The Secret Cult Chronicles of the Decaying Lake Manor

Frederick's expression seemed somewhat neurotic—perhaps a beneficial focus in the eyes of an artist, yet tinged with a kind of driven anxiety.

His movements were quick, even somewhat rough, as the paintbrush scraped and piled up on the canvas, making a slight rustling sound.

By the sharp, piercing light of the next flash of lightning, one could make out the work on his canvas.

The background is also a deep, dark night, and in the absolute darkness, a grotesque figure stands out starkly.

It was an exceptionally burly, muscular male figure, exuding a primal sense of power.

He wore a helmet with two bull horns, and had a thick, majestic beard on his chin. His resolute appearance carried a strong exotic style, making him look like a foreign god from an ancient legend.

This powerful deity stands atop a towering rock that pierces the clouds, holding a gleaming hammer and spear, seemingly about to strike or throw it at some unseen enemy.

However, upon closer inspection, the "deity" in the image presents a chilling distortion.

Below his thick, tree-trunk-like neck, where his chest should have been, were meticulously painted with dense, jet-black bristles resembling those on the chest and abdomen of some giant insect.

Behind its broad back, where there should have been sacred wings or nothing at all, stretched out a pair of huge, transparent wings belonging to an insect.

The deity's posture was also indescribably strange; the muscles twisted as he swung his arm and threw it, as if an invisible force lurked beneath his skin, twisting his form in another direction.

Frederick's arm moved through the air, the tip of his brush slamming more chaotic black lines and glaring white blocks onto the canvas, exacerbating the chaos.

His lips moved silently, his gaze fixed on the heretical god in the center of the canvas.

Or perhaps, he is gazing through the canvas at the all-consuming storm and thunder outside the window.

Another flash of lightning illuminated his face, turning it deathly pale, and also lit up the grotesque figure on the canvas.

In the darkness, he seemed to roar, letting out a furious howl that no one paid any attention to.

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Last night's violent thunderstorm seemed to have washed over the entire island.

The morning sky was a washed-out gray-blue, and sunlight streamed down through the remaining gaps in the clouds, making the surface of the stagnant lake shimmer.

The lawns and shrubs of the estate were covered with glistening water droplets that sparkled in the morning light.

At the breakfast table, George noticed that Sybil was wearing a simple gray-blue dress today, without any jewelry or decorations, and even the lace at the neckline was of the simplest style.

Her face was still pale, but the dark circles under her eyes from the previous days were gone, and her eyes were much clearer.

George knew that the medicine and conversation last night seemed to have worked; she probably slept well.

As he sat down in his usual spot, Sybil was moving a small dish of marmalade toward her own plate.

She paused, then turned her head slightly and gave George a smile.

"That's some serious rain," Uncle Albert said, cutting an egg. "I heard the windows rattling all night long."

"The rain has washed away the gloom that had settled over the island," the old lady said calmly, picking up her teacup. "Perhaps it's a good thing."

George's gaze swept across the dining table—but one figure was missing from the long table.

"And Frederick?" he asked.

Uncle Albert paused for a moment, and the relaxed expression on his face slightly faded.

"I went to see him." He put down his cutlery and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

He said he wasn't feeling well, probably because he didn't sleep well due to the thunderstorm last night. I told him to get some rest and not to go downstairs for breakfast.

"Should we call a doctor?" the old lady asked with concern.

"No need, a good night's sleep should do the trick," Albert shook his head.

George nodded, suppressing his original idea of ​​asking Frederick to go to church with him.

After finishing his breakfast, he looked at Sybil: "If the rain stops, we'll—"

"Go to Mother's," Sybil said softly. "Go see her."

George noticed that the old lady's expression when she heard this was both tacit approval and avoidance, while his uncle seemed to ignore it.

After the meal, he got up and went back to his room to change his clothes.

As a time traveler, George is now powerless to conform to the dressing rules of this era—pajamas for sleeping, morning clothes for indoor use, and different clothes for outdoor use.

Unfortunately, most of them are very complicated to wear, making it quite difficult to dress appropriately on your own.

Fortunately, Elliott had already prepared the clothes George had chosen: a dark gray plain woolen suit, with even the bow tie being the simplest black.

"Young master, is there anything we need to bring?"

"Did you bring the keys over, Mr. Carson?" George asked, scrutinizing himself as he changed his clothes.

"Here it is, sir." Elliott took a small brass key with a velvet ribbon from the inside pocket of his coat. "Mr. Carson said the chapel is rarely visited, and asked me to tell you to keep warm."

George took the keys and nodded.

"You'll come with us," he said. "Help us carry some things on the way."

Elliott paused for a moment, then gave a sincere smile: "Yes, young master. It's my pleasure."

A moment later, the three set off along the gravel path on the west side of the manor.

After leaving the main residential complex, the landscape gradually changes.

The neatly trimmed lawns and orderly flower beds were gradually replaced, and the plants on both sides became increasingly lush and unruly.

After walking for a few minutes, the path led into a small grove of trees that had preserved the original appearance of the island.

The trees here are mainly old oaks and beechs, with their thick trunks covered with dark green ivy and light gray lichen, their branches and leaves rustling sadly in the autumn wind.

The forest floor was covered with a thick layer of fallen leaves, which made a soft sound when you stepped on them.

A winding dirt road stretches through the woods, and several benches can be seen half-hidden in the shadows of the trees in the distance.

This area is probably the best-preserved part of the island – it has been consistently maintained since the time of the first viscount.

Sybil remained silent the whole way, sunlight filtering through the sparse branches and leaves, casting dappled shadows that shimmered like gold on her simple skirt.

Elliott walked at the front, carrying a wicker basket containing several bunches of white lilies and a few sprigs of deep purple irises that George had obtained from the gardener, carefully wrapped in damp coarse cotton cloth.

George followed half a step behind his sister, observing the surroundings.

He was quite interested in this place as well.

During the blood flood, the viscount instructed him on the direction to pour the purifying potion, mentioning only the east, south, and north sides, but deliberately avoiding the west side.

He had a vague feeling of something was off at that time.

Then came the tall, dark figure and the woman's voice saying, "Run!"

There's also the Viscount's momentary breakdown and loss of composure upon seeing the mandala, and Carson's description of the period following his mother's death...

All clues point to the mother, whose grave is located in the woods of this family reserve.

As George's thoughts wandered, the path beneath his feet rose slightly.

After passing through the last clearing in the woods, man-made buildings finally came into view.

It was a small domed chapel, its stone walls eroded by time into a grayish-yellow hue.

A heavy oak door was tightly shut, its brass door knocker covered in bluish rust.

George knew that the family cemetery was behind the chapel.