Clack... clack...
BOOM!
"POLICE! HANDS UP!"
A squad of police officers, their jet-black uniforms drenched from the storm, stormed into a shack nestled in the desolate outskirts near the distant seaport. However, they were not greeted by a desperate criminal or a fleeing suspect. Instead, they stepped into a chamber of pure, unadulterated madness.
The room was suffocating, saturated with the stench of rotting rats, decomposing flesh, and the sharp, chemical tang of ink.
"Blegh—cough!"
A young officer, likely still green and unaccustomed to such depravity, leaned against the wall and retched violently.
In the center of the room, amidst a sea of newsprint plastered over every inch of space, a figure hung suspended in mid-air. The body was a grotesque masterpiece of agony: bones and muscles had been twisted and distorted until the frame was inverted in an impossible, skeletal knot.
The victim's face defied description. No sound could escape his throat, for it was leaking dark fluid; blood seeped through teeth clamped shut in a permanent, agonizing grind. Each attempt to speak was nothing more than a fresh spill of mortality. His eyes were strained, bulging from their sockets as if they were about to burst from the skull. It was impossible to tell if the man was still tethered to life.
Suddenly, the mangled mouth twitched.
In that instant, blood erupted like a crimson waterfall, carrying with it a foul slurry of undigested food—a final, visceral rejection of the body's contents.
"Move! Fan out and search the perimeter! You three, stay here and assist me. One of you call dispatch—get an ID on the body, see if it matches any missing persons reports."
"There is no need."
A man wearing a crisp white shirt and a black overcoat—distinct from the standard police issue—stepped forward. He held a sketchbook, his fingers moving with clinical precision as he sketched a reconstruction of the victim's face, mentally reversing the process of torture.
"Preliminary deduction: this is likely the Marquis's son, missing for several days. The hair, nails, and bone structure of the feet point to him. Check the grounds for any sign of the missing maid."
The man looked at the officers preparing to search. "And stay sharp. This is no common homicide. This is an aggravated felony of the highest order. We are dealing with the 'Scattered Enigma,' the most notorious serial killer in the Beric region. If we mishandle this, we won't just be counting more bodies—we'll be burying ourselves alongside them."
He signaled for caution as he approached the smeared bloodstains on the victim's face, tracing the psychological profile and the methodology of the act.
"...Look for someone short. Approximately 15 to 20 centimeters shorter than the victim. Around thirty years old. Likely suffers from visual impairment and severe OCD or a psychological obsession with perfection. Do not limit your search to those seen near the victim's last known locations. The victim was a hedonist, a man whose skin reflected his soul; it would have been easy for the killer to impersonate a sighting elsewhere. Delay the report of the body's discovery for twelve hours. A late report is a small price to pay for accuracy."
Through only a few minutes of observation, the stranger had dismantled the killer's psyche.
A stab wound to the chest... it suggests a lack of confidence in using magic to kill. The low angle of the blade indicates a short stature but a decisive, practiced hand. Yet the clothing and the binding of the limbs are uncannily symmetrical. The newspapers on the walls are arranged in a specific alternating pattern with dark highlights... the room is pitch black. Is it psychological torture, or a necessity of the killer's failing eyesight? He only operates at night. His eyes are damaged, but the nature is unclear. No, it must be a profession linked to these details. A sculptor? A painter, perhaps? But the madness required for this... unlikely. A butcher or a mercenary wouldn't bother with this level of aesthetic. Is he getting information from the gangs?
Suddenly, the detective's expression froze. He reached out to touch the face of the dying man, his body stiffening before he recoiled in horror.
Subdermal stitching?
The entire face was like a meticulously applied layer of silicone. There was no lividity, no natural skin texture, and not a single thread visible from the outside.
A facial flaying?
"This... this is going to be difficult."
He picked up a stack of newspapers, scanning the headlines. It was a desperate attempt to gauge how far the killer's obsession reached.
Rip—
Rip—
Rip—
Rip—
Rip—
Rip—
Rip—
Click—
In the detective's dark, obsidian eyes, a strange silhouette flickered.
A light tapping on a desk from a figure hidden in the shadows, illuminated only by a flickering bulb, shattered the silence of the hollow room. The space was filled with thousands of newspapers—on the walls, on the floor—covering every subject imaginable. Agriculture, medicine, geography, science, politics, beauty, art, and local economics. From major international dailies to obscure local rags, they were plastered in a chaotic, overlapping mess.
On the rotting wooden desk were hundreds of strange, winding lines and cryptic symbols.
"Seven years... no, only five years remain."
A whisper, as thin and brittle as a corpse's breath, drifted through the room. The oppressive air seemed to swell with the voice of a man pushed to the very edge of existence.
"Only five years until the apocalypse... What must I do..."
Rip, tear—
The figure lunged at the wall, tearing away layers of newsprint, searching for something buried deep within his memory.
Rip, tear—
Each layer of shredded paper revealed a frantic network of self-derived laws: observations on power, strength, management, and economics. Sentences from books intermingled with personal revelations from across every field of study.
"God damn it..."
The man tearing the papers froze. After ripping away a section of the wall, he realized that thousands of different words were woven together so densely they were unrecognizable. It was like dozens of layers of text carved atop one another, a deliberate attempt to drive the mind into madness upon sight.
/I want to destroy this country.
I want to witness the apocalypse./
"Curse it all."
The detective pulled out his badge—a silver sword pinned across a pair of wings. He pressed the mechanism, causing the sword to lock into the wings with a sharp click.
"THIS IS CODE 1103. INVESTIGATE THE PREVIOUS TENANT OF THIS ADDRESS IMMEDIATELY!"
"BLOCKADE ALL POTENTIAL ESCAPE PORTS! BRING SOMEONE WHO CAN IDENTIFY HANDWRITING AND FINGERPRINTS. DO NOT LET THE MAN WHO BROKE JINLUS ESCAPE! HE IS THE SEED OF TERROR!"
Static... bleep...
Suddenly, the other end of the comms crackled with a distorted, hollow sound.
"I have news for you too, Detective. I tracked the maid's remains using a spirit hex. Do you know what I found? Her parts are being sold at a pork butcher's shop... and half of her has already been sold and lost."
"...What?"