the appreciation he had held for those around him with said abilities, from Christine II (a former pupil of his) to her colleague Isabel, all of this had left him wonder about the what-if's and if he could bring back the missing element of happiness to it.

At the moment, he felt as helpless as he could be, and he wanted to at least take time away from it.

But that's not things were going to turn out to be, as the closer he had gotten up to the door the denser his footsteps were heard. Then, just as he turned around he was confronted with Isabel, who stood in front of him with crossed arms and facial expression that suggested her disappointment. He held back, stopped, and then opened his mouth.

'It's easier said than done, isn't it?' Isabel's icy voice brought Dr. Heo back to the seriousness of the situation, as Dr. Heo firmly blinked his eyes for a few second, before opening his eyes again.

'The usual art of confinement and to escape the temptation,' answered Dr. Heo, trying his best to ease the situation.

She gave a light smirk, apparently unconvinced at Dr. Heo's attempt in lying to her. 'I am not to be fooled, Dong-Soo my friend.' she said, before asking another question. 'I see that the children are not coming out of that room anytime soon.'

'Let them be,' Dr. Heo said, preferring not to think too much about what was going on in the guest room. Of course, he knew that Hannah and Joon-Gweon, having met each other for the first time, were just getting to know one another. But to what extent, and what possibilities he did not know, and thus the very first response he had was from a Tang-era poem by Bai Juyi:

'七月七日長生殿 (칠월칠일장생전)
夜半無人私語時 (야반무인사어시)
在天願作比翼鳥 (재천원작비익조)
在地願爲連理枝 (재지원위연리지)
天長地久有時盡 (천장지구유시진)
此恨綿綿無絶期 (차한선선무절기).'

That specific poem caught Isabel's attention, as she assessed the way Dr. Heo had spoken of them. While Isabel was by no means familiar to the Chinese alphabet, and held relatively limited command to read Shingoryeoite Korean by decoding the Hanja, she could easily notice in the way the words, without Dr. Heo's notice, were adding the fruit and peach pollens, peaches in particular, into the air.

Playing magic with his own tongue, without knowing it... Isabel thought. 'So you saw something in their eyes.'

'I would not know,' Dr. Heo shrugged, his circular glasses reflecting the light. 'A lot of it is news to me. Besides, would I want Hannah, a daughter of my good friends, to risk against all odds?'

Isabel gave a sigh. 'You, my friend, are seeing and creating things without noticing at all. But what you speak of isn't a lie, even if you think you are saying them because you remembered that poem out of memory and felt it convenient for spontaneity. That's the power of words you hold, and you should be made aware of that.'

Dr. Heo looked back at her. This time, he came to realise that his friend was giving a piece of advice, one that of a possible hope's way. 'Then let me out, and help me meet The Creator.'

'I like that idea, only except that there's just one problem,' said she. 'This flat may be my home, but it also works as a safehouse, in part because I have installed the safety features and whatnot to make sure that the barriers between the worlds would be further bolstered. Those measures were made because of the nature of this work, both in research and execution, and so you leaving into the streets, without a plan, would not be the best idea to do so.'

Dr. Heo smiled once again, this time coming up with an idea. 'If I'm the only one who cannot travel and alter dimension or a matter by direct force...then there's got to be a way for a mortal like me to do it, isn't it?' he said. 'I strongly doubt it's impossible for those without said abilities to do so, especially if there is something similar to a Portkey.'

'Well in that case...'

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

OOC: I would like to thank Schottia, who is currently inactive from NSS due to RL circumstances, for giving me his permission to generate the object of concern. This object was something that was discussed during our last discussions back in October, and I take responsibility for any fundamental changes that are necessary and asked of it for future narrative purposes.

Dr. Heo and the Portal of Madness

PART 25 - Ghost Of You

When Dr. Heo entered Isabel's study with a metre-long torch - a meticulous, rococo-era emerald torch whose pieces were bound together by delicately-carved golden coating, he felt an additional weight of time coming to it.

While he had held devices heavier and sharper than the torch before, having fenced sabre where the objective was to slash the opponent to score points (well there's also a priority system used for foil and sabre but whatever), he knew that the torch itself had the weight that he, being a mortal, that terrified him. With his suit jacket no longer clean with dust particles in the house, and the previous day's rainfall still leaving his mind drenched, Dr. Heo not only felt more subdued in his movements, but rather unworthy of holding this instrument that may enable him to some degree, even if its use as the transportation device was nowhere near cool.

The torch that allows me to at least have a taste of what others have had for years, if not since birth, thought Dr. Heo, as he carefully touched the column of 'The Schottic Torch'. The column, while not exactly as bright or polished as it had once been about a century ago when it arrived from Quebec under a mostly-forgotten celebratory occasion, still held the elegance and the grace expected of it.

For those from those islets, the ability to be the argonauts scatter them away from their pastoral homeland. But everybody knows that no matter where those pieces are scattered across the Multiverse, the torch continues to burn, signalling where their heartland those humble peoples, whether Tyran, Atlantian Oceania or Rushmore, can find their way back.

At that very moment, he started to feel a sense of inevitability to it all. Returning to Joongyeong at that time, just fifteen years ago in the year 2054 was under an entirely different status and expectations was not an easy task. Entering the grounds of his alma mater, where he had finished his doctorate on the 'Comparative, Modernist Study of Petrogradian and Quebecois Urban Historians in 1880-1920 Petrograd and Joongyeong', this time on the professorship of his deceased supervisor, Dr. Kim Sang-Doh (see: Season 3). Getting to teach some of the finest students and challenging them to near-impossible tasks. Developing strong relationships with those now reaching the end of their thirties and fully developing professionally on their pathway. Of course, being directly present for the education of Christine the Second, whose peacetime reign was now into her thirteenth year.

Of course, it was his very first cohort that had started it all, as his Cultural and Intellectual History of Modern Commonwealth module would come to bring together the unexpected.

Among them, two students had particular influences - that of the Queen and the Writer - and he was proud of them. Asher Lundrigan, 'The Writer' of 'In Search of Lost Past' fame, was always difficult. Not only was he someone he knew too well - they even formed three-year, championship-winning battery together under legendary Erskine Collegiate teams with his son - he was a difficult individual because of the paths he had chosen following the breakup with his eventual-wife, Eileen de Ramaut. He knew about his tragically deliberate course of degeneracy as a Ridler Club lad, and this kept those around him, including his professors for Isabel was his direct Tripos supervisor and Dr. Heo a close family friend, worried for a long time.

On the other hand Queen Christine, the daughter of an old adversary (late Jacques IX, though those closest to him would use James Ginzbourg in a reference to his mother, the Queen Nathalie) in his fencing days, stayed away from said troubles. She was busy enough preparing for the life of duty that had awaited her anyway. But his other major student kept Dr. Heo no less busy either, as she possessed those abilities themselves that at times caused trouble for those around him - including that of her close friend, who made a mistake of entering her friend's room at wrong time. Dr. Heo was made aware of them early into his return into Joongyeong, thanks to his experiences with Isabel his colleague and Christine her student, but not exactly asked either (mostly Christine, who was helpful enough on those grounds) until the recent years or so, was the magical ability held by a select few dozen Quebecois people.

The abilities, both a blessing and a curse, were no doubt potent, and unexpectedly encountering them would subject an individual to difficulties for years to come. There's also something with it that involved going above and beyond the normal way of thinking as well - those that would involve 'connecting the brains with so-called other users'.

He, of course, did not have to know what had entailed, but it's never too late to learn about unexpected truths either.

Alright, Dr. Heo cleared his throat. Then he would close his eyes, once again hoping that his words actually held potency strong enough to move them forward.

May this take me to see the Creator, who may provide me with answers, and allow me to face his own wrath that seeks to tear apart this country at very seams of Calanaia and the Blood Sea. If my words, those that are supposedly binding in power, holds much, then let me face him and ask questions that will allow the phase of stabilisation. And if he does not wish to, then let the battle carry itself out.

[Isles of the Dead]

OOC: Special thanks to Banija for allowing me to place a cameo.

Dr. Heo and the Portal of Madness

PART 26 - The Beach

'Beauty is harsh.'

Dr. Heo enjoyed using this phrase. First remembering it from a guest lecturer from about seven seas and five continents away - for some reason the stranger never used the term 'regions' or 'AREIA', a term he preferred to use for Atlantian Oceania, Rushmore, Esportiva, the Independents and Anaia (Foxchester Accord, after all, did not happen until Dr. Heo was in his fifties and already with grandchildren) - when the lecturer who started the lecture with his love of wearing suits, eating fried chicken, and not waking up until noon.

While the lecture would end up being about the ethics of the historian, whose public sensibilities should not be trumped in an attempt to self-regulate under a Mastodon-esque forum, this very starting line of the actual lecture caught onto Dr. Heo's mind, as the lecturer would describe about the debates over the centuries of a historian's public duties and how those, over time, had increasingly drifted from that of an active, publicly-minded individual to that of a Japonesque (a specific term, but not a pejorative, used IRL to describe a rather introverted individual with relatively little involvement in public settings), an introverted individual attempting to confine themselves in a Mastodon-era environment.

So for those who think about the future, said the lecturer to a group of about half-dozen undergraduate present at a Monday evening talk. Do not limit yourselves to the homely confines. It is true that being a postgraduate will eventually challenge you. For some it's going to allow you to pursue more outward forays on public settings, as the student unions and other public organisations have (often but not always) done so, while for others you might find greater happiness in the archival settings.

But what matters is that you remember that you will always hold onto the last-remaining chord from those around you.

Dr. Heo found himself dropping into the beach - his chronically-injured right ankle hurting a bit, and it took a couple of hurried, poorly-landed steps to the front to avoid tripping and falling into the beach full of pebbles. Upon landing his hand let go of the Schottic Torch, as it sailed about fifty metres away from him.

'Well, that's not the way I had expected to land,' Dr. Heo said, as he opened his mouth. He slowed down, got back to standing properly, and then moved to pick up the torch.

Dr. Heo immediately figured he had left the Quebecois soil; it was clear he had travelled well over a thousand kilometres, for the waters of this part of Blood Sea were generally considered to be most difficult to be charted and travelled in all of the SAREIMA (SAREIMA is used in this case to exercise a more broad net and capacity) regions. Instead of seeing the bluest of the waters, one could find all the way into the northern end of Nunavut, where occasional icebergs would flow into the water, the waters here lacked consistency. Cloaked and shrouded by the grey cloaks of the clouds, the waters themselves either looked tropically turquoise with suspiciously-placed coral reefs - what in the world do we see such cold waters see coral reefs? - or dark and murky, making it almost impossible to see the water underneath.

It was then that Dr. Heo found himself in the middle of the Blood Sea - neither Atlantian Oceania, Anaia or Rushmore - unpopulated by the human hands. It was still late afternoon there, though the clouds above and low patches of visibility below would fool an average viewer to think that it leaned close to the night. Finding himself staring into the abyss of the Blood Sea, he decided to turn around and look at the rest of this island.

For a very long time, he wandered directionless. His gaze was loosened and relieved as he walked across the green meadows and rolling hills of this island, he would go on walking past the ruined huts, cottages still being built for some rich man's good, and more importantly the steel columns of a stadium that stood out like dozens of torches leading into nothingness. Here and there, as Dr. Heo wandered around those unfinished construction sites, Dr. Heo began to hear some sounds of sea monsters, which suggested that of grief and pain rather than actual fury. They suggested that what people would often suspect as a part of modern life, that's to build and start anew into the unknown property and then introduce the undesirable elements violating the peace, had its downsides to which nature and their spirits did not take kindly.

Eventually Dr. Heo moved away from the construction sites, and starting heading back to the shore. As he moved further and further, the further his footsteps echoed, and the softer his feet felt. Almost as I'm moving on cotton clouds, even though the dirt and the grass suggested otherwise. thought he. Almost as if the island is reading my mind and feet, and how bare of state I am in.

He continued to move, and would eventually find his way to another beach. In front of the beach stood a circular table, where two men, dressed rather oddly, were sitting on a chair. They were chatting to each other, and their gestures of excitement, even if he couldn't exactly see their physical features beyond contours suggested that it was of something very important. Perhaps important enough to suggest that the multiversal history's paint-strokes, at least for the subjects of these 'otherworldly individuals', were being painted on each and every passing moment as they were talking.

Dr. Heo drew nearer and nearer until he was near enough to see them.

The first man was a five-foot-ten lad in his mid-twenties whose hair was cut a bit too short two weeks ago, with dark eyes and staying relatively beard-free due to his constant problems with itch growing a beard would generate for him every other day. He, whose head was that of owlephant, had a torso of a Paddington Bear and wore Jeans as he would do so on every day of the past year he had been outside, including the summer. As with Dr. Heo he had a problem with his right ankle, which had required him to wear an extra pair of socks for his writing trip to the beach with his friend today, and also rarely changed his running shoes, something that had contrasted well with Dr. Heo's worn-down, but still acceptable suits. Still, he, who called himself the Paddington Bear, looked every bit ready to see his own creation and tell him what's about to happen and what Dr. Heo would have to do.

Next to him was the other occupant of the Blood Sea's domain, the Wolverine. Possessing a lion's head, he was wearing his 2023 Michigan Wolverines CFP champions tee-shirt. In this day and age he's either a writer or an accountant, someone whose travels would involve going into dubious locations and maneuvreing the ever-murky financial statements of Taxhavn-esque companies - Taxhavn-esque being used to differentiate from the Taxhavnian companies, which would imply the poor Wolverine being trapped into the computer world - and a semi-regular traveller of American cities, but we don't remember him for that.

More importantly, however, was the Wolverine's third occupation - that of a judge. He wasn't the only one, to be clear, dear reader, and nor was this his first assignment as the judge. While originally not a member of the narrative committee, he has been, for several years now, a part of the self-advisory panel of second-life professionals who would assist one another's narrative arcs and seek to connect each other's world. The work, while usually free from the indictments of individuals and their nations, had its own perks and have brought people together in the most unexpected occasions. The reward alone, while a bit bizarre beyond interpretation for those not familiar to it, was worth it.

And this time, he was asked to attend the hearing of Dr. Heo Dong-Soo, at the request of his friend.

'Brah,' was all that the Wolverine said as they looked at he claimant.

[Isles of the Dead]

OOC: I would like to thank Banija for his generous permissions with this and the previous piece.

Part 25 was already submitted and graded for the World Baseball Classic, but due to its contextual significance, is attached with the spoiler. For the cohosts, it would be the Part 26 that is being submitted for the RP grading purpose.

ICly the setting of this Season and the subsequent Season 10 will be taking place over the May of 2056, just a month before the World Cup 91. To avoid doxxing both myself and Banija, Paddington Bear and The Wolverine were used in place of both our names, and his recommendations were taken into account when writing this piece.

That said, it is advised that the readers DO NOT MAKE ASSUMPTIONS that any IC action implied here had led to anything of particular consequence, including that of the events from a couple of posts above mine.

Many thanks. - Q&S -

Also see here.

Dr. Heo and the Portal of Madness

PART 27 - Paddy’s Lamentation

'The Creator?'

'Professor Heo, it is my absolute pleasure to have you on the Pronghorn Island.' smiled 'The Creator', who had a lot deeper, murkier sound to his voice than what the St. Croix professor had expected. 'It is not often we receive the special visit from the distinguished professor of history and comparative literature, whose dedication to his craft and those dearest to him is outstanding. You could not have come at any better timing.'

'Indeed, sir.' Dr. Heo smiled back, hiding back a slight sense of humiliation that had come with addressing two individuals, whose attires and feathered heads, in honorifics. 'Tenori, mind if I ask?' He would then ask.

'Baritoni, Grazie mille, though I always wished that I were a pure tenor.' The Creator answered, fixing his glass twice - once removing the glass frame from his nose before placing it on a slightly higher, firmer spot. He always had a penchant for keeping his glasses tightly placed on his nose.

'I see,' answered Dr. Heo, as he too fixed it. From his ability to control each note, it was apparent to Dr. Heo that The Creator's had vocal training earlier in life, perhaps in one of those famed state or public schools that his subject had gone through as well. What he did not know, however, was how the baritone's voice would drown, a feature that had limited The Creator from effectively projecting his voice according to how he would hear its projection, and likely influenced his decision to avoid further education in vocal performance.

Was he aware of those backstories? Unlikely, as this was the first time Dr. Heo would meet the Owlephant-headed male in his twenties. Still, he was honoured to see the creator, the man who had supposedly created the world of Quebec and Shingoryeo, and actually be on a face-to-face level with him.

'Well, don't just stand there. You are a distinguished guest to me and my friend, Mr. Wolverine, and we don't have a whole day!' The Creator shouted at him, causing Dr. Heo to feel sudden chills forming. The Wolverine, who was eating a cone of cinnamon ice cream, accidentally dropped the ice cream, which caused him to feel sad for a second until the very cone was refilled with the same, full cup of cinnamon ice cream as his mind had wished so.

'Come have a seat, because I, I meant we, are about to tell you something important, Dr. Heo.' said The Creator, the Millennial beaming with a smile of anticipating his own plot, as Dr. Heo moved his way to sit on the empty chair next to the Wolverine, directly facing The Creator.

The circular coffee table, though without much food of worth, had enough refreshments for the party of three. Each seat had a refilling cup of coffee, all dark and without any contamination of sweetener or milk added to it. At the same time, oranges and apples were generously laid on a bountiful basket. It also held individualised features, with Ice cream cones refilled at the Wolverine's own leisure, The Creator making himself available with a basket of freshly-baked Acadianan fries, and a well-decorated, gold-carved cigar box unopened in front of Dr. Heo's seat.

Dr. Heo, being a relatively simple man when it comes to his routine of simple pleasures, was happy. After going through the ordeals of walking through this semi-deserted island he felt welcomed at this table, almost as if The Creator had manipulated the Schottic Torch to have him join the Pronghorn Island. And for all the dangers the location had posed, and how the fury of the sea monster still rang fresh in his posed, The Creator and his friend The Wolverine seemed like a very nice pair of friends who were just enjoying the vacation.

Still, Dr. Heo was quick to notice an oddity, as a question would emerge over the origins of the fruits. 'Did you bring the fruits from the south? Or the north? Depending on who you ask.' Dr. Heo asked.

'Finest of those coming from the Baja Calania, directly bordering that of Huayramarca.' The Creator answered, as he would peel the skin out of them. Within seconds he would start eating them, and both his open eyes and closed mouth would move wildly at each moment as he would consume each piece of the tangerines. 'You know, it is lot easier to imagine these tangerines, the ones full of natural sugar and all that when you've had no shortage of them when younger.'

He must be talking about his childhood days, thought Dr. Heo, as the Creator would go on to ask his friend, joyful enough to the point where his filters were turned off for the sake of exaggeration and spontaneity. 'Wolverine, my dear friend. What were the cornfields like in Kansas? Were they very much like what we have seen on the movies, the ones we would see on Wizard of Oz and Oklahoma!?'

'Well Oklahoma's not a part of Texas!' corrected The Wolverine, his eye colours changing from that of brown to red. 'Unfortunately, I didn't see any cornfields - Kansas City isn't exactly Topeka! But I do see the cornfields right now, for exactly different reasons.'

'My bad, my bad. You know nobody could remember what's located where, though that may not have said The Creator. 'Do not shy away. Tell us more.'

Dr. Heo turned around to see The Creator, only to see the millennial typing loudly on a small laptop with a black screen, white keyboards and a thousand too many screenshots taken inside it. Most of the time he would spend time conversing as the friendly neighbourhood Dee-Jae of the Discordteque, a Deltean conceptual space that had since expanded to incorporate social settings, like that of a mid-walk voice chat session. And while The Creator was more than aware that he was nowhere near the technician or the early-night-deejay-innovator as Annie Mac, one of his all-time favourites, he had secretly hoped that his attempts to spend time with his like-minded community, which had brought some valuable second-job partnerships and more importantly friendships, were what mattered more.

'What are you writing, mind if I ask?' Dr. Heo asked to The Creator. 'I hear...from a friend...that you were mad over a few things.'

The Creator and The Wolverine stared back at him, before looking at the waters of the Blood Sea. It was getting darker and darker, almost to the point of impossible visibility. 'A couple of things are on agenda, yes,' The Creator said. 'Well, the first item on the agenda's to replace the Grim Reapers' anthem. Since Banija was the last team to defeat the Grim Reapers while Camelia (Haley's Song) was in active use, I have asked him to have to listen to the new song.'

'I'm cool with that. Though this time, man, you know you need to cut with the number of lives who were sacrificed to write this.' answered The Wolverine, raising three fingers to suggest those whose lives were lost in the codification of the song into the Quebecois sporting lore. 'I swear every time you work on something, somebody dies.'

'Well, true, but you were the one who proposed the latest idea,' said The Creator, as he would then pointed at the sky, which would project one of his 32829 laptop screenshots into the cloud-sky-screen:

'Well, you know.' The Creator answered as the twenty-year-olds grinned at each other after, leaving Dr. Heo both dazzled and surprised at the surprising turn of their constant chats. 'It will all be okay.'

Dr. Heo cleared his throat. 'Messieurs, mind if I ask - what is exactly going to happen by any chance?'

The Creator looked back at his subject, somewhat perplexed with his lack of awareness over it all. 'Well, I have written the lyrics for the song you, Dr. Heo.' He said, holding a piece of paper. 'It's originally written in Gaelic, befitting where the original tune, Mo Ghille Mear (My Gallant Hero) comes from my side of the world. I have written this world's chant in Korean before translating it into English for my own sake. Would you like to read it?'

'Absolutely, sir.' he answered, looking around to see any suspicion before a grin by ever-joyful Wolverine convinced him. 'I will.'

'Are you sure about telling him what's going to happen, Paddington?' whispered The Wolverine, him preferring to keep maximum confidentiality to his plans.

'Have faith, my dear friend, for it is the Blood Sea we are talking here.' The Creator answered, with his Paddington Paws scratching the elephant's nose of the Owlephant head. 'It was only seven years ago when Jimmy Costello proposed at this very beach that the lost flotilla of the Montrealais would make their maiden voyage here and over the Grinsham Waters between Quebec and Cosumar. Baptism of Fire 62.

‘And while he was the first guest to visit here under the tribunal, he was never the last. I have brought a Scot and the other Midwesterner here too. The Singaporean’s always welcome too though I’m afraid scheduling meetings are hard nowadays - I heard that he’s embarking on a top-secret mission that involves supersonic travel across the seven seas…'

Then he stopped for a second, before accentuating each word. ‘But most importantly you, my friend, are the fourth judge I have brought from the tribunal. As part of the group I could trust all of my narratives to you all, and I will do the same for them.'

In the meanwhile, Dr. Heo turned into reading the paper piece. In an anticipation of the new Grim Reapers' chant, one that had not come into fruition after a four-year long nationwide campaign, he was looking forward to sing the lyrics to the tune:

THE HYEOLHAE GAZETTE
Quebec and Shingoryeo fighter jet shoots down a gigantic, rectangular object flying over Blood Sea

By Angela Min, Horace Clough, and !+2- Barraclough-Gallant-Kim

JOONGYEONG/EQUINOX HILL, May XX, 2056 (Affiliated gegenPress) - A Quebec and Shingoryeo Avro O-MG fighter shot down an unidentified, rectangular object flying over the international waters in middle of Blood Sea this morning. It is considered to be the third in as many cycles, as three regions of Rushmore, Atlantian Oceania and Anaia were left confused and worried over the increased rate of disappearances and paranormal activities in the past half-decade.

'What the actual fuck...' Dr. Heo slurred his voice, before looking back at his company. 'You are kidding me, right? Are you suggesting that something dubious...something massive...is about to happen? Over the sea?'

'You underestimated him, Paddington,' answered The Wolverine. By this point the screams of sea monsters, those who had kept their distance away from the island, were starting to be heard again as their stomach rang in search of human flesh. 'He's your creation after all. Not the best when it comes to staying focused on his task.'

'You are absolutely right, Wolverine. My bad,' said The Creator as he turned to Dr. Heo once again. Now the sky was getting darker each and every minute, and the waves started to inch closer and closer until they were about a couple of away from him. 'My apologies for not being clear enough on everything. So now, I will be clear for you and your company for once and all. Dr. Heo Dong-Soo. As you are one of my most cherished creations, you are here on a mission I have specifically set aside for you and your company, which my agent - dear Fluffy - was supposed to deliver, but with relatively little success.'

The iciness of The Creator's voice automatically had both Dr. Heo and The Wolverine assume that it wasn't actually his voice, but rather a dubbing recorded some months over the Christmas break (OOC: I did not actually make one) or some time festive enough to be anticlimatic. Full of command and lack of weirder euphemisms, it did not sound like him at all. 'And what task would you wish me, a lad without a slight bit of magic, and the young Jang Joon-Gweon to achieve?' he asked.

'Well...now that the food's eaten and coffee drunk on the table, it is time for you and your young child, Mr. Jang. Joon. Gweon. to start figuring out how to fix the dimensional crack that have emerged over Quebec and Shingoryeo in the past decade.' said The Creator, before going on to ask. 'I believe that you and Dr. Isabel Jurado have already discussed at various points in the last twenty-four hours, I believe not? Or have I wasted my hopes on you and a sixth-form kid?'

[Independent Athletes from Quebec]

Dr. Heo and the Portal of Madness

PART 28 - Death Stranding

It was in the evening that Isabel would come to disrupt Joon-Gweon and Hannah.

'It must be nice to be able to enjoy the world,' she said to the pair, as the Professor would find her student and the young lad looking at the streets outside the world. 'Especially when you can't really feel the world falling apart...just yet?'

'The lights of Joongyeong are truly legendary,' answered Joon-Gweon. Being isolated from the outside eyes, and being able to view from the distance afforded by the magical barriers, he was busy. Not to think about the world ending, but to enjoy the views of the colourful, classical boulevards and pavements of Quartier Calanien's famed bistros and antiques stores on an eight in the evening. Nothing better than to prepare for something worse than that, especially if things were going to go down in a more dramatic manner. 'And you have been living here for twelve years now, Professor?'

'Why, yes.' answered Isabel, as she stopped for a bit before trying to push for the narrative shift. If this were any other, faster-paced storyline she would have seen the finish-line of the matter already, but Isabel, who was generated out of a single piece of hair from her own meta-creator (to separate herself from her creator, once-almighty but long-missing Búa), found herself stuck on the Marshlock Marshes of pacing (Marshlock Marshes are a proper noun, used as an extraordinary risky situation in ancient English somewhere out there -e.d.-).

Right now, the world of The Creator, whose name is now canonically a Paddington Bear, seemed to be suffering a slowdown in pace, with past-life stories and first romances taking priority over matters considered more serious like fixing the regional schisms and Plough Islander school of inflexible, 1G-tech cartography. For the most part, even those who survived the earlier battle seemed to be unworried, with them either lost in their moment of leisure or pleasure.

'But don't forget that you will be expecting visitors any moment, and those are the people neither of you would not exactly expect,' said Isabel, herself slightly uncertain on what kind of fellow magical folk would be coming to this place. They better not destroy my carpet, thought she, though admitting this possibility was not something that was on her alleyway. I mean, when your occupation requires you to travel with such regularity, worst-case scenarios were to be expected at all times.

And that included the carpets getting spoiled.

'I could sense them for sure, especially with their trajectories flying from another safehouse near Tulcan. It's a lodge.' Hannah said, her checking the radar of fellow magical folk activated by the Live (Human) Flight Tracker on her Ewatch. 'There's a bigger trajectory of people escaping though, apparently, the Kargenodi Lodge's managed to break through the outage that locked the denizens out.'

'Don't look at the Lodge, the Lodgers aren't the ones we are looking for,' said Isabel, the sharpness in her eyes coming back again. 'I figure that the Lodgers are either too new to exercise their power on the afterlife or they aren't practitioners. A reminder that a major difference exists between possessing an ability versus actually being able to exercise it,' She then continued to speak. 'But let's go back to those from Tulcan - how many do you see coming all the way here? Is it a scheduled (Human) flight or a charter? Or to be clearer, are they looking for us? I doubt they are going to the Daemyeongoong Palace - apparently, the Queen hates that, according to our friend (Dr. Heo).'

'Well, it's not exactly what I had expected,' said a familiar, deep voice as he opened the door to the room. 'I used the Torch, only to find myself ending up on the Blood Sea, only to see the Creator and his friend, the Wolverine.'

It was Dr. Heo, the professor looking even more..affected than how he was just hours before. While he didn't exactly hold doubt over the existence of a higher being, the experience of ending up on the Pronghorn Island, where he was offered a rather generous sum of coffee, fruits and a golden cigar box before the cynical encounter, was taxing on him.

'How was it?' Isabel asked, her looking at the worn-down state of her colleague.

'Exciting, perhaps too exciting for our age.' He said, quickly grabbing breaths a couple of times. Once confident Dr. Heo was no longer feeling so sure if he had a good idea on how to handle the situation, rather overwhelmed in realising that they, in order to fix the interdimensional cracks all over Quebec and Shingoryeo, would likely have to deal with an effort that's lot bigger and multilateral in nature. 'They seemed nice and whatnot, aside from their bizarre habit of enjoying vacationing over the Hyeolhae (血海) and Wolverine wearing Michigan Wolverines 2023 CFP Champions. Like we all know that isn't going to happen,' Dr. Heo said.

'What are those Michigan Wolverines?' Joon-Gweon asked, slightly confused over this fictional collegiate team. 'Are their fans as bizarre, high on copium, as those in St-Gabriel-Richard (Univ. de St-Gabriel-Richard, based in Erielhonan Free State, have a famous athletic program with nicknames Wolverines -e.d.-). Or are they more like urban cowboys in Pahkatequayang? (Latilutakówa National University, based on a certain RL school my brother is a recent alumnus of, has the nickname Mustangs -e.d.-).'

'Maybe it's an inside joke that we don't know.' Hannah answered.

'Probably.' he nodded. Fortunately, Hannah and Joon-Gweon had an excuse - young lad and lass were yet to be told about the life on the other side of the fence, though they would soon hear about it.

'First, I do not know what in the world are Michigan Wolverines,' Isabel answered, trying to set the turf straight. 'Second, we don't care about gridiron football, at least not in my house. Most importantly, however, you have met the Creator of your world and I assume some another superpower. What did he say?'

'He just said "be prepared, and do not venture into this alone,"' answered Dr. Heo, who was given relatively little instruction on what's about to face them all. 'And that to fix the interdimensional crack, he said it's like governmental work, relatively straightforward but with lots of work volume.'

'Interesting,' Joon-Gweon answered. 'Because that's not how I would expect a government to function.'

'That's not what it matters, I don't think,' Hannah replied. 'So The Creator said that right as every magical folk in the country remains confused, in leisure-filled denial, or heading under a trajectory. Is that correct?'

'I'm afraid so, yes.' replied Dr. Heo. He was now clearly out of depth and wanted to go home, only fifteen minutes metro ride away from this flat.

'Looks like we'll have to get ready for our visitors then.' smiled Isabel. 'It looks like they may be able to bring us to your so-called Creator now.'

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

Dr. Heo and the Portal of Madness

PART 29 - The Locket

For those who have read the earliest episodes of this season, you may remember the Prospero Lounge where a dozen permanent residents of the Shingoryeoite Spiritual World resided within twelve-hundred hundred rooms. You would also remember it for each room's possession of an ever-revolving shelf that functioned and brought access to what's on the resident's mind, as well as a window that would allow the inhabitant of each room to enter their multiverse of choice, though not to the very location it would serve.

Now, after regaining their numbers after chaotic relocation from the Prospero Lounge's Blood Sea location, five of the denizens have finally reached Isabel's safehouse after flyign all the way from their Tulcan safehouse and managed to crash into the living room of all places. Hannah and Joon-Gweon were still in the room, while Dr. Heo and Isabel were present at the time when they all crashed.

'Get in here quick, everybody,' Fabrice Nelson-Ryong whispered. 'Of course, be careful with the house. You never know what kind of things have magic installed to attack the stranger.'

With that line, the remaining three of them entered the living room from a mini, teleportable portal. Of course, they were lucky they had chosen to access it via the living room, where there existed enough sunlight to at least provide them with some light (artificial, sure, but anything's better than nothing here), rather than one of the four rooms this house had. If they had either selected the guest bedroom where Hannah and Joon-Gweon were in, they almost would have been repelled by the teenagers' forces, while entering the master bedroom would have seen them being trapped into another reality or two, where they would be sucked into the golden age of Tamarindia where nobody not of those worlds have made it back since OOC year 2012.

'It's a nice flat, that's for sure,' said Ondrej Cech, the 193cm tall, ageless goalkeeper once of Turoki Tide and Grim Reapers fame, speaking. Notorious for his height, and barbarous facial appearance only to be equalled by a certain Montreal Koreana rightback signing, Cech's awkwardness on word was only made up by his superhuman strength, which he had earned during his time in the Vilitan Cove, and agelessness.

His increasingly green-er appearance, which had made him look more and more like the Hulk in recent months (to be clear, not years but months!), had only made him adorably in balance with his presumed lover, notoriously short and frail transfiguration master in Fabrice Nelson-Ryong. 'Babe, what do you think?' Ondrej asked Fabrice, the long-deceased businessman with notoriously short temper.

'Oh, shut up,' said Fabrice as he gave Ondrej 'The look'. 'Not the right time to do it.'

Behind them, Alexandre Browne-Hahm and Henri VIII would join, though on invisible form, while William Yi, the previous Duke of Bathurst, would hop into the room as the last of the five figures. While the five did not know it, the presence of all nine of the figures ending up on this four-bedroom house was quite rare. Not only did the magical folk prefer to avoid congregate in massive numbers, even in occasions like that of a royal funeral - this protocol was established back in Henri VIII's days, at year 1999 - the risk posed by such high concentration of magical folk and their abilities were way too high not to be noticed. Things like this more often than not caused trouble with the Daemyeonggoong Palace, who had only found stability after three, turmoil-filled decades marked by significant absences just last decade, or the Underworld, who did not exactly embrace said concepts as freely as those remaining on the Humanly world would.

So an occasion like this was still a rare one for all of them concerned, as they looked around a bit more into the old, wooden living room. They could smell a mix of old wood, perfume and pheromone, which gave a couple of the guests some problems up their nostrils. The flat no doubt had a strange, suspicious feeling, one that they had found jarring even by the standard of their previous safehouse.

'The Genius of Taewha Era's here right?' asked Lord Bathurst, him hiding nerves behind his frontal façade. He tried to look over the furniture, then left to the right, but his eyes were failing him as he spoke and his quick feet weren't functioning at all here.

'The radar? Yes,' answered Alexandre. 'He's the one who the Creator wants to see.' Former ice hockey goaltender, who had the honour of being inducted twice to the Quebecois Sporting Hall of Fame as an athlete and coach, was shaken up by his witnessing of the death and mummification of his friend, The Narrator, at the Rink of Dreams. 'We have to bring him back here.'

'Do not fear, children,' Henri VIII said. As the former monarch of the country who had already voyaged once on a race against time in Deltean marshes 60 years ago, afterlife had brought further mobility to him. And while he preferred to stay working inside his private cabin that stood almost at the end of the Garga Marsh, there was no doubt that he was having fun with all of this under a younger company. Even more so with invisibility mode attached to it. 'Just watch.'

Now that all five of them had entered the living room, they stopped for a moment. Henri VIII turned off the lights with a single snap, while Fabrice took the cue and closed the curtains. Now the darkness was established inside the room.

Drat, was all that Lord Bathurst thought as they saw the red laser lights everywhere. Not exactly in their respective area, but surrounding everywhere around them, it's done what's needed to prevent them from moving any bit further. At that moment, they realised that they were being watched. The room was attached with enough security-related magic that had been set up and bound together for much of the day. It was as if Isabel and her teenagers Hannah and Joon-Gweon had set it up to make sure they weren't being tampered by a random creature from the Underworld, an occurrence that would actually happen now and then but was better used here for an excuse.

'First things first,' said Isabel, entering into the living room as she looked at not four, but five of them. 'Let's talk.'

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

Dr. Heo and the Portal of Madness

PART 30 - Meurtre Par Strangulation

'So you are the Genius of Taewha Era,' said Henri VIII, as he looked at Jang Joon-Gweon in middle of the massive kitchen island. The late monarch, who turned off his invisibility mode for his head and arms for the sake of discussions, was intrigued to see Joon-Gweon in his actual shape and form, not because he was so much in awe of his abilities, but rather because he was getting desensitised to the oversubscription of 'XX of [Insert a monarch's reign title] era' template that was getting overdone in this day and age.

Is he a fraud or a real? he thought, as he quietly assessed the appearance of Joon-Gweon. From the surface it appeared to him that Joon-Gweon, who was dressed lightly on a yellow tee-shirt he had gotten changed into over lunch, definitely had something that kept him noticing the young gun. It wasn't exactly the most positive or negative feeling, just that last time he had noticed this level of energy from someone, he was happy enough to call her his granddaughter, the Queen who deserved to be named a Lady High Spiritual that he had once held in his living days.

But he wasn't sure what that was, and the answer he was about to receive didn't help either. 'Yes, sir. Though I admit that I have much more to learn, and to be part of a company as prestigious and as undead as this, would suggest that I am only a child,' Joon-Gweon answered, drawing a couple of eyes rolling one way and fixing the glasses the other way. 'I have to admit that this experience is...humbling. To say the least.'

The denizens of the Prospero Lounge were unimpressed. On most spaces this would have flown fine, including the highest stages of Joongyeong society a man so limited in means and status as his, but here, in the world of ever-hyperactive The Creator, the local rules are slightly different. Even more so when you have a dead king, a pair of immortal, hall-of-fame goalkeepers (or goaltenders, if you wanted to use a more specialise term for Sir Alex), a banker known to collect 'Dead Souls' from the backs of South Covelian blood money off a fifty-year nuclear weapon debt payment plan, and a pair of hyper-morphic, plain-ish St. Croix professors alongside the girl [literally] of his dreams...you would normally try to speak with a bit more confidence.

'Did you about life beyond your tiny island, or your hometown, young lad?' asked Fabrice Nelson-Ryong to Joon-Gweon, before turning to Isabel and Dr. Heo in demanding answers. The recently-deceased, ever so impatient, did not like the reasons behind Joon-Gweon's hesitation after all. 'Is there no instructor in this country who can adequately teach a young magician to not only activate his abilities but to have them live and speak like that? Or am I the only one who mourns about it in this economy?'

'Not the right time, Fabrice,' answered Isabel, deciding to step in. 'We are here to discuss the incoming showdown up north, at the Rink of Dreams I suppose.'

'If it even remains by the end of it,' Ondrej Cech said, the longtime Quebecois international goalkeeper finding the likelihood of facing The Creator increasingly unlikely. 'Apparently, our friend Alexandre met with him while he was...en vacance. Out on his cottage in the complex. Is that true?' he turned around and asked at Alexandre.

'Yes!' shouted back Alexandre in horror. 'Please don't remind me about the Creator and how he looked...' he said, before getting ready to spill the beans any moment. 'It was true that he didn't look so....golden or...extraordinary but...'

'But then what?' Lord Bathurst shot back, the man formerly known as 'William Yi' wanting to hear more. 'There's got to me more than how plain his appearance was.'

'There appeared something calm about him,' answered Alexandre, as he continued to speak. 'Don't get me wrong - nobody could deny that he's a cold-blooded man, especially with the way he killed one of us..he put no remose to it all when he killed his own Narrator and put his mummified remains on my lodge! How fucked up is that? We don't expect that from a benevolent creator, a lord almighty so to put forth.'

'Uh huh,' was what was metted out by Dr. Heo and Isabel, as he continued to speak. Emotional appeal wasn't exactly working out for poor Alexandre, unfortunately. 'But what did he say?' asked Lord Bathurst, taking a bit more lead in the questioning of the recipient of 'the hairdryer'. 'Did he speak little, as we would expect from him, or did he actually speak in bundles like a postgraduate student?'

'Barely. He only said, "Summon the Loungers and the young boy. And the two St. Croix professors who have been tracking all of this'", said Alexandre, as he recounted the very line said by The Creator. 'He didn't seem to want telling us a lot. It's almost as if he's known everything that was happening before his eyes on his domains, and was trying to coordinate us all to here and all.'

'I don't know, that's not the Creator I have met,' Dr. Heo answered. 'He definitely had a lot of things to say, and even brought me and his friend, this lion-headed guy named The Wolverine fruits and coffee.'

'Fruits and coffee?' Fabrice asked. 'How did you end up meeting him? Where was this, and what allowed you to get there?'

'Well it was more complicated than that. I do not have a single ability, at least one I'm fully capable of controlling, so an additional device was needed-'

'What device?'

An intervention was needed. 'Excuse me, but I think we are overthinking through this,' Hannah said, raising her hand into the air and whatnot. 'But wouldn't every creator of their nation, I suppose, be able to know the whatabouts of their creations and how they function? Sure, not everybody's going to receive equal attention but-'

'I suppose you aren't wrong, mademoiselle, but you have to consider that he, or whoever the Creator may be, does not have the room to assess and manoeuvre all his creations and their whatabouts,' said Henri VIII, the part-time potion maker in the Garga Marshes remembering the past instance. 'From what Alexandre's telling us, and what others from the past have written, it would be rather the opposite because the Creators likely have their own domains (OOC: the real-life world we live in), and simply do not have time for us all.

For example, it would be as likely as saying that Iarocav himself would give a fair bit of attention and adoration towards the City-state of Cavsar because he wishes to know every detail of each and every Drawkian and Drawkionel, even though I doubt that he looks Cavsar so much as his own people do.'

'I see,' Hannah answered. 'So he wants us to come together and face him because there's something bigger, like what we've been talking for a while over, that cannot be done alone. Almost as if the sinking of your Lounge and the arrival of the monsters are, once again, on purpose.'

'Mayhaps so,' Dr. Heo said, as the room turned around to look at him holding the Schottic Torch. Little doubt existed he was more than excited to meet with The Creator, especially with how volatile he was over the task. While he was no fool and noticed that there existed a serious risk to further worsen the interdimensional crack that would destroy them, Dr. Heo also remembered that the threat did not look so badly to them, mere creatures of his thoughts and interactions, as it would be on the Creator himself, who held the interests and passions of a coordinator but not necessarily the organisational skills. 'Now excuse me...'

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

OOC: Multiple plot-based gaps exist between here and the next twenty chapters for understandable reasons. Funny how time could fly, it would take me forever to write the IBC-37 RP, and now I have a couple dozen RPs to finish compiling....

Dr. Heo and the Portal of Madness

PART 31 - Blue Monday 1984

Next thing they were on top of a hill, having flown halfway across Quebec and Shingoryeo to reach the northern end of the mainland.

Near the edge of the universe, thought Joon-Gweon, as he saw the sunset starting to peek their way from the horizon's daylight envelope, directing their eyes into plain nothingness of the tundra plains several-hundred metres below them.

Joon-Gweon and his company could see how unnatural the hill was below them, in not only the ways how the steps appeared steep, but also how friendly the row of lights guided them. Such a tight gap between life and death.

'Don't be tricked by how empty the plains look,' warned Sir. Alexandre Browne-Hahm, as the Hall-of-Fame goaltender and coach advised the quartet to look more carefully. 'Keep a closer eye on what's at the bottom of the hill. It only looks like a plain plains because you would like to believe it so.'

It was met by a 'Hear hear' from their colleague, as their ever-grumpy Fabrice Nelson-Ryong blurted it out in front of the line standing next to Ondrej Cech. They would start walking, knowing that The Creator did not exactly want to waste any more time waiting for them.

In the growing dusk Joon-Gweon noticed how the grasses started to glow from yellowish green to that of orange the lower they descended, before eventually starting to sparkle in tiniest of golden particles everywhere. To him they appeared like pollens, almost as if there's a brand of pollen for flowers that could grow on this land that was permanently frozen year-round.

'This isn't anywhere I have seen before,' said Hannah, as she gently touched the grass. 'Sparkles of gold, shining everywhere and more the further we go.'

'Certainly not from the earth we have all lived for so long, isn't it?' answered Dr. Heo, the Professor feeling the glow of his eyes forming out of them. 'Almost as if we are being welcomed to it all. To give us this day, to see the unimaginable beauty before our eyes.'

'Well being welcomed is one way to put it,' answered Henri VIII, using his left hand to wave in discouragement. The late monarch was known for being a kind-hearted man, but the decades of afterlife have come to add a cynical layer into himself as well. 'Can be both a blessing and a curse, don't let those golden pollen stay with you for too long. Lest they will poison your skin as well.'

'Ack,' was all that Hannah said, as Joon-Gweon gave a light smile at the very back of the line. Things like this was where the difference stood between the two groups, for the layer of experience between the living, and those past it (including the akwardly-placed Sir. Alex and Ondrej Cech) showed on the latter's half of the realm. There was a reversal of earlier dynamic, when their confrontation earlier at Isabel's flat saw the Loungers being exposed by the extensive setup of the house magic, as the significant knowledge gap between the earthly quartet and the Prospero Lounge denizens naturally occurred on something small like walking down a hill.

Eventually the dusk gave their way into the deafening silence of the night. The sky extinguished the dusk's golden flames, and soon the night was littered with millions of the tiny specks those stars plated the earth. Now, it was only the nine of them that had radiated enough brilliance to keep the company away from losing grip of the hill.

'Walk slowly, walk slowly,' Joon-Gweon heard Henri VIII shout, with the man in the middle saying it loud enough for the message to get past. For a brief moment he imagined how quick it would be for any of them, since they were walking on a single line, to lose control of their steps, slip and fall to their death in a chain.

Mind over body, he would remind himself in an attempt to ignore the temptation that had crept up inside his mind. It was indeed a surreal feeling, watching his limbs feel tighter and face number as they walked closer to the so-called Rink of Dreams. The sight of the Rink and its surrounding complex was still nowhere, though the way their steps, led by Fabrice and Ondrej, suggested that they were indeed inching close to it all. But now all of this made him wonder about what-if's, as he would continue to look around at dark plains, and then directly to front where Hannah stood directly in front of him. How much time stands between them and the Rink? And how much time would he need to take a deep breath and face the Creator, whose temper might not allow him to be so generous? All that he knew was that there's got to be a specific reason behind all of this, and why the Schottic Torch didn't directly teleport them to the Complex...

Another hour would pass before they would find themselves standing before the magical boundaries of the Rink complex. Now they could see the dozens of wooden houses of three to five floors, the Incandescent lamps being replaced by more efficient, LED street lights, and the mini-squares of full-grown trees that would not have been allowed to live if not for the greenhouse effect afforded by the year-round protection from the guardian spirits of the area.

Upon arrival they stopped and drew an awe, but not without a warning. The quartet, who saw this complex on television and on internet, were amazed at how this former hosting venue of the World Cup of Hockey 44 was transformed, but the Denizens themselves held certain suspicions about the ways the complex had, without a blink, turned into a mini, Potemkin village. From how deserted the village was, and how the same vibrant trees looked dry even in motion, it was more than clear enough.

After about a few minutes feeling the weight and the might of the energy that was drawing them closer, those in the front instead took a couple of steps back, instructing others to do so as well. 'Don't go too close,' instructed Alexandre, the fear from the encounter with the Creator still fresh in his mind. 'Else the walls will suck you to the walls.'

'Okay,' said Joon-Gweon, as slowly drew a step back every ten seconds, his footsteps heavier at each step back he's taken. He did his best to brace for a situation where he would lose control and crash into the walls, but his feet held on, the back of his heel holding much stronger than what he had expected, and Joon-Gweon would eventually find himself a comfortable distance away from it, though slightly dizzy and tired....

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

Dr. Heo and the Portal of Madness

PART 32 - A Youth Written In Fire

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[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

OOC: IRL I do not have a beard nor do I intend to grow one. Please consider that for IC, fourth-wall-breaking purposes. Many thanks to SRS for his permission to use this location, albeit on another dimension of...The Underworld.

Dr. Heo and the Portal of Madness II: Map of the Problematique

PART 2.1 (33) - Daydreaming

NORTHERN NEW SQUORNSHELOUS
WORLD: Underground (지하)

Next thing Joon-Gweon found himself on the beach, listening to nothing but the silence that had surrounded him. Nobody else to disturb, but at the worst timing possible as well, Joon-Gweon thought again, as he kept his eyes closed and answered into the void.
It was apparent that he was alone, with nobody else watching. In a location both so isolated and desolated like the one he was there, this was probably a good sign, though the lack of somebody to ask or call for help certainly wasn't working in his favour either.

Eventually, after seven degrees of hesitation, he would eventually decide that he was still on this earth, his eyes closed by volition rather than by the weapons of death, and that he was ready to wake up again. Since he was lying on the back of cold, stone floors of a plain monastery, he was inside a building, though whether its conditions were homely or not was not up to him either.

Upon that moment, Joon-Gweon would also come to realise that he was wearing a white gown. They weren't the showergowns typically used for showers and saunas, but rather the funeral shroud using 삼베. This is odd, Joon-Gweon noticed, immediately figuring that something was odd with the shroud's fabric. We don't use white shroud here, from what I know. Those must be rare ones, or those not native to here, if anything. This odd choice in clothes had Joon-Gweon wonder where he stood and what awaited him.

So the next thing he did was to open his eyes. Right above he saw a sky full of stars, which shone brightly and like the diamonds in the sky. His surrounding was a roofless monastery building, a late-medieval structure whose roof was blown up a century ago and left there. With how empty and devoid of the furniture it held, with not even an icon in sight, it had given it the vision of the hollowness of the faiths long gone and past from the host land of this place.

Then he would turn around and get up, before quickly brushing his body. Unlike in past times after a fight or a literal battle he was not experiencing any kind of pain, though the dust of the ground and the cold feeling delivered by the floor were more than enough to deliver a minor sensation of own. He was still feeling his fingertips fine, though the energy he had inside his body, when he tried to warm the walls and the floor, weren't enough in this place to make a difference.

I'm at my peace here. Almost as if I'm somewhere between life and death, said he, as he took a couple of steps to walk around it. It was clear that he wasn't exactly on the reality that he had lived, though one where his soul was in full capacity of own. He did wonder if this is what's meant to be on the other side of the interdimensional portals, one that talks of its cracks, suggesting their eventual destruction, were being whispered about.

So if the world between us and I supposed, that of the Dead, and then of the Creator, is merged....

All is about to end.

His thoughts weren't going to last long enough, however, as a noise of somebody else on the room whispered to his ears - walking steps of somebody smaller who clearly was watching him the whole time. The steps were consistent, though not exactly well-aligned - Joon-Gweon would have guessed that the person walked in 팔자걸음 (An out-toed gait) - and the timely interval in which it would stop now and then left an uncomfortable feeling no different than all that he was exposed to over last three days.

Is this a setup specifically designed by The Creator? Which of the four Shingoryeoite worlds am I here - that of heaven (천상), current life (이승 - there is no exact, accurate term that would best describe Yiseung in English language -e.d.-), underground (지하) and underworld (저승)? And if so, why am I here? Joon-Gweon thought. Remembering that Hannah had briefly told him about the four Shingoryeoite spiritual world, he couldn't help but to wonder if this was what the life of tribulations stood for him, if he were to even survive the war. Both cursing and blessing in making..

'You aren't in Shin-goryeo, that's correct.'

Joon-Gweon stopped and turned around. The Creator was standing before him, confident with a perpetual smirk in his facial expression, wearing a dark gown. Unlike what others have told about him, however, he had a long row of beard that stretched all the way to his chest, and he carried an odd eye appearance with red on his left eye and green on his right.

'We don't have much time, dear Jang Joon-Gweon, the Genius of Taewha era, the first and last Quebecois cricketer to really surprise the world, the future chief instructor of the Tomcat Program,' he said, his gaze not being lost on Joon-Gweon. 'So let's not waste time and start walking.'

At that moment, Joon-Gweon followed as The Creator walked out of the monastery building, heading into the frozen, wintertime beach that faced both the East Sea (동해, also known as Grinsham Sea) and the Blood Sea (혈해) on this rare juncture of time and space. As they walked a stroke would be added to the surface, generating colours from that of pure black and white, before expanding into blue and grey, and eventually more would pop up in pastel, almost as if they were in middle of a landscape painting.

All the beauty in this place..and how it's created, at the very spot. Joon-Gweon thought, himself not being able to do much but to look into the creation process itself. This must be it's like to be on the minds of those like-minded, even if it's not exactly at home or anywhere near from it.

They would continue walking onto the beach for half an hour, with each step barely moving him any bit forward or backwards, before The Creator ordered him to halt. 'Where do you think you are right now, my dear child?' asked The Creator, looking back at a surprised Joon-Gweon.

'Myself?' answered Joon-Gweon. 'Certainly not Quebec and Shingoryeo, that's for sure. But it doesn't seem that odd or alien either, especially with how cold the water looks..and feels...I could almost smell the sea salt of my homeland and Perce too.'

'That is correct,' The Creator smiled, as he looked back at him. 'We are here, on a long-abandoned monastery in East Flania of northern Squornshelous. Just near Traal where Hannah Kim used to play, if you are much of a football fan.'

'Well, what Inteachan boy doesn't cheer for the Arsenal?' Joon-Gweon said.

'I don't know, you live in one of my favourite cities that I have created. Your Professor Heo, the old man with temper of your company, would know by now how much I love that place because of personal reasons. Do you think that Iarocav expects his subjects to dislike Sadeg City?'

'Sure, sir, but we are talking about something entirely different here.' Joon-Gweon answered, trying to turn around the topic to something more important. Questions he had simply mattered too much for him to know. 'But why are we here? What stage of the so-called Shingoryeoite spiritual world we live in? Am I supposed to know and try to access the other worlds? There's so much I want to know, but do not know if I could ask lest I be-'

'Stop there,' The Creator interrupted, stopping the conversation for five seconds before resuming. 'Okay. So you asked "why we are here and what stage of the spiritual world are we here". Is that correct?' he then continued speaking. 'Well we are on 지하 (underground), bordering the 이승 (living world) thanks to the Blood Sea and the East Sea all meeting here. For most of the year the water here remains frozen, which isn't always the case for northern new Squornshelous is (New Squornshelous is used by The Creator for the simplification purposes of calling SRS -e.d.-), and since the demons don't exactly like cold weather whenever they have to go to land, here's usually safe from the monsters and the demons that usually permeate here.'

Confidence and excitement were oozing out oft he Creator, almost as if he's ready to embrace the moment of conversation with his creation. 'But why are we here? Is there a specific reason why we, actually all of us at the Rink of Dreams, were separated? Are they also out there in the Blood Sea and the Salamantic Sea?'

'Also correct,' said The Creator. 'Since none of you had listened when I asked that only one of you reach the Rink of Dreams itself...the magic appears to have repelled all of you from it.' He then looked at Joon-Gweon. 'Now most of you are scattered, separate from one another, away from your home and a lot of you just outside of Shin-Goryeo. Two in Huayramarca, one in Ko-oren, one's stuck in Nykipiflugpuu...though I believe there's one person whose minds are scattered all over and can travel.'

'Is it Dr. Heo?' He stared at The Creator, whose smirk did not change.

'Who else would it be?' said The Creator. 'You do not know the entire story of that man, whose children have become all-timers in their sport and whose grandchildren will one day be linked to the Queen. If anything he already has the head start on the latter front, getting the comfortable position that myself, in this world, know is only existing in figments of my imagination.'

'But what about him that chains him to the world? Or rather, giving him the power of travelling?' Joon-Gweon asked, surprised that The Creator had even more attention inside his mind.

'Because you are only the youngest and latest pieces of my mind that I have baked out of, like a pottery into this world,' The Creator spoke calmly, almost as if he had prepared the question all this time. 'In the world I live in, let's say there are certain...self-designate figures some of us would give our responsibility towards, because they help this world, the one you guys are in, running on their own pulse. I'm sure that you have heard some of them before, though I was unable to secure copyright to mention specific names...'

Joon-Gweon stared at him. From the glance on the Creator it was apparent that he wasn't lying. 'So you broke a part of your mind and soul, to create...these creations? And specifically me?'

'Now, to what extent varies. Sir. Alex and Dr. Heo, for example, have a special place inside my heart because they are created from personal stories there, on the other side, that changed me for long. Those stories that I cannot tell, but ones that you will eventually understand as you grow older, fall in love, and eventually have children. But not all of those you have met do. And they should be glad because...the blessing can also be the curse.'

The Creator's eyes sudden changed from that of odd eyes to brown, the eye colour of his actual self. 'So you are telling me that it's a blessing not to be hurt by your own past, and that there lies..a bright future.'

'I cannot tell you much, but you have to think about your own happiness and what lies ahead, my young lad.' The Creator nodded, adding a slight smile. 'That's why I have asked for you and you only. So that you, and hopefully 'The Professor', will be able to fix the errors and be absolved of the chains that affect your own lives. There is so much ahead in this life and I cannot have you waste it over the past-life stamp of stigma.'

Joon-Gweon looked back at him, and so did The Creator. There was a moment of understanding that had flashed before them, as the waves started to crash against the pebbles. 'It is February here, only because I made it so. It is also February where I live, though the weather's simply too warm for my liking.' The Creator said.

'And you planned the moment, for me to meet Dr. Heo, and then Isabel and Hannah, and for the rest...of those fellow figments...to come together...all along,' Joon-Gweon said.

'Yes. Though I admit that it was a rather hurried failure, coming from me whose organisational skills aren't the finest. I am not, by no means, a theologian or a future-time writer or a superhero afficionado. Rather the opposite - I prefer romances and tragedies, and always think decades into your future. So by that I finished with a failing grade of 49%, no bell curve.'

'Okay, so you intended all of that. But if all of us are lost and out there again, then how can we piece together the world from falling?' Joon-Gweon questioned The Creator again. For all the insight and the excitement The Creator was bringing, he was feeling tired of all the discord-theque-esque threads of consciousness the older man was having by now.

'Oh, it's easy. Lot easier than you would think.' said The Creator. 'Let's think back to the map Isabel Jurado showed you and think about it again. From there you will have to further expand and eventually have to find one another to drive the spikes that would firmly establish your nation from falling apart. You won't exactly be able to move between the spaces, but you don't need to.'

'But I am here and I can't move back to 이승 either,' Joon-Gweon enquired again. 'And nobody could pick me up from it. I'm just a novice in all of this and there's no need to navigate my way out of it. How could this work?'

The Creator smiled back at him, his voice louder and firmer than before. 'Who else but Dr. Heo? His mind might be haunted and he may lack the innate abilities, at least on surface, but the Schottian Torch isn't there for nothing either.'

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

Dr. Heo and the Portal of Madness II: Map of the Problematique

PART 2.2 (34) - 내 낡은 서랍속에 바다

Then, the dark, translucent cloud started to form shape, as the paint-strokes turned from curves into multiple circles, and then ellipses, before being mended to generate clouds. Nothing had formed over the sky before that moment, though the Creator himself could hear celestial songs being played out by the Ssoedoryeong and the Neodoryeong (쇠도령과 너도령, brotherly gods who are responsible for administering musical instruments, former brass instruments and latter woodwinds).

But besides that, the sky was free of the human matters - no aeroplanes busily flying over the northern Calanian skies, no sight of multinational merchant fleets travelling between East Blood Sea triangle of Quebec, North Squornshelous and Aboveland & Nykipiflugpuu—just nothing.

Right at that moment, Jang Joon-Gweon pointed out the lone figure who was slowly approaching them from the horizon to the Creator. The Creator only smiled back, because he knew that the Doctor was coming as asked, wearing the dark, long-tailed coat of a Gangrimdoryeong (강림도령, 降臨道令 - crown counsel of the Dead in Shingoryeoite underworld, the representative of the grim reapers without capitalisation to avoid confusion with Quebecois football national team).

But then there was an unexpected twist. As the clouds continued thickening, changing the sky as it developed into a night's fog, Joon-Gweon noticed how Dr. Heo, who was carrying the green, antiquated Schottic Torch of teleportation, struggled to manoeuvre his way as he twitched back and forth. His mouth was barely uttering any intelligible sound, while his limbs swayed and lost control, half in control of another force and half on a verge of seizure.

'Shite,' said Joon-Gweon, as he watched Dr. Heo flying in zig-zag shape now. His visibility was low, one that could be cited to the vertigo an unfamiliar individual may feel when in such flight, while their attempt to communicate with Dr. Heo was left futile as he flew back and forth, with him coming close to the water one minute and a thousand metre up high in the sky the another. 'Is there anything we could do to help, The Creator? Is there anything?'

'No,' said The Creator, having figured out that it carried even greater risk to intervene with one of his creations, especially when he was trapped inside one of his earlier-life visions. 'Let him go through this alone. Eventually he will make his way down here.'

This would prove true as after a few minutes, the Doctor would finally be able to let go of control. A strong gush of wind would start to blow all over the beach, and as Dr. Heo would take more time and stabilise himself, the sound of Sirens would also be heard, almost as if the wall between that of the underworld and the living world had been breached, which would then be followed by an explosion from some distance away.

'Okay, good. Nothing new from this part of the woods here,' said The Creator to Joon-Gweon. 'He will make his way back here sooner than later, I would advise you to worry no more. That said...'

The Creator, who had known about the said occurrences from the past grim reaper occurrences, smirked as Dr. Heo gradually descended from about 500 metres high, his limbs calming down in movements, before landing in front of them. The Creator noticed that Dr. Heo's mostly dark clothes had an additional feature of their own - that of a green-dotted fox hide for his neck collar - which made the Doctor look a bit odder. Joon-Gweon was watching right beside him, chuckling along. Whatever tension they had held just minutes prior were evaporated by a rare feature that neither knew how that had occurred.

'Well, I see that you had made your way to your first destination,' said The Creator, as he spared no time taking away the neck collar away from Dr. Heo. 'Gangrimdoryeong, maiden voyage wasn't easy, wasn't it?'

Dr. Heo struggled to answer. Rather, he was embarrassed to see that Joon-Gweon and his own Creator, who had spared a piece of his mind, watched him fall close to the verge of unravelling. 'I would be lying if I found it easy,' said he, slowly regaining his self before speaking again. 'I found myself....as a child. Not exactly myself, but as close enough as I was back then.'

The Creator raised his neck, before readjusting it to look directly at the elderly man. 'Please tell me what happened there. I have not seen any subject of mine go through those. If you wonder to what extent, I have fed Joon-Gweon cotton candy dreams involving his girl.' He turned around and looked at Joon-Gweon, whose face turned red. 'What was her name?'

Joon-Gweon couldn't answer, the sixth-former feeling way too anxious and surprised at the twenty-something's familiarity. 'Hannah, Hannah-'

'And I think that's enough enquiring for now. Let's not waste any time over those teenage feelings,' Dr. Heo intervened. The end of the Schottic Torch was hot, filled with a self-sustaining flame that was connected to Dr. Heo by the ties to The Creator and more importantly, the memory of his younger self. 'I saw myself when younger, almost as I were back in search for my own 'A la recherche du temps perdu'. But the story spoke itself differently, and the narratives told there were different.'

'Go on,' was all that The Creator said. 'I am not your enemy, my dear creation.'

Mid-2000s, Songak

It was difficult to see through the vision of an alternative version of one's life, especially with the risk of interdimensional fracture and resulting apocalypse being not that far away, and it is even more difficult to do so when it would involve teenage memories. This would also involve Heo Dong-Soo, whose teenage days were suppressed and in the process of erasure for reasons better enquired to the Creator. Specifically involving Tara.

In this version the last time Dr. Heo would talk about his teenage days were with his senior-level seminar students at Univ. St. Croix on an 'Modern history and historiography of emotions' module/Seminar. The version of the story he would deliver in an oration by memory, had involved a girl named Tara who was his first love, but had never made it work due to his mistakes when the time was right. Those days there were a certain level of tensions between various ethnic and demographic groups of ever-vibrant, grammar school community of the Songak's famous Lycee Koreana, and in middle of tensions between that of her world and his, which had contrasted widely, the former expatriate from Centralis, Electrum; and Garigal, Acadiana, would find himself lost and descend into a spiral initiated by his sophomore mistakes.

From the sound of it it appeared as if the mistakes themselves were beyond that of his control, for the amities were not meant to last longer. But those who would remember it from the Season Six 'The Agent', or even the Season Eight 'Avalon' you would find it wrong.

Pierre McCarthy, in that version, was a desperate teenager who had loved this Jewish girl named Lara - don't you notice how they rhyme so nicely? - but his belief in binaries, one that would lead Pierre into the life as a superagent living in Cenial and Songak under Maison M label, would cost him on this. Instead of stars failing to align, it would be his own lack of mental fortitude and blindered self that would cause him to send a horrific letter detailing why such a friendship would not make sense. And when he would eventually try to pull it back, the mistake was by then too late to be overturned, eventually causing poor Pierre to make a vow not to return to the country.

It was along those lines of mistakes that this version of Dr. Heo would cover, not because he would wish to, but because the story he was implanted had come from another person in Pierre McCarthy. As dedicated of an attempt he would try to plant right now, those familiar to him would know that it's a falsehood, for they would remember how Dr. Heo, who actually attended their rival school at His Majesty's College, was a rather simplistic mind, focusing on his fencing career like The Doctor himself.

And if you are reading this again, we are now back into the actual vision of Dr. Heo, which would now be added to the torments of the earlier, alternate vision of his purposefully implanted by The Creator as a show-off move. He would still be a relatively odd individual, whose minds sailed far away to another world as he would read works of history and literature, and sometimes find solace in the sabre that he carried. Unlike that version and the Creator himself he wasn't so musically inclined, with his vocal range as tenor intact but his mind not always there - a major difference from the creator.

This is not to say that Dr. Heo did not read out his own stories of a younger self in roses to his students or those close to him. Rather the opposite - he told of them even more. This is where our accounts would diverge once more, however, as the alternate version that the Creator had purposefully placed his own mind into that love of his would not happen again until the age twenty-one. By that point, he would be at Queen's College as a senior (though competitively a redshirt junior), and was in the middle of his postgraduate application season..

‘So why was I haunted by that…other me?’ Dr. Heo asked, himself beyond fuddled by being lost in the middle of the visions of an alternate self. ‘Those weren’t exactly my memories, and I thought I could control my mind and words…and yet I couldn’t. I found myself helpless, almost feeling paralysed at times.’

‘Because that wasn’t your own memory,’ said The Creator. ‘That vision, just first of many to come, was trying to help you understand me and by using the intuition from there, how to fix the interdimensional breaches that I have formed inside my head. It’s just that I have either made an error on my first round or that those in the Underworld who weren’t exactly good with putting together memory pieces.’

He sighed, then continued to speak. ‘All I could tell you is that the device, the torch you have, will help you travel and restore it with the powers of those like-minded to our people. I cannot tell you how, but it is well within your reach. But to control the ability to put together the net, and to pin the centrepoint, isn’t up to just that torch. It’s up to you to figure out yourself, Dr. Heo. Dong. Soo.’

’Did you notice anything specific while there, Doctor?’ asked Joon-Gweon, as he found himself the right timing. ‘Like any kind of book or something like that would help us along the way?’

‘No, not the ones I specifically recall.’ Dr. Heo answered. ‘If there were any, no way I would know a jack about fairytales.’ In all honesty, he had no idea what Joon-Gweon was talking about.

‘Well actually, he’s not wrong,’ The Creator smiled back at Joon-Gweon, satisfied with the line of enquiry by the young lad. ‘Sure there is no book, or so to speak, and I may not have even needed something like that. That would be called “I am busy and have other things to do.”’

Then he would point to the Schottic Torch, as he spoke again. ‘But the dreams are the windows into the lives of our multi-narrative selves.’

Then The Creator disappeared again. At that very moment, Dr. Heo and Joon-Gweon turned to look at the Torch. As explained by The Creator, the Torch was glowing with the visions of the next dream that was to emerge. The stories of that November Friday afternoon, when Dr. Heo had dived into Lake Mahan, the easternmost and most brutal of the five Golden Lakes of southern Quebec, were glowing in the carved, metallic tapestries of gold and platinum. Back in that moment all seemed lost for Dr. Heo, and now he was feeling the pains, without actually able to see the exact, coded details of what it meant to be sent back with that memory. To the times when he, as with Hannah Moran from when she was little, would be brought back to life under a greater plan.

[Independent Athletes from Quebec]

OOC: The Narrator's Paper is inspired by Konets Renaty (End of Renata, translated by Sarah Vitali), a legendary autobiographic essay about symptoms of early Russian Modernists written by Russian modernist writer, poet and critic Vladislav Khodasevich.

Dr. Heo and the Portal of Madness II: Map of the Problematique

PART 2.3 (35) - Six Feet Under

Several Hours Prior (Chronologically the first scene, held before his arrival to Northern Squornshelous)
Les Catacombes, Chuqiago, Huayramarca

At the very next moment, Dr. Heo found himself sinking into the depths of Chuquiago's catacombs. The mix of bright, yellow light aimed his way, and the damp darkness of the catacombs covering both in the background, Dr. Heo did his best to crouch and compress his limbs to a line-shaped form, allowing him to fit himself through the steep angle of the tight entryway that seemed to have no ending of it.

As he was passing through, Dr. Heo tried his best to peek through few hundred rooms along the way with his bare eyes, but none were open and only a few rooms had their lights on. In addition, the lights on the catacombs' floors were dim enough to limit visibility, and with nothing but darkness waiting him at the very bottom of the entranceway, Dr. Heo was noticing that this was by no means an average entranceway into the Catacomb's deeper reaches.

Catacombs, the place midway between life and death, thought Dr. Heo, as he tightened his circular glasses around his nose to prevent it from slipping. There was no way for him to think otherwise, not after the explosion from the Battle against The Creator that had somehow transported him to the other side of northern Calania, and he was no short of feeling that there's got to be a reason behind why his next destination was the famed catacombs of Chuquiago. There's got to be a reason why. Maybe to go back to when I was on the verge of life and death...

Eventually, the descend would come to a halt as a ray of light would come from the bottom of his feet. The shape would then get larger and larger into a circle until he, upon arriving at the very bottom floor, was greeted to the halt at the library located on the 1,093th floor of it all.

'Good afternoon, sir.' said the clerk, an elderly Quechua woman in his sixties, looking back at Dr. Heo. 'Welcome to la bliblioteca. I believe you are here to use a reading room?'

‘Yes,’ answered he, quickly gathering himself to answer the question. ‘I am here to look for something…something…very important to my country. They said that I had it.’

Yeah, he fucked up the explanation part. It wasn’t exactly his fault, however, as a distraction stood his way.

Dr. Heo couldn’t help but feel amazed at the sight of the library's entrance floor, whose stone-carved walls had Corinthian columns carved the creation myths of the Huayramarcan indigenous people and their connection to the ancestral magic that had, for most part, been kept off access to the modern people of this Anaian nation. Between the columns there existed a half-dozen doors that would lead into reading rooms where works of invaluable knowledge from time immemorial were brought from the earth, never to be loaned out.

And in middle of the entrance floor stood a glass fountain, which produced the jets shaped in both the swans and their love-shaped bodies, as Dr. Heo felt a corner of his heart warm with the back of his head hit by it. Feeling wet on immediate blast he would run, but after taking a couple of steps away from it, he would find himself staring to it in awe.

'You must be here for the first time,' said the clerk, as she approached him while fixing her glasses. 'Once every few years we get guests like you come here. Last time it was the condor-headed man who came here empty-handed. Out of the blue, and his world surrounded by this unspeakable plague and internal turmoil, the Condorhead came here seeking to bring back the long-lost world he had stumbled upon years ago.'

'That's interesting.' Dr. Heo asked, noticing that the clerk carried the keys with him. 'I see that we have about a few hundred reading rooms here, with any of them having the potential to lose any of our heads. Did he end up going back to the land above?'

'It took him several months, but eventually he did leave,' said she, before handing the key over to Dr. Heo. 'Do you know him?'

'No, I don't,' answered The Doctor. 'But my Creator might. He sent me here an apostle, though I feel more as an exile.'

'I wouldn't be so sure of that,' said the clerk, before heading back to her clerk desk.

Upon that moment Dr. Heo nodded and headed upstairs, the central fountain behind his back, as he climbed the nearest headcase to the second floor.

The hint she had given, one that involved the notion of predetermined destiny, was more than enough. If that's what she, who presumably had known about the other visitors in search of similar worlds under collapse..or being brought back to life, is talking about...thought he, as he panted while turning left upon arrival. Then it doesn't matter what door I access.

It was then that Dr. Heo noticed another oddity. Under normal circumstances a stranger, or security guard, would have stopped him from running, especially considering his hectic form, and yet there was a strange absence of either, which caused him to notice a certain sense of suspicion to it.

What if this is a trap, as he passed the third column on the counterclock direction, heading into the fourth, before stopping halfway.

Still nothing was moving, and the lights, once bright on the bottom floor, was back to being dim again so that nothing on the main floor could be seen. 'Doesn't matter,' Dr. Heo said to himself, answering the earlier thread of doubt that had stood his way. 'I would have to take the risk regardless, if it means saving this world I live in and I serve for.'

Without hesitation he opened the nearest door to the right, and moved inside.

Inside the room, however, there existed nothing. Nothing but a long piece of parchment that shone on its own, blaring its own light almost as if it's made out of a mix of gold and platinum.

'The paper?' Dr. Heo asked himself, amused to see what the parchment would talk about. It was clear from the surface that the paper itself, written several decades ago, carried enough dust on its own, with the light emitted able to show the thic, turbid atmosphere of the space.

Dr. Heo stepped forward. Feeling temptation reach him at the spot, Dr. Heo quickly brushed the dust off the top of the paper, and read the details. Written in Shingoryeoite Korean riddled with its liberal use of Hanja (traditional writings of Chinese alphabet -e.d.-) and Hangeul, it would detail an alternative version of the incident that changed his life 43 years ago:

The End of Maude (Konets Maudy)

By: The Narrator
Chronicled Year: 2039
On the afternoon of 15th of November, 2038, in a small-sized bungalow in midtown Kingston, where she had lived for the past decade and a half, Maude Paige Turner passed quietly from a heart attack. When the Kingston Star reported her passing on a decently-sized article at the bottom of Page 1, she was called a community's heroine for the disadvantaged people whose time had taken a significant toll on her health over time.

Of course, those who had known enough about the mother of two children further back would suggest a slightly more complicated portrait of Maude. As the head of the local community legal clinic under Legal Mahan, she had her own limitations. Even with the relative affluence of her midtown location, Maude's clinic always saw the most number of cases for reasons most did not know, and whatever the younger self she had were spent on familial meetings that would come now and then, but were under lesser, rarer frequencies in the years leading up to her passing.

What a few people, likely amounting to about a half-dozen, did know, however, was the role she had unintendedly played in the life of the underworld city of Cornwall, just two hours away from there, since the year 2013. Her personality, ever sanguine and bubbly, drew significant power over the development of the necropolis that she knew but did not say a word about them to avoid tampering with her own fate. but before I offer my account, we have to remember and think about the 'spirit of the era'. Even on this account, which may not hold the entirety or even minimum threshold of truth, Maude Turner's story would not be understood without thinking about 'l'esprit du temps'.

---

Life of a college town and its methodicians in the early-2010s Cornwall had its own downsides. The methodicians, who would be called symbolists on the other side of the fence, had decided to embody their living philosophy into work, and vice versa. Their sense of symbolism, as with those of their Petersburgo-Muscovite equivalents I have cited in past, was an attempt to define a means of collegiate life with the hopes that happiness and wisdom from those times would continue well after. It was a product of familial affluence and a small-town mindset, where a cyclical sense of chronotope could be attained through academic prestige, extra-curricular circles, and escapism from the (sub)urban life many had afforded.

This form of chronotope does not mean that there's no progress made for those involved in said man-made disasters. If you would go back and look at the name of the people who have come and passed through the domains of the Queen's College campus, you may actually be surprised to see another above-average generation of high-profile individuals, and also those considered the salt of the earth (sel de la terre) in our society. We will ignore those etudiants' achievements and aspirations for now, however, as they do not matter so much compared to the process itself that would cost these methodicians in a long run. Finding themselves in the whirlwind of the world that was getting madder and madder in the days of Covid-ae, those Quebeco-symbolist's attempt to recreate history was a never-ending circle of narratives inside their singular setting of campushood.

Drawn by the power of Lake Mahan's frozen, still water right next to the campus, the Quebeco-symbolists would find themselves twirling and falling into the labyrinth of emotions, with their half-decade ordeal bringing them outside both intellectuals or those who failed the examinations. By this point, you would notice that such form would only work so often and that the rare figure, those who would master life and death, did not always have the happiest of endings. In short, the story of those Quebeco-symbolists would eventually lead into the exaggerated portrait of humanities undergraduates that resemble a bit of '13 Reasons Why', and their artistic aspirations standing only remaining in abstract, pieces form of song, dance and short writings, perhaps given greater attention by the ways their parliamentary hearings would describe their twenties to be.

---

Dong-Woo never lacked passion. He was born in year 1991, exactly the same year. We first met as freshman in year 2009. When we first met, he was an emerging fencing prospect - I recall him being top three on the junior national team at the time. He was a preparatory boy who went to HMS (His Majesty's School) and, being snubbed by the Big Two of his inner-city Farrer and dream school St. Croix, decided to read history and classics at Queen's College.

As an expatriate fish constantly used to being by the average colleagues of his middle-class world, he found this world a form of escapism, that to build his own nation-state. within the first month he, unintentionally or not, was entering into the romantic spiral and had already caused affairs for years before his faithful encounter with Maude at his senior year. Choosing to keep certain departments of his life chained and locked away, he did not always tell the stories of his younger self, preferring to tell from the reservoir of fireside stories of his extended family and of his times living abroad, and his best to expurgate more embarrassing details from his own. The journey of his travels, both at home and abroad, and the continued haunts of the past, left him drained and wandering.

So it was to no one's surprise that Dong-Woo fell into the world of Quebeco-symbolists, as he turned into a junior and pondering his life outside of a budding fencing career. The Quebeco-symbolists, who had consisted an intimate circle of futures, had come from those who aspirations varied from historians, (psuedo-)barristers, docents and, of course writers. But more importantly, they had all lived on their own visions, often defined through houses, clubs and interests they had shared, which they would use to build a multi-dimensional world of their own. As a result of the Quebeco-symbolists' experimentation, the lines that stood between the four worlds - that of the living, the dead, the underground, and the heavens - would start breaking down, with their shared sense of small-town awareness, generating a new world where life had meant death and reverso.

As an observer who watched my friend suffer, I am incapable of providing an accurate portrait of Maude and Dong-Woo as a narrator should. Samuel Laetner, the father of future Hall-of-Fame Quarterback Ian-Nolan Laetner, wrote to his future-wife, Laryssa Berkowitz, that Dong-Woo, a man of 'constant eccentric temper' seemed happy when around the 'sweet, smart' Maude...'

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

Dr. Heo and the Portal of Madness II: Map of the Problematique

PART 2.4 (36) - Wayfaring Stranger

It was then that a solitary light was turned on, revealing the librarian of Reading Room no. 24601.

'Hello, dear guest,' said the librarian, the Huayramarcan speaking in a strong Costeno-accented Spanish, as Dr. Heo let go of his grasp on the sheet. Fortunately for him, their location meant that he was able to understand the language that he otherwise would not be able to understand. 'You must be the Quebecois man I was told of ages back. I assume that you must have come here for the Book?'

As the longsheet glowed while floating in the air, Dr. Heo looked back at the librarian, a small-ish man of 170cm in his fifties, as the librarian turned on the lights. It was an ancient, beautiful room built in the reconstructionist style with the columns and the walls carved from both wood and stone to the days predating the colonisation period. The reading room itself did not have a chair, and there only existed a small desk at the far end, but the carved figures themselves were moving enough with animated expressions of their own. This alone suggested Dr. Heo that this wasn't so much of a reading room, but could be used for other purposes.

The librarian looked back at him, him wearing a cloak made out of silk and silver and golden ornaments all over his body. He was amused to see that Dr. Heo did not respond at the very spot.

'You know this paper,' Dr. Heo answered back, his voice dropping a bit to that of a bass, as he pointed his finger back at the paper. 'Must have been either a work of forgery based on my own life, or that somebody else wrote it as a chapter within the greater book of destiny.'

'Go on,' said the librarian before asking back at Dr. Heo. 'Wait, are you looking for the Book of Vishanti or something?'

'Such does not exist in our world, and I don't know what is this Vishanti you are talking about, old man.' said Dr. Heo, pointing out to us dear readers that this side of the interrealm portal did not exactly have the exposure to the marvels of Benedict Cumberbach. 'But the level of details that document went about with the way me and my late wife Maureen 40 years ago, that is not normal. We all know Samuel Laetner’s a Lautner, Maude is Maureen, and Dong-Woo me. Basic attempt to pretend that this was somebody else’s story. Who is the narrator behind this?'

'Because this isn't a Vishanti, and it doesn't exist here,' the librarian said. 'But keep reading because you will notice something. It may be a story of your own life, to some degree, but also one about how to resolve a dark-hold-esque situation like those back in your homeland which, if you would believe me, affects those here as well....'

As an observer who watched my friend suffer, I am incapable of providing an accurate portrait of Maude and Dong-Woo as a narrator should. Samuel Laetner, the father of future Hall-of-Fame Quarterback Ian-Nolan Laetner, wrote to his future-wife, Laryssa Berkowitz, that Dong-Woo, a man of 'constant eccentric temper' seemed happy when around the 'sweet, smart' Maude'. Of course, those labels can be misleading, even when considering that Samuel Donovan Laetner's father is one of those most critical towards Maude. I knew Maude Turner for longer, for exactly twenty-eight years: I saw how she could be so charming and yet repellent, so smart and yet shallow, and most importantly far-reaching and yet blind.

One thing stood true however, and it was that Maude, in the ways she had treated her episodes of these fateful occurrences, always looked to tamper with matters of life and death that were delicate in nature, in order to attain what she would want. Of course she didn't exactly know where this kind of fortune or misfortune had come from, but eventually her undoing as a part of product twenty-six years after a meeting that had originated from a single, twelve-person module she had taken as a junior year.

But that lack of awareness wasn't exclusive to her either - this was a product of my era, between late 2000s and early 2010s, when the previous years' hopes were supplanted by the uncertainties of ever-revolving doors in everyday life, from the Year of Three Kings and the Felixian Liberation War, to economic stagnation. One that also coincided with the Grim Reapers' ascendancy to their first ever World Cup qualification, and a half-decade period in which musical trends seemed to be stuck in a disambiguated mix between the optimism of 2000s and the urban grime of mid-2010s. This was what enabled the symbolists to gain power and inspiration alike, whether it be on the dual-metropolises of Joongyeong and Songak, or in the tiniest of college towns somewhere isolated. Uncertainties brought possibilities both fruitful and dangerous, and thus kicked off the obsessive aspect of it all...

[A section was scribbled off by a scribe -e.d.-]

....Now we go back to September 2012. Dong-Woo was a college senior (or redshirt junior, if we go by athletic definition), with short hair, fast feet and strong sense of his fingertip that made him highly desirable as a sabreur. Dong-Woo wasn't exactly the most athletically-inclined among his peers, however - not that the fencers hold such reputation in Quebec, or anywhere really - and found the studies of late Modern Vatmark, in particular the intellectual and cultural histories of Novopetrogradian Empire more appealing. Those were the times when the world of athletics and culture were still relatively separated from one another, a symptom of excessive specialisation among student, student and student-athlete population that had occurred for over half-century up to that point. Being a Songakian with desire to head into bigger places, he embraced the escapist aspect of his upperclassman days with liberty, and thus met people freely. It only made sense that he would meet Maude Turner that way.

Oh, if only those matters of first encounter could have been so easy - for feelings to be understood and for the risks to be taken in the name of the potential! But dear reader, you would have to remember that the status love held as an object and ideal with absolute values was weak, even more so on the backdrop of the costly war that while ending up a significant Quebecois victory over the Felixian Nazis, did cost few thousand lives.

In this case, Dong-Woo found herself on the charms of Maude for her sanguine self, where her ability to sympathise and provide the spark of happiness, a natural feature coming from a decade of experience as contemporary dancer, caught his eyes like an oasis. In turn he would find himself in anticipation, his national team status and commonwealth-travelling ways shrugged as routine that deserved no more than regular footnotes with Ibids, and appeared to her with one-tenth of his true self.

In the two months that would pass between Dr. Shchvabrin's first week of module to the moment, there was nothing but the dance of the flowers. The sparks of love in the air with neither admitting, while their friends would wonder with suspicion of own, it truly seemed as Maude would add colours to Dong-Woo's life. I still remember encountering them heading home one day, her wearing a red, dress with her straw hair glistened, while he kept his suit loose while walking with a haze of inspiration in his eyes.

Of course if only the story between them were that easy with the air resolving itself with Maude being one bit resolute in her self! But that's not what it happened, dear reader, for she simply did say that the time wasn't right when he asked her. Maude lied to Dong-Woo for she had found his love, one that had come from a deep, spiritual element that had emerged later in his undergraduate life, in fear of commitment. In the world of dancers, models and the fashion shows that ran rampant in those early-2010s of affluent students, his world as a spiritual sabreur and an academic-in-making did not make so much sense to her as the gap between the two was built within seconds.

And those around them, both his friends and her friends, would try to console and advise him and say 'you will find somebody else my friend!'. But those aware of the do-or-die nature of the work knew that all those words sounded futile, no more than a loss, as he would find himself in plain darkness of the world that was neither living nor dying. By that point all became too clear that Dong-Woo would have to get out or pass into eternity, one that had either meant emigration or death, to preserve his sanity and honour....

It was November 16th, 2013.

At the end of that section, falling just short of his suicide attempt, Dr. Heo looked back at the librarian, whose gaze did not change in colour or concentration. 'Les Catacombes par Rodion Karpovitch? 1939 Magnum Opus of literary criticism about the Petrogradian modernists?' he asked. 'It is clearly inspired by the critic, who I have written many articles and a book about, but to emulate Karpovitch's warning language, that of mediatory voice...'

'That is not of my particular interest, nor should that concern you so much,' the librarian answered, as the lights were turned off again. 'But the paper you had just read is just a visualised form of "this book". One that doesn't actually exist unless you actualise them as part of yourself.'

Dr. Heo felt the silence penetrate through him and numb his mouth. Then, after a minute, he finally came to think a bit more carefully about what this book had implied. He blinked and then opened his eyes again, his consciousness still only seeing the darkness but with different sensation felt on his clothes.

He looked below, only to see that his clothes had changed into a black, veiled coat. 'Well that feels different.' Dr. Heo said, his body feeling lighter than usual.

'You will actualise this book of yours, by finding what you and your nation are looking for,' the librarian answered. His face looked lot more stern this time around.'But don't think that you are alone in this. There are many souls out there looking for the peace in their minds, and definitely the creators of our worlds, both yours and mine, are no different. After all, there's got to be a reason why my creator, who brought back to us the vision of Tupac Amaru, brought you here. Ain't no living man coming here without a reason, and especially not people like you.'

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

Dr. Heo and the Portal of Madness II: Map of the Problematique

PART 2.5 (37) - Unravel

For a long time, Hannah Moran was sleepless. Sometimes, even when she would try to put herself back to sleep, her mind would remain occupied by her own thoughts that she, aware of the lack of awareness her three siblings and parents had with the ailments that had haunted her, would wander. In the half-sleep, half-awake state she was under the term 'I'm going to sleep' had meant nothing but a lie she had put on herself for years, for she would find herself navigating through those dreams where she, who would find herself travelling to different places and sometimes alternate dimensions, would be simulating the what-ifs of the scenarios that would be assigned.

The presence of lights in any space she would sleep did factor, but not to the extent that you would think of. Sometimes they would reflect the brightness of the night's lights, while the lamp in her bedroom was left on. But then, even when the lights were turned, the darkness had meant little inside Hannah's dreams, for would only take effect between the introduction session for the night and the same dream's mission. the lucidity and the depth of her dreams would often mean that Hannah would struggle to sleep for less than eight hours a day.

This did not exactly mean that she was out of control over the world she had envisioned or would desire to travel either. It was true, after all, that the tasks she would face now and then was that of another world, one that had she's barely been scratching the surface under her professor, esteemed Isabel Jurado. But the freedom of delving into what she would think about in the earthly hours she would spend while awake also provided her with the freedom of setting course in the dreams, and in those alternative dimensions, she's able to choose what world she would be able to go into until she's able to find the one that she would dream of.

The impressions of those dreams were the ones that suggested a life well beyond the realities of the planned, dry prairie city of Jolbonopolis, and those considered bit more surreal even by Minuit a Joongyeong. They would continue well into the day, and as she grew older and more adventurous, took a stronger hold on her world. It did not exactly disturb her, even if the hold became more apparent over time, but those closest to her would notice an additional colour in her iris, the Gaelic word for it being Inteachan for some funny coincidence, and how her eyes would shine like a night's star. For most mortals, it would not be understandable, as that requires an understanding of the spiritual world of the Quebecois (that being those indigenous to the land) or the Shingoryeoites, but the allure they would provide, combined with the depth of her interests in the interests involving the water and the music, would generate a spark, that of inspiration or desire, for those who dared venture further.

It is with this notion of a sleep-voyage, one that we have covered on several occasions prior, that we head into the morning. As usual, Hannah would wake up from her sleep. One that was without a vivid dream like the usual she would undergo, but a quiet night's sleep earned through the travels all the way to the Rink of Dreams complex in northern Quebec. She would wake up to something different this time, however, as it would not be the comforts of her bedroom surrounded by the street noise outside her window in a city 'JXXX' (Jolbonopolis or Joongyeong), but somewhere warm and deserted, ever so peaceful without a sound.

Just like that time at Isabel's place, I am back into limbo again. Hannah thought again, as she would blink her eyes a few times, before being greeted by the warmth of the light that had surrounded her in its organicity. But there's something different about the way lights shine at me right now....

As she had thought the light did feel different on face, however, as Hannah would lift herself up from sleep. Instead of finding herself in the middle of forced sleep, before waking up to see Joon-Gweon, she would find herself in middle of a more stripped-down, welcoming setting - a basic guest's bedroom with relatively little furniture and amenities, almost appearing as if intended for someone on a short voyage with little turnaround time like hers.

It feels somewhat homely, though I don't know why, Hannah thought to herself. almost as if I could stay in this place.

She walked out of the room, and into the balcony. What stood before her, and also under the balcony, was a garden. The garden was filled with plants both rare and familiar, and was linked to a gigantic fountain right in the middle of it via multiple tiled walkways, which were coloured in white, cobalt blue and light yellow. Dried and heated in the Tamazghan sun of far-western Atlantian Oceania, the trees had dry leaves in general but the plants' state of maintenance, in spite of the weather, suggested that somebody was taking care of the gardens.

At the centre of it all, however, was a man in his twenties as he laid half-submerged in the middle of the fountain. His dark hair was cut short, and whatever the moustache and the beard he had shaved, blue and white cardigan wet and next to him held a submerged sabre. The man had broad shoulders and weighed a bit, though was no more than 5'11" in height, and the man was breathing in a rather relaxing motion while his eyes were closed in peace.

'Did you know that this house's painted blue? This garden's original creator, Eugene Bellemare, painted the entire house blue.' said Henri VIII as he appeared right next to her, drawing a moment of surprise for Hannah who did not expect the late, deceased monarch to appear. 'The words were that he wanted a shade of cobalt blue that would fit with the soil and the plants here, in Khenikech, that he had to create an entirely different shade. We call that....Bellemare blue, or Belle-blue, nowadays.'

Hannah smiled back, as she would come to notice how the shade of blue differed. Henri VIII, a former frequent flyer into the Bellemare Gardens, just drew a slight smile. 'It's a great place and even greater weather to die, isn't it?,' She just said along, as her eyes drew back to the man floating on the fountain.

'Don't think of it like that, Mille. Moran,' he said. 'You aren't here to die. Death isn't so automatic or anticipating as you would think. Rather the opposite.' Henri VIII then asked her. 'Who do you think this is?'

'Dunno, would I want to know?' She answered.

Henri VIII gave a light laugh. 'The man who's lying on the water's Dr. Heo,' he answered. But that's not the actual Dr. Heo either. Just himself lying on the very vision of himself years back, on the verge of life and death...one that he rarely told to people, one that you wouldn't want to know.'

'But then why was that moment important?' Hannah asked again, slightly surprised to see a family friend being talked as a topic by the late Henri VIIII. It was very much the opposite of the Henri VIII that had been mentioned in history books, or those recalled by those who knew him well. Almost as if this version had changed in the decades of afterlife. 'Is there something specific with him that we have to remember to solve...'

'Yes.' was all that he said.

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

Dr. Heo and the Portal of Madness II: Map of the Problematique

PART 2.6 (38) - Six Degrees of Separation

'So what is this with Professor Heo that we have to keep an eye upon?' Hannah asked inquisitively. Her experiences with mythical waters were a mixed bag at best, and having been exposed to a plethora of situations, had left her slightly concerned as to what lay ahead.

'Everything, because else you would not be able to understand a full picture of this place,' Henri VII smiled, as he continued to watch the half-submerged form of Dr. Heo's younger alternative. 'If it helps, we aren't just going to let him fully submerge. That's not how his stories were bound to end 41 years ago, and most others, sans a version written down in Huayramarca, suggest something else.'

He lifted his smile in confidence, as the Bellemare blue walls of the house started to glow, almost as if they were turning into a wall of millions of crystals. Hannah looked around in awe, as they would face the third person on the balcony, that being The Creator. In past occasions, The Creator preferred to show up in a wide range of attires to those already initiated to his way of life, and used intimidation as a way to keep them in submission. This time The Creator, however, was dressed in a sky blue tee-shirt, wore Jeans and smelled a little bit of the mix between cannabis and cigarette smoke. He didn't say anything as he stood next to Hannah.

'You look...different,' Hannah said, feeling slightly puzzle-dazzled over The Creator's appearance. 'I assume you don't like wearing formal clothes so much, especially not in somewhere hot and airy like here?' She gave a light laugh or two that wasn't intended to make laugh of his appearance. Hannah was not used to the idea of The Creator being someone not that different than her or her peers, who also had his own taste of dance music, snacks and walking routes.

'I'm not that special, nor do I want to be,' The Creator smiled back at Hannah. 'As with Dr. Heo there, I have spent much of my teenage days misunderstood, so I know what it means to be Joon-Gweon or you, or to be Alexandre (Browne-Hahm) or King Henri right there with you. To be able to separate multiple selves of mine, and also to be able to put them together at your own convenience, without regret or shame,...is a criminally undervalued asset.'

'And that's what you told me,' Henri VIII smiled, looking at Dr. Heo as he fixed his glasses. 'That I was the first of your creations to come. Those whose canonisation's never in doubt, but without our awareness until the time's right.'

'That's correct, the beauty of a first love's strands that would remain fifty years on,' The Creator smiled back at both of them. 'Now, excuse me. I believe that you need a change of attire, as our 이덕춘 (李德春, Yideokchoon, second of three Grim Reapers who serve as secondary counsel of the underwold).' With a snap of his left hand, Hannah's clothes had changed to that of a black dress and a light, silk gown on her back, but without an additional weapon given to the other two Reapers.

'Unlike the other two, you won't need a weapon,' Dr. Heo said in confidence, as he smiled back at a surprised Hannah in confidence. 'Turns out, my chap on the other side of the Atlantic had given you the perfect instructor. One who survived through the all-encompassing stroke of (.) and the quantum spaghetti that would follow each and every country she stayed for too long.'

Henri VIII and Hannah took the staircase downstairs as they started to head their way towards the gigantic fountain, with a mix of urgency and fear that had accompanied them. In the sudden, casual nature of The Creator's appearance, she was reminded of how fluid and losse the barriers existed between life and death, and how simple a choice someone so powerful could make in a whim over something so serious like this.

'Have you spent time here since you died back in 2012?' Hannah asked, looking at the former monarch who was holding a wooden walking stick with a diamond and emerald handle on top of it. They just entered the ground floor and could see the exit. 'Seems like you are familiar with the grounds.'

'Once or twice when I was alive,' Henri VIII replied. 'I visited here when the circumstances at home became more stable. Summer 1999 and May 2007 it must have been. It was very much like the way you are seeing here, only except that the colours look more realistic and not made out of a van Gogh painting.' Henri then added as they neared the exit. 'But it wasn't until after I died, and I had to worry less about my two selves conflicting against each other, that I started to visit at a frequency expected. I mean, it also helped that Laurent Saint-Donat and his lover, jolly Greg Faberge, had moved on the following decade - they did not exactly know what had kept this garden magical and flourishing with plants both wild and bizarre, though I think they had hints...'

At the very next moment, without Hannah realising, they found themselves starring at the fountain, and looking at the swan-shaped flume before them. Henri VIII went ahead in a steeplechase for a short while before slowing down. Upon realising that the situation's not tampered with, he would stop right before Dr. Heo's half-submerged self. 'He's not gone, have no fear,' said Henri, as he gave a light hand gesture for her to have walk towards the fountain.

With The Creator making his way back to take Dr. Heo out of another dimension, where he was presumably lost in under the Lake Mahan water, Henri VIII took the initiative. Henri VIII took a firm grasp of both his hands, before releasing it again to bring out a pair of five-coloured flowers. Hannah eventually caught up with King Henri, and upon reaching the fountain she noticed the presence of the flowers. In the flowers, the stems were sparkling in gold, while the flowerbuds themselves were producing tears as if they were made out of human eyes. There was an unpleasant feeling. One of the deathly origins and even deadlier components attached to it, those were the ones that Hannah did not exactly want to handle.

'What do you think of these flowers?' Henri VIII asked as Hannah watched his hands starting to darken. 'These flowers are named the 오색꽃 (Osaekkgot, Five-coloured flowers), those native to the Shingoryeoite World, but just transplanted here in the safeties of Al-Tamazgha. They represent the 환생 (the rebirth), 신생 (the birth of a new life), and 감정 (humanly feelings), three major elements crucial to decide the fate of the humans, and when addressed to a subject, never to be tainted with blood.'

'Your hands...what's happening to them?' Hannah asked with concern, though with a growing awareness that Henri VIII had more knowledge of this garden than anywhere else. At that moment, the Tamazghian location of it had given it away to her. 'Is this because we are in the 서천꽃밭 (Seocheonkkgotbat, 'the flower garden on the western edge of the world' if loosely translated from Korean -e.d.-)?'

'That is correct,' Henri VIII answered, his smile growing larger and larger. The colour of their hand started to grow thicker and darker, and his eyes basked in red, as he watched Dr. Heo stay submerged. 'We are at the western end of the world our ancestors, those of the Shin-goryeo-ite Argonauts, had once transversed across the dimensions, had once thought of it so.' He then continued to speak, without looking back at Hannah. 'We are neither on 이승 (Yiseung) nor 저승 (Jeoseung), but bordering the two. First departing from the white waters of the Salamantics, and then travelling southwest via the Vilitan cove, the traveller has to cross waters of the red mountains of eastern Al-Tamazgha...before finding the land reserved for dead to purify and reflect before travelling.'

'But if we are really here on the border between life and death, the Hyeolhae and the Salamantic to the Shango-Fogoa, and then between the regions, then...' she said. 'Why does it have to be him, and what is causing him to wonder?'

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

Dr. Heo and the Portal of Madness II: Map of the Problematique

PART 2.6 (39) - Raincatchers

'What do you think, miss Moran?' asked Henri VIII, as he looked back at Hannah Moran. 'From what you have seen so far, he's wondering in the crossroads of his afterlife, one that lies in a conflict between life and death, as he was drowning that snowy, mid-November afternoon in 2013 Cornwall.' He then continued. 'And at that moment, it felt certain that he, had he actually drowned himself to that moment at age 22, would have lived a thousand more years in limbo. That one enjoys while neither dead nor living, of being the next Yeomra The Great, the Lord Almighty of the Underworld.'

'So he could have been Yeomra The Great, instead of coming back to life and be with...' said Hannah, as she noticed the flowers glow further and further, their pollens heading towards Dr. Heo's half-submerged body. 'I would assume his late wife. Maureen Turner. Was it?'

'Not so fast,' answered Henri VIII, stopping but to emphasise what had happened afterwards. There was a sense of irony in here for Henri, especially when considering that he, who's recounting all of this, ended up being the last-minute, adjunct appointment to the Yeomra position (wait what?????) for next forty years after Dr. Heo's refusal to assume the position. 'But you are getting there. A good friend, who he had told all about the late Maureen, had noticed that he wasn't receiving to his call, and went out to the gigantic, tabletop rock by Lake Mahan. He dived to save his friend from being appointed.'

Hannah was stunned. In the very era that had coincided with the matter of life and death, where the world was under the crazies of the COVID-ae crisis and the Quebecois soldiers, including that of the Narrator's very own son Jacques IX, were busy liberating the oppressed souls of Nazi Felix...the fates of millions were left in the device of a college senior. Stuck in the circular chronotope of Cornwall, where the well-rolled, high-character humanities of the Queen's College were playing with the topic of life and death, the weight of the all-encompassing narrative of the Shingoryeoite state were very much left in the hands of Dr. Heo, who was close to accepting it all. Henri VIII's observations of the tragedy while in the earlier days of the Underground, while he was still getting used to the no-contact, all-desire afterlife, were all that had kept him in balance and check as well, as he would remind himself the weight felt ifferently by those who had shared the pieces of Creator's soul after him.

'I see,' said Hannah in a deeper tone, reflecting more into the calm, chilly timbre of her mother's singing voice, as she opened her left hand. 'Your Majesty, will you please give me the flowers?'

'Why, yes,' answered Henri VIII, as he formed a slight grin to suggest approval. '이덕춘 (李德春) Hannah Moran, drop the flowers to see what were left in waiting for him then.'

---

This was a gigantic blow for Dong-Woo. Admittedly, by the end of the 2012-13 school year, Dong-Woo's yearning for Maude Turner had remained to some degree, even if she had tried to deny her own part in the saga that had quietly left those of his world, whose shock at the damage the 'red-haired dancer girl' had done to their darling, in shock and disgust. But by the end of it all, all had come to a realisation that Dong-Woo, no matter how much he had tried and what he had won in that glorious year for the 'immortals' men's fencing team's threepeat in the nationals, had lost it all. Perhaps too much. Likely not enough. There was no chance, or at least we thought, that they would collide into the circle of fate again.

Occasionally her world of dancers, models and funnily enough, wannabe politiques would notice him on the streets, and so would his world of future barristers, scholars and parliamentarians, and they would attempt to use each other's flaws - that of her insensitivity and seduction, and that of his heartfirst romanticism - to set a war of unspoken war. I still remember those days and wonder how such a small, minor object like Dong-Woo's love could cause the deafening silence on a small city of 150,000 people. Their occasional encounters, usually in the city's downtown located just minutes away from the hilly campus and 'The Lake', were a charged sight...Nobody left off happy in those by the end, almost as if our normal selves could just turn into fiery angels in defence of our respective companies.

In an attempt to resolve himself, Dong-Soo sought himself in studies of the Novopetrogradian intelligentsia a century prior, whose thinkers wrote like novelists and whose novelists wrote like philosophers, then in sword. He would make himself noticed, and that spring would see his name not only being approved for admissions to the University of Kingston's Slavonic Studies program, but also earn selection into the eight members of the national men's sabre team.

The sudden arrival of fame, one that would arrive in the new year after his suicide attempt, had brought him a sense of hope, but also a surge to let her know. The words of his success would reach Maude, who would think twice about her mistake, and in a last-ditch attempt, would send invitation to her 21st birthday to him and Sam Laetner on July 18th. Only one of them would make, however, for the evening of her birthday party, he nearly died.'

---

Hannah noticed that the scene changed. Freed from the binding of the End of Maude, whose dimensions had loosened up and slipped into one of the normal times where everything had fallen back into the normal narrative, Dr. Heo was still in attendance by the Huyramarcan librarian in his cloaked form, the parchment of his life-changing moment in visibility.

The room was still dark with no change to the furniture. But now, Dr. Heo was wearing the dark, long-tailed coat of a Gangrimdoryeong (강림도령, 降臨道令 - crown counsel of the Dead in Shingoryeoite underworld. And at the farthest end of the very long wall, there stood the emerald-made Schottic Torch with its golden handle and pole. It emitted little light, reflecting the mental state of all those present, near and far.

'The name changed from that of Dong-Woo to Dong-Soo, from Sam Laetner to Don Lautner, and of course Maude to Maureen,' Dr. Heo pointed out. 'And all of the sudden, the details reflected like that of my own life...almost as if the document had started documenting stories back into our world. I still remember the feeling of driving along the Lakeshore Expressway, in the hopes of seeing her, in a rented car...the wheels broke down and so did the brakes...'

'Yes, it was you who, after all, could have died like me, your dear Creator. But was saved thanks to a friend,' said the voice from the dark void. 'That, admittedly, denied you the opportunity to become the Yeomra the Great, but at the same time, allowed you to have a second chance at putting your life back...'

At that very moment, The Creator emerged out of the dark void and towards them, holding the Schottic Torch in his left hand while wearing the large-sized indigo 'University of Toronto' hoodie. His glasses were slightly messy and his hair had grown a little bit since their encounter just hours ago (which had meant days, if not weeks, ago on The Creator's side), The Creator smiled at the elderly, still feeling amused with how similar their facial expressions showed, even with over three decades of age difference between the three of them.

'I see that our Gangrimdoryeong has made a long way around,' said The Creator, as he looked at only his second-latest creation made from his soul's pieces in satisfaction. 'Not the Yeomra the Great he was offered, but still no less of a position. Rather, one that fits the fulfillment of life he has long needed in those dark days without Maureen Turner....' He then offered the torch back to Dr. Heo, as he looked back at them. '천년을 다닐 준비가 됬느냐? (Are you ready to serve for next thousand years?'

'For the next thousand years of quest? To punish those who has outlived the threads of their lives, and to reward those who have earned those rights?' Dr. Heo asked in a rhetorical matter, remembering his knowledge of the Shingoryeoite world of spirituality. 'I mean, it's inevitable for me, wasn't it?'

'Let's say it's better late than never,' The Creator smiled at him, before looking back to the void. 'We have a world to fix. You, Hannah Moran and Jang Joon-Gweon has to mend these walls that crumble on these waters,' he coughed. 'And it cannot be done without retrieving most painful and yet joyful of your memories...so we could obtain the peace that is required for the Tribunal.' Then he asked him again. '준비가 됬느냐? (Are you ready?)'

'Who else could be,' was all that Dr. Heo said.

[Quebec and Shingoryeo]

Dr. Heo and the Portal of Madness II: Map of the Problematique

PART 2.7 (40) - The Last of Us

While the actual Dr. Heo was busy finding out that there existed other version of him, and Joon-Gweon busy travelling to figure out that he had to bring together his fellow band of travellers to prevent his world from falling apart, the Creator himself was chatting with the Dr. Heo of the Planet 88.

For those who don't know the Pal-Pal, if you directly read it with onomatopoeia, was translated in the Korean of his world, which often but did not always translate to hundreds of [Quebec] & [Shingoryeo], as 'bulging', 'fresh', or the combination of such.

Now, Maybe some of them would remember it for Pal-Pal-Olympic, which would mean the 1988 Seoul Olympics that happened when his parents were nowhere near meeting one another - his father was under hiding from the Junta's relics in those days, while his mother was still in high school just outside the hosting city, unaware of the next decade of her own life that's going to be as dramatic as that of her son's past decade [2013-23].

'You definitely don't look the way I had expected all this time,' said Dr. Heo-88, a lonely, long-bearded, grease-bellied engineer hidden away in a penthouse high above some Joongyeong-area skyscraper. With the way he looked, he was certainly not having a good day. 'The Creator, from what we have been told, is a brutal man with penchant for causing natural disasters to punish his own subjects.'

'But you have known all about the world beyond?' The Creator asked, interested to hear what the Dr. Heo-88 is claiming about. 'Please tell me about this, dear child, for I am not going to stay here for too long. There's a whole world out there to save.' He asked again, this time in a bit more authoritative tone.

Dr. Heo-88 started to explain: 'Well it's a small, but tight-knitted community.' he said, the look on his eyes still sharp as ever. 'There's about a two-hundred of us, and we keep in contact with each other via a Telegram channel, and we keep the world updated through postings of sightings and group quests, similar to how the old-worlders used to play so-called MapleStory,' he said.

What Dr. Heo-88 did not tell about the rest, however, was the eyesight issue that most carried for almost entire his life. This had meant that he, heavily reliant upon his own intuition and senses, did not exactly have the best understanding of the greater world surrounding them. 'But I would suggest that you stay away from delving deeper into this group, for they might be a lost cause of own, and that you head back home.' he said.

'You will see that the world, when broken away for the sake of ideas and boredom, will mean little. And when those who perpetrate them for frivolous purposes like, as I have said, breaking away for the sake of boredom and pretensions of something new...you will actually find that the world you will get...provides the very opposite of what you desire.'

'How so?' The Creator asked. He was somewhat surprised to hear the response. 'Get to the point.'

All of sudden, their world of Quebec and Shingoryeo was floating above the clouds, with the floor of their lounges set in thousands of floating pieces. It was almost as if the denizens in this country of madness were headed for something else, as 94 million people here were situated high above the clouds and had started to eat one another out in the Laputa-esque vision.

Or that of Bernard Werber's Le Papillion des Etoiles was happening where we would see them head aimlessly into a world, in the hopes of finding the Second Earth where the chosen people could be saved.

'Laputa,' said The Creator, amused to see that the people here, on this version of Quebec and Shingoryeo, have decided to go up, and up, instead of fixing the eroding barriers of interdimensional boundaries around the Shingoryeoite realms. 'So the world you have here is the one that chose not to care, or rather not to care enough, and have instead sought out the world where the magical folk, instead of doing the dirty work under the table, had come out forward.'

'This is absolutely true,' Dr. Heo-88 said. 'Honestly, it is funny how the things have worked out. Instead of going underwater like how our ancestors, the people of the maritime fame, would have done...we have instead moved up, to the skies...'

'But why?' he asked.

'Well, you see. The people here have tried our best to find a solution to the cirrhosis, but instead of finding the right choice of coexistence as yours may try to do, they have decided to find their way in the skies to isolate.' Dr. Heo-88 said, his eyes changing colour from dark to red. 'On surface it appeared to be the best possible option, though I would argue in hindsight that there was no winner or loser - this Laputa, while a safe haven on appearance, has little room to escape. You only have so many ways to escape and in times of instabilities this had meant deadly wars and conflicts among us. Almost as if some of our worries, regarding the facilitation of the "perfect community", had proven us so.'

A moment of silence followed. 'But then what about those who had supposedly taken over in this world?' he asked.

'Do they really matter?' Dr. Heo-88 chuckled. 'They don't, at least not to us seers. While those who had come to take over in our place...those wandering strangers, had done little. All words, no gain, the dust of time would too pass by them, like how those before had done so before our arrival.'