Intelligence is taking the simple and making it complex. Knowledge is taking the complex and making it simple.

~Ogma, God of Eloquence and Inspiration

A stone path wound its way to the cottage, and they cut the grass and weeds back, giving the place a lived-in feeling. Gardens and flower beds lacked any weeds or other debris, and Crow marveled at the meticulous nature of the owner.

He had seen no sunlight since he arrived in this swamp, making Crow question his eyes. Even Ghost Eyes couldn’t see through it if it was an illusion. These plants needed sunlight to flourish, and they couldn’t just thrive without it. Plus, he felt little mana from them.

Only the stone path felt safe, but that was because he could feel the Ghost Chant coming from within the stones. It bothered him to think that he might be walking across ghosts, but some of his fear he’d long had to push past. Ghost Isle taught him that the dead weren’t all sinister beings and had their own sort of calling. Some appeared to operate on a base instinct. In contrast, others became their true selves—righteous or sinister, death stripped away their mask.

Upon his approach, a darkened window suddenly lit up as a flickering light came into existence. The way the soft, warm light moved, he was confident it was the flame of a candle. It made him pause and look back. Behind him, the mists had risen, and with each step forward, the mist followed like a curious puppy.

The ghosts within crowded around as if waiting for a show. Their eyes followed him, but their screaming mouths had been replaced with stitched lips, but Crow did not know what to make of that. It wasn’t like they were telling tales to begin with.

Taking the stairs one at a time, he felt the old, soaked wood creaking under his weight. Compared to the dock, the wood of this cottage was going to need repairs before long. The stonework for the foundation and lower walls of the home were probably unassailable. The cobbled structural foundation looked stupidly strong despite the vines, moss, and other plants growing over it.

Before he could even knock on the sagging wooden door, it swung open with a creak. A torn curtain that hung from the ceiling divided the two rooms in the cottage. Crow could easily see the entire building. On one side of the curtain were a single bed and a small nightstand. On the other side was a square table with four chairs positioned around it. On the table was a chamberstick candle holder. The tin plate had some old wax pooled in it, while the candle itself was nearly half gone.

Chills prickled his flesh as he stared at the candle. Something about it wasn’t quite right, but his uneasiness was directed at the candle holder itself. Stepping forward, he immediately stopped. While his foot landed on the floor across the threshold of the door, he sensed something else in the room.

Turning to look toward the bed, he saw an old lady sitting on a bench seat in front of it. He knew neither woman nor bench was there previously. Thump! His heart pounded so hard into his chest that even the old woman had to have heard it.

“Relax,” the lady said, her voice sounding warm and kind, like what he’d always pictured his grandmother would sound like. However, it only made his unease grow more intense. “Nothing can harm you in this place, not even the dead. You’ve entered a… mausoleum. Crossing the threshold into this place would grant them the rest they resist.”

“And you are?”

“I never was—or am.”

Crow stared at her for several long moments. He didn’t care for people that talked in riddles because he never felt it was a form of intelligence, but lack thereof. It was something stupid people did to sound smart—or worse, they did it to be annoying.

No matter, he figured out the old woman’s riddle—Item Spirit. Crow glanced at the candle again, recalling one of the Twelve Artifacts of Chaos was called the Light of Life and was supposed to be a candle.

“It is a troublesome artifact, is it not?”

Glancing between the old woman and the artifact, he knew something wasn’t right.

“Take it. Fate deems that it belongs to you.”

Playing along, Crow asked, “You are one of the Twelve Artifacts of Chaos?”

“Smart boy. It is fitting that you find this item. You seem to have an affinity toward Spirit.”

Crow couldn’t argue with that point because it was true. Rather than take it, he slid the piece of paper out from under it and read what was written there.

The first sinner lives a tormented existence. To light the candle, three generations of mothers must die by the daughter—the daughter’s mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother. Snuffing the light will end its curse.

“You are the daughter?” Crow asked, voice like winter.

“I am an Item Spirit.” The old woman replied, but Crow knew she was lying. His barely contained rage caused his body to shudder and wondered who wrote this letter. He doubted it was the old woman.

“Can this scare away a banshee?”

“They are considered spirits, so yes.”

The candle’s warmth was definitely the Light of Life, but this artifact was fake—a sinister replica. Even though he was sure this item was a fake, the person who crafted it had to have touched the original. It was too close to the description he’d read. And the reason he felt this was a replica was that the real Chaos Artifact supposedly couldn’t be snuffed out. The text said millions of lives were sacrificed to light it, and extinguishing the light would release an army of spirits, ghosts, and dead that could obliterate most life.

Looking at the fake candle, he knew it had to be destroyed. It was an abomination. With his back to the woman, he secretly prepped his Artifact of Chaos, the Devouring Box. With the energy the candle was giving off, he knew the box would devour it immediately after he opened the lid. The problem was he couldn’t predict what would happen after.

“Just dab it with your blood, and the candle will be yours,” the old lady urged him. It only made Crow feel more anxious, not less. In a flash, before the woman could react and before he could second guess himself anymore, the lid of the Devouring Box opened, and the candle disappeared. In the same instant, the box vanished into the Vortex Pin as if it never existed, and the cabin went dark.

“W-w-what d-did you do?” The woman hissed, her calm demeanor gone. Her form shifted, and she came at him with a vengeance. The air rippled with mana, and Crow knew that while she was incorporeal, her attacks were no joke. Hastily, he used Ghost Steps to avoid the attack.

What the woman couldn’t know was that he’d activated his Ghost Eyes and knew what she really was from the beginning. If he had to guess, she was one of the mothers sacrificed to light the candle. It was strange she survived, even as a vengeful ghost.

The thing he hadn’t expected was that the moment the candle was destroyed, her true form was revealed. He’d activated Ghost Eyes to give him a chance to retaliate. In the brief moment after he snuffed the light, he saw the old woman wasn’t what he expected at all. A thin man was standing in her place wearing a mask.

“Bone Mask of the Baron!” Crow blurted out. It really was one of the Twelve Artifacts of Chaos.

“You know a little too much.” The man no longer kept up the illusion and pried the mask from his face. Underneath it was a face so plain that Crow struggled to remember it. With a wave of his hand, the fireplace ignited, and lit sconces appeared on the walls.

“How are you still here if I snuffed the candle?” Crow was sure this person wasn’t an Item Spirit but wasn’t sure what it was. The mask was something that bothered him more than the man. It gave the person unique powers over spirits and the undead, making the wearer violent and unpredictable.

“I’ll tell you after I bring you back from the dead,” the man said, striking out with a cane. Crow felt the power of a Shield, so he knew he faced a living person. Since Nin couldn’t gain a Shield, he’d already suspected that only the races of man could do so. Before the staff came down, Crow’s falcata was already deflecting the blow.

The results surprised both of them. Considering the amount of power Crow felt from the man, he expected that he’d get blown away. Reality stumped him. Not only did he deflect the blow, but the man before him stumbled back.

This only angered the man, who attacked even more viciously than before. Crow had a powerful urge to use his Ghost Chant, so while the two exchanged blows, he activated his abilities one by one. He didn’t want to alert the man, so he did it slowly. When the chant started flowing from Crow’s mouth, the man panicked.

“Draoidh?” He hissed, trying to disengage, but Crow wouldn’t give him that chance. Not understanding why the man was so much weaker, he couldn’t risk not taking advantage.

The staff narrowly missed Crow, but he’d planned for that. His falcata struck immediately after creating a gap, and the blade came alive like a striking serpent. The hand holding the Bone Mask of the Baron fell to the ground, separated from its owner’s body halfway between the elbow and the wrist. As the artifact left his control, the passive ghosts surrounding the cottage poured through the walls. Their personal attacks weren’t much, but together they shredded the man apart.

Crow stood there stupidly staring at what was unfolding around him but didn’t dare stop chanting. He could sense they were avoiding him for this reason alone. After several moments, when he knew the man wasn’t surviving, he went forward and deposited the mask in his Vortex Pin. While it was powerful, it was an Artifact of Chaos. It was best to forget he even had it.

“You… can’t avoid… him,” the man gasped, his blood disappearing, absorbed by the cottage.

“Who?”

“Baron Samedi, he is the Loa of the Dead… Vodun—”