Academic gathering with a lich

It was only after the night owls began their serenade, and the sunlight had all but vanished, that Lyle sneaked out of his cottage.

He peeked around from behind the door, no accidental encounters with residents, no patrolling sheriffs, it was safe.

Although he had been instructed to move stealthily, Lyle glanced at his Plague Doctor's outfit and felt a shudder, even in his own eyes, as he roamed in the dead of night. In such attire, anyone would find it creepy, let alone himself. And with the dimness of the night, as Lyle walked down the street, it was like wandering in a haunted house, where he was the ghost.

Lyle had to be cautious of every person he saw, firstly to avoid startling them, and secondly for fear that screams might summon the sheriffs; he didn't want to report to the law enforcement office a day early, especially not in a hostage-like manner. An encounter with Ralph would be an eternal stain on his life.

Therefore, Lyle had no choice but to wander through the hidden alleyways, with the light of the main street stretching his shadow long, much like the protagonist of a grotesque horror novel.

Fortunately, life is not a literary work.

On his way to the destination, Lyle only came across a couple of small cats.

This probably was number thirteen on Seventh Street.

Lyle lit his oil lamp and examined the contents of the letter in the firelight.

There were no conspicuous street signs at this time, only a few landmark buildings could be remembered. One notable structure on Seventh Street was a bakery on the main road, identifiable because its sign read 'Brook Bookstore,' but they sold bread—perhaps they switched trades midway and forgot to redecorate.

Turning into Seventh Street and counting to the thirteenth plot wasn't difficult; each owner used distinctive decorations to demarcate their property.

The night had grown deep, and the chill in the air had become much denser.

Lyle took a deep breath facing his destination.

Countless stones stood before Lyle, welcoming him much like an opera house filled with an eager audience.

Of course, Lyle felt no joy; these were gravestones.

Moving forward on the gravel path, Lyle could only hear his own heartbeat and breathing.

He carefully weighed each step, careful not to disturb any of the "sleeping" persons here.

After a journey of about ten minutes, he still had not seen what might be the location of Andrei Academy.

The breath Lyle exhaled began to frost, unaware that the temperature around him had fallen by a dozen degrees, unaware that his legs under the coat were gradually trembling, his figure hunching as though he bore some invisible burden.

All he noticed was the voice.

A voice that began as a whisper in his ear and had infiltrated his mind at some unnoticed moment. At first, it was so slight as to seem an illusion, then gradually it clarified into a woman's voice, but the frigid sensation lingered long, as if her words carried their own chill.

It murmured just behind Lyle's ear, accompanying him the whole way, initially lethargic and indifferent, but increasingly urgent as if something was driving her; she had to hurry to convey her message to Lyle, but the garbled phrases could not articulate her meaning and instead amplified Lyle's fear like the wailing of a woman.

Lyle felt as if he had encountered some "filthy thing." As he agonized over whether to proceed, the pleading reached its climax, as if, after passing some turning point, the voice became fainter, as though the danger was receding.

Lyle halted, and at this moment, the voice behind his ear stopped. But Lyle felt no relief; he seemed deaf to everything else, surrounded only by a "dead" silence.

Visions began to appear before Lyle's eyes; he felt as if he were standing on the edge of a cliff, where one step forward would mean hell.

He had no choice, or rather, there was none to make, because as he debated whether to risk going forward, the voice returned.

Closer than before, so close it seemed as if she were leaning over his shoulder, he could feel the breath of her words, cold as ice and snow, hitting his ear.

"Turn around and look."

Lyle finally understood her words, but that didn't mean he intended to comply.

However, his twitching body didn't heed his thoughts; like a puppet, it complied with the rotation of his head and turned around.

And he saw her.

She had no frightening or nauseating appearance; she was, in fact, quite beautiful to look at. But, she was like mist, an ethereal figure crafted by the capricious artistry of nature.

Perhaps this is the legendary ghost?

It was probably the last oddity Lyle saw.

Those hazy hands cradled Lyle's face.

Crack.

It was not the sound of a spine being snapped.

It was just that Lyle's cheeks began to freeze, just when he thought he was going to freeze to death.

She revealed her "kiss".

Pain, along with fear, started to revive the nerves numbed by the severe cold, desperately transmitting the sensation of pain to the brain; his mind seemed ready to burst with a pain that transcended the fear.

"Why am I still conscious?" Lyle thought, wishing to faint, or even considering death a bliss at that moment.

His thoughts began to blur, yet the pain was still clear, a sensation so peculiar as if the body was both confused and lucid at the same time.

Lyle saw a shadow with twinkling spots emerge from his body, that was a part of himself, that was, the soul?

The Soul-Capturing Specter?

Lyle could feel the white light drawing near her, towards that "kiss".

If it were a bystander, perhaps it would seem a lascivious scene of unfinished love between a man and a ghost.

But what he actually endured was the biting cold, heart-piercing pain, and the eeriness of aging and wilting, all happening at the same time.

"Is this it?" Lyle thought to himself, unable to harbor feelings of anger or resentment due to the numbness of his nerves, Lyle even unprecedentedly felt a sense of serenity.

It was over.

The dark blue wax seal in his pocket melted into liquid, moving like a living creature along Lyle's limbs, up his cheeks, as a dark blue snake faced the ghost before him, coiled on Lyle's face, hissing.

"Waiting for you."

Lyle collapsed on the ground, and she dissipated like mist, the frost melted away, as if everything that had happened was just a dream, the phantom pain lingering in his limbs being the only proof of the torment he had suffered.

A quarter hour later, Lyle knelt on the grass, not minding the grass clippings on him, pulling out the envelope from his pocket.

The wax seal was gone.

Does this mean I've passed?

Lyle felt a sense of relief.

He thought about giving up because he was unsure of what lay ahead.

In the end, he didn't give up; having suffered such torment and gained nothing, he couldn't reconcile himself to that.

Shakily standing up, he squinted and took a deep breath, the midnight air, mixed with the scent of medicine, flowing through the beak mask into his nostrils.

"The weather's not bad, and the air is very fresh,"

a man mumbled to himself in the large cemetery.

Lyle stretched and felt refreshed; the tombstones no longer seemed so creepy, and the environment was not as silent as before.

With a light step and a mischievous expression beneath the mask, Lyle moved deeper into the cemetery.