The mystery did not loosen its grip on Baston's mind even after he returned to the inn. If anything, it tightened.
The woman's words from yesterday still echoed faintly in his memory.
The quiet town, the kind mayor, and miraculous drink.
Every fragment pointed toward the same place which was the mayor's mansion.
The old book had not given him a direct answer, only a command that felt deceptively simple.
Set the people free.
It was for the people and it was plural.
He wondered if it was pointing toward the people back then.
The one who drank such a strange juice, including the little girl. They looked fine and happy. They were not behind the bars. They were not imprisoned but his curiosity took the best of him.
Perhaps, the true prison was not built from iron bars.
It was built from something else.
If the clue began with the little girl and led to the mayor, then the next thread had to be inside that mansion which meant he had to enter it. There must be clue somewhere inside.
Of course, he wouldn't trespass personally.
Baston glanced down at his own body and sighed softly.
With this build, sneaking through guarded walls was an invitation to be hacked into pieces before he even reached the garden fence.
Stealth was not his advantage but subtlety was. And subtlety, in this case, wore whiskers which were rats.
No household in this town was free from them. No guard would suspect a rat scurrying through shadows. No wizard would detect mana fluctuations from a puppet that emitted none.
His puppets were extensions of his will but when transformed into animals, they felt like living creatures.
They breathed without breathing, they moved without magic, and they existed between illusion and reality. It was perfect tools for reconnaissance.
At dawn the next day, Baston positioned himself at a distance from the mayor's mansion.
The estate stood silent beneath pale sunlight and its tall gates guarded by armed men whose armor reflected cold discipline rather than ceremonial pride.
Yesterday had been a performance but today was routine. Routine was easier to penetrate.
From beneath his cloak, Baston released all three puppets.
They shifted silently into small gray rats before touching the ground, scattering in three different directions as if guided by instinct.
Baston's consciousness split. It didn't work painfully and not overwhelmingly, but in layered awareness. At first, controlling three perspectives had been dizzying.
Now, it felt like juggling thoughts.
The first rat headed toward the mayor's private quarters.
The second one slipped along the outer wall, searching for underground access.
The third one roamed freely, mapping the mansion's interior through cracks, beams, and forgotten passages.
This old mansion was generous with secrets.
The walls were thick, the floors were layered, and in those layers were holes carved by time or perhaps by design.
The first rat reached the mayor's room. It waited and listened. There was no breathing, no footsteps, and no shifting paper.
The mayor was absent. No servant dared enter this chamber casually. Even dust seemed to hesitate before settling.
The rat climbed the cabinet and, in the blind corner behind it, transformed. The small gray body elongated, fur melting into cloth, and bones reshaping without sound.
A hooded figure stood where a rat had been. Baston felt the transformation ripple through his mind.
Once, he had believed such mid-operation transformations were impossible.
When he first attempted to alter a puppet's form outside the book's confirmation, a sharp pain had pierced his skull like a warning.
Now, the connection between him and his puppets felt thicker. It was stronger like threads of reinforced steel rather than fragile silk.
Advancement had consequences and new capabilities.
The hooded puppet opened the cabinet carefully.
There was nothing particular inside. Documents were neatly arranged, ink bottles were sealed, and there was no hidden compartments.
He moved to the desk drawer. He was trying to be careful, doing his action with minimal disturbance. A faint click answered him. There was a secondary layer.
The puppet immediately shifted back into a rat, small enough to avoid triggering mechanisms that a larger frame might disturb.
It slipped into the narrow gap and found a folded piece of paper tucked into the hidden compartment. Baston read through dim perception.
"I as the mayor of this town did something terrible. At first, I thought as long as I never hurt anyone, it was perfectly safe. That man didn't mention anything and only asked for some people to give a test of the potion he made. I was wary and anxious, but on other hand, it was such a disguised miracle. They didn't have to die and could live as long as they drank the potion. Still, I don't know what happened if someone noticed something strange in this town. The man only ordered people here to help him caught all the criminals that bypassing here. I doubted and hesitated, but since we also did the good by apprehending all the bad guys here, then we all relented to it. As long our lovely person could still live, we would like to make a contract with the man…"
Baston exhaled slowly.
"Is this a diary or a confession?" he muttered internally.
The mayor had justified his sin disguised as a miracle.
The potion which was disguised as the miraculous drink. And the man who was disguised as the savior.
His identity was confusing between dark wizard, alchemist, or cultist. All in all, they were criminals.
He folded the paper back precisely with his tiny hands as it had been and retreated. Nothing was displaced and nothing was disturbed.
The first rat withdrew.
Meanwhile, the second rat had found the underground chamber.
The air was cooler below, damp but not filthy. This was not a dungeon built for cruelty. It was curated.
The cell was small, reinforced, but surprisingly clean. Inside, one man paced restlessly. A plate of fresh food rested near him, still untouched.
There were no chains and no visible injuries.
"This person should be the one mentioned in that paper…" Baston thought.
He considered releasing him but hesitation tightened his thoughts.
If the man truly was a criminal, setting him free might endanger innocent lives.
The mayor's confession had framed these prisoners as bad ones for society.
Was he prepared to unleash something he did not understand?
He needed more information. The rat melted into a hooded man within the shadowed corner.
Footsteps echoed softly and the prisoner looked up sharply.
"What do you want? I already told you everything."
"I think you misunderstand," the hooded figure replied calmly, "I'm not from this town. My employer sent me and he wants you returned in one piece."
The man's eyes widened, "Who?"
"You already know him."
Silence then a sudden realization came to the man.
"That's it! My boss! He knew I could still be useful!"
The hooded man smirked faintly but said nothing. He examined the lock deliberately. He clicked his tongue, shaking his head.
The prisoner stepped closer to the bars, "Can you open it?"
"It's complicated," the hooded figure replied, "It's strange that someone like you is kept personally here. What did you do? Have you killed someone?"
"No! I only stole! I didn't know the house belonged to a noble! The punishment soon was escalated! I thought I'd be executed but instead, they brought me here without explanation!"
"Only stealing?"
"I swear! My boss ordered it! He said someone owed him. I had to retrieve the goods or lose my wages!"
"And others?" the hooded man pressed lightly, "Anyone else kept here?"
"No, just me... I'm already here for one week alone."
Baston narrowed his thoughts. One week and alone. Still, the old book had said people. It was plural and he believed the quest would not make mistakes.
He felt it instinctively that the old book did not operate with typos which meant the prisoner was not the true target or not the only one.
Just to make sure his hunch was correct, he needed to look for more information.
The hooded figure stepped back.
"I'll return later..."
He then went away, dissolving into a rat and vanished. The man shouted faintly behind him but the sound faded into underground silence.
The third rat had drifted into the upper levels.
It did not approach openly. Instead, it crawled along beams near the attic, watching the unseen.
There, through a narrow gap, Baston saw her.
The mayor's wife who had given him a dried meat before.
She stood near a cabinet, pale and trembling. Not with illness but with something heavier.
There was guilt in her expression.
"This can't go on," she whispered hoarsely, "The town will be the sinners forever…"
She reached toward something inside the cabinet, "I have to destroy that statue before my husband returns."
"Madam! You can't!" the maids rushed forward, blocking her.
"It's better than this!" the woman cried, "Better to die than live like this!"
"Your husband will be mad, madam!"
"I know what he'll do! I know! But this… This isn't life!"
One maid's face hardened with reluctant resolve, "I'm sorry, madam."
A needle pierced her skin. The woman struggled briefly, rage in her eyes, before sleep overtook her.
The maids carried her away gently, locking the door. They sighed.
"Why does she resist every time?" one whispered.
"We gave her the potion, yet she still remembers fragments…"
"Everyone else is fine. It was only her."
"Her husband made a deal with dark wizards to save her life. She should be grateful."
"She believes destroying that statue will free people from prison."
"Don't speak about it! If someone hears you…"
"Relax… Everyone inside this mansion already knows."
Baston felt something cold settle in his spine.
The statue, the potion, the memory fragments, and living forever. It started from the juice yesterday.
Only some had drunk it and only those already dead or dying who needed the seemingly miraculous potion. He saw it now.
The people in the quest were not behind bars. They were walking, smiling, breathing, and drinking like anyone else.
The potion preserved the body but something inside had already died.
Perhaps their souls or perhaps their humanity.
To set them free would mean breaking whatever sustained them. It meant killing them.
The mayor had struck a deal to preserve his wife's life.
The town had cooperated by capturing criminals as test subjects. In exchange, they received a miracle.
It could be regarded as immortality even though it was conditional.
Their lives would be always dependent, controlled by a statue.
That statue likely was housing the source or the contract.
And the wife, despite drinking the potion, retained fragments of clarity which was enough to seek destruction, which meant the potion was not perfect.
It suppressed, it rewrote, it erased, but not completely.
Baston withdrew the rat slowly. His mind churned.
This was no simple jailbreak. The old book had given him a quest that required a decision heavier than iron.
Free them and end them. Leave them and allow the false miracle to persist. He thought of the little girl, about her bright smile.
Was she among those revived or still untouched?
If he shattered the statue, the town might collapse into grief.
If he did nothing, they would live forever in quiet corruption.
Mystery had opened into conspiracy and conspiracy had transformed into morality.
The quest no longer felt like a command. It felt like a judgment. Set the people free. Freedom from prison or freedom from false life.
Baston stood outside the mansion walls as his three rats retreated into the shadows of his sleeves, reforming silently into formless puppets.
The wind brushed past him. The town looked peaceful under sunlight. The children ran, the merchants laughed, and the guards chatted.
No one appeared undead and no one appeared imprisoned, and yet beneath that calm surface, something unnatural pulsed.
For a fleeting moment, Baston wondered if he was being manipulated not only by the mayor, not only by the hidden dark wizard, but by the old book itself.
The timing of the quest was too precise.
It had become clearer only after he witnessed the drink being served.
Only after the wife's strange gaze lingered on him.
Only after the little girl spoke words no child should have understood.
Was the book guiding him toward justice or pushing him toward guilt?
He replayed every detail in his mind.
The townspeople's laughter had been genuine. The warmth of the food, the scent of baked bread, and the way the little girl had tugged at his sleeve. None of it felt hollow.
If their souls were damaged, then the illusion was perfect.
That was what frightened him most.
A lie wrapped in cruelty was easy to hate and a lie wrapped in happiness was far more dangerous.
If he destroyed the statue, the townspeople would not thank him.
They would curse him. They would see a monster who robbed them of miracle and hope. Even if the miracle was twisted, it had given them time.
That precious time with loved ones who should have been gone.
Time stolen from nature and time borrowed from something darker.
He closed his eyes briefly.
To set them free would be the same as to kill everyone.
This matter was very complicated in Baston's heart.
Would he be a savior for the town or the sinner for the people?