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Arthur's fingertips glided over the yellowed parchment, the ink, eroded by time, shimmered with an eerie indigo hue under the moonlight. Lily held up a kerosene lamp, bringing its flickering light closer, casting overlapping shadows of the two on the wall. "Look at this line, 'guided by stardust.' Could the Cornflower specimen tucked in Grandfather's diary be the key?" The tips of her hair brushed against Arthur's hand, carrying the fragrance of Iris Soap Pod.
Suddenly, a creaking sound echoed from the Pine Floor of the attic as Lily's Father stepped out of the shadows, holding a Copper Pipe. The unburned Tobacco inside flickered uncertainly, casting dappled light across his wrinkled face. "It's not stardust," he exhaled a ring of smoke, the grayish mist coalescing into an Orion Star Map in the air. "It's Soul Dust, left behind by a Meteor Shower sixty years ago."
The rusty sound of the Cellar Iron Door opening resembled a dying man's sigh. Lily raised her kerosene lamp high, its swaying light illuminating a dusty Oak Chest in the corner. Arthur paused as he lifted the chest lid—symbols sealed with Beeswax on its surface slowly oozed dark red liquid. When a Crystal Bottle containing silvery powder was retrieved, the entire clock tower suddenly emitted a hum reminiscent of Bone Friction.
In the Central Square, Lily's Father drew a Hexagram with Meteoric Iron Powder, glowing with an eerie blue phosphorescence. As Arthur arranged seven Bronze Candelabra according to the position of Beidou, he noticed that candle wax was oddly flowing upward, congealing into Hebrew Characters. The sudden tolling of the Midnight Bell Chime startled Lily, causing the ancient book in her hands to flutter wildly like a dying dove.
"Let’s begin." The old man tapped the Copper Pipe against his shoe sole; as sparks fell into the eye of the Hexagram Array, the floor tiles of the square began to undulate like living creatures. Lily's voice rose in her Lily's Recitation, resonating with an unusual harmony; Arthur saw her pupils shimmer with a golden hue, her hair swirling in the sudden gust like a burning Platinum Flame.
As thick fog materialized with the third toll of the Tolling Bell, it carried with it the pungent scent of Humus, crashing against the edge of the formation. Just as Arthur was sketching the final rune, he stumbled—his shadow twisted on the ground into the shape of a Two-Headed Serpent. Outside the formation, whispers echoed as townsfolk appeared from various Street Corners, their eyes swirling with pitch-black mist.
"Steady the Star Trail!" The old man's shout snapped Arthur back to reality; he realized that the flames from seven candles had contorted into serpentine shapes. Grabbing the Silver Bottle filled with Soul Dust, blood droplets fell from his palm to its mouth; suddenly, Ashes surged forth, boiling and forming chains that ensnared the chaotic energy flow. Lily's voice in her recitation soared higher; words from the ancient text broke free from their Paper Page, transforming into a swirling Golden Incantation that encircled the violently trembling clock tower.
When the twelfth toll of the Tolling Bell ripped through the night, everyone’s eardrums tasted a rusty smell. Arthur saw blinding flames erupt from inside Lily's Father Copper Pipe, and blood mist sprayed from where the old man bit his tongue, morphing in midair into a phoenix spreading its wings. The uncontrolled Energy Vortex suddenly collapsed into a point before exploding outward in a shockwave that overturned half of the square’s cobblestones.
As dawn broke through the thick fog, a clear peal rang from the Bronze Bell. Arthur wiped away blood from his nose and looked up to see that even rusted components of the clock had regained their luster, shimmering like liquid mercury. Lily sat collapsed within the cracked lines of the hexagram, her hair dusted with sparkling Soul Dust, while her ancient book transformed into fluttering gray butterflies.
As screams erupted from a nearby Street Corner, Arthur was helping weakly rising Lily to her feet. The Bakery Owner knelt at his shop’s entrance, cradling his head as mold spots visibly faded from displayed Honey Cake. The postman sat on the road, scattered letters in his hands—the 1913 date on one particular envelope was dissolving into wisps under moonlight.
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