"The game is harder than we thought. There may only be one actual killer, but he has many accomplices, or the killer is just the executioner. There are puppeteers behind him. If we make the wrong judgement, we may fall into a trap," said one voice in the conversation.
Beihan paused before adding, "Another important clue is that Lady Nihelet mentioned that she found a mysterious pentagram at the crime scene of the Prossi family's massacre. But she's not sure if it was merely the imprint left by scorching or if she saw incorrectly."
"Heresy?" asked another voice.
"Perhaps," replied Beihan.
Late into the night, the wind grew colder. On a vast, empty land, a few solitary graves were decorated with crosses that cast eerie shadows under the moonlight.
An almost hunchbacked figure tirelessly swung a hoe into the earth. Dirt flew up as sweat dripped onto the parched soil. In the gaps between the rocks, the sweat quickly disappeared.
Two teenagers struggled to carry a bundle wrapped in a cotton blanket across from the figure. The bundle ended in a mass of pitch-black hair.
"Come on, children, throw it in," the figure digging the hole turned around. Under the moonlight, his face was revealed. It was none other than the old priest who had appeared in Nihelet Manor.
The teenagers somewhat laboriously threw the body wrapped in the blanket into the hole dug by the old priest. Yet, despite being involved in something as frightening as disposing of a body, their faces showed no fear.
The oldest of the two boys turned to the old priest and nervously inquired, "Are you okay? What did you see at the Nihelet's?"
The old priest dropped the hoe, looked upwards into the moonlight, and closed his eyes in pain. He remembered the icy look in Shiller's eyes when he said those words. But what the priest saw wasn't Shiller's hatred—it was his own.
"A demon, child, I saw the demon in my heart," the priest replied.
The younger of the two children cocked his head, not understanding what the priest meant. The priest then made the sign of the cross, patted the child's head, and said, "Remember, there will be someone in this world who will mirror your actions. When you see yourself through his eyes, you'll understand that you've met the devil. But remember, the devil is not him—it's you."
He bent down again, picked up the hoe, and began to fill the grave with dirt. All the while, he whispered, "Don't be afraid, children, you needn't fear anymore. Your warden now rests with you; he'll never harm you again."
Both children scurried about, helping the priest fill the grave. The old priest then threw the hoe to the side, heaved a sigh of relief, and said, "I may have to leave for a while. Take care of the other children. If the police come around, tell them you know nothing."
"Where are you going?" The children immediately gathered around him, worried. "We're not going to say anything. We'll pretend we've been asleep in the attic all night and have not seen anyone."
"You're very clever," the priest said, squatting down and hugging them both. He patted their heads and continued, "But you're still children. When you grow up, you'll understand there are many demons like your warden. I'm going to deal with one of them now."
With that, he stood up, turning his gaze to the bell tower of the distant church, and without hesitation, took his leave from the cemetery.
When Natasha knocked on Shiller's door, Shiller had just brewed three cups of coffee, which he placed near the fireplace to keep warm. He opened the door and ushered Natasha, dressed in her pajamas, inside.
"It appears you've made considerable headway," Shiller said, grinning from ear to ear.
"What's surprising is that you've apparently done nothing." Natasha leisurely strolled over to a single-seat couch, sat down, and after accepting a cup of coffee from Shiller, glanced at the two remaining cups near the fireplace. She laughed and added, "Don't get me wrong, just playing around. Not even a three-year-old would believe you've done nothing."
"Who, Madam, do you believe is our killer?" Shiller asked.
"Hancock is the most suspect," Natasha responded, biting her nails and thinking before explaining, "I talked to him after dinner. You know, he's the prototypical hypocrite."
"You see him as a sophisticated scholar, right? He's deliberately portraying himself as one but I'd bet he's nothing more than a sleazy Don Juan dressed up in scholars' clothing. And what's the term for it again–a psychological pervert?"
Leaning back on the couch with two fingers resting against her cheek, Natasha recalled, "It's clear that he, more than anyone else, lusts after my beauty, yet he pretends to be indifferent. However, his aim is not to resist temptation, but rather to get me to notice him."
"It's easy to see that he's encountered many weak women," Natasha snorted, adding, "Those who think he's a gentleman worth entrusting their lives to and therefore actively stick to him, totally unaware that they are the results of manipulation and hidden suggestions."
Looking at Shiller, Natasha stated, "But the worst part about him is that he doesn't do this for any meaningful purpose. He plays with people's emotions only to satisfy his physical desires and sadistic instincts."
"You deduced all of this from just a few words?" Shiller asked, stunned.
Exhaling, Natasha confessed, "I've met many men like him. The reason I fell for you is that unlike them, I don't see any desire in you."
"Your attempts to pique my curiosity and manipulate me are not driven by physical lust or a need to satisfy any psychological urge."
"All your emotions are very natural, not fabricated for a specific purpose. If that's just a persona you've crafted, it's a masterpiece," Natasha added.
"Simply put, regardless of whether you chat with me about art or share your stories, your aims are always as they appear on the surface. The vast majority of the men I've met are not like this."
"When they covet a woman's beauty, every move they make, every word they speak is designed to attract her attention. This masculine instinct can be described as charmingly naive when it is left unmasked or clumsily expressed," Natasha mused.
"But Hancock…," With a cold smile, Natasha finished her thoughts. "He believes that he's cleverly disguised, causing women to obsess over him. But beneath that skin of his, there's no masterpiece–just the stench of lust."