Silas forced himself to take a steady breath, though the stench of death clawed at his throat. His sharp eyes swept over the crowd, searching for any hint of guilt, fear, or morbid satisfaction. Most faces were pale and stricken, their gazes fixed on the gruesome scene before them. But one man stood apart, his expression unnervingly calm.
The man's cloak concealed most of his figure, but his hands were visible—gloved, yet faintly smeared with something dark. Silas's stomach twisted, but he kept his composure. Not yet, he thought. He couldn't act without being certain.
A harsh, commanding voice broke through the tense silence.
"Step back! All of you! Let us handle this."
Silas turned to see a group of constables pushing through the crowd, their uniforms pristine despite the chaos. They carried an air of authority, though the unease in their eyes betrayed them. Even they weren't prepared for violence on this scale.
Among the team of officers who had arrived, one man stood out. Unlike the others, who moved with hurried efficiency, he walked with a calm, deliberate air, his gaze steady and observant. The grim reality of the victim and the disarray of the crime scene didn't seem to faze him. He looked as though he'd stood in far worse places than this.
The man appeared to be in his late twenties, his sharp features and composed demeanor setting him apart from the others. Silas found himself watching him, unable to look away. There was something unsettling about his presence—something that whispered of experience and quiet authority.
Then, their eyes met. Silas felt his breath hitch, his chest tightening as an unspoken tension passed between them. The man's gaze was piercing, as if he was trying to read Silas's thoughts. Silas shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny, the back of his neck prickling. After a moment, the man's expression darkened slightly, and he leaned toward one of the officers, murmuring something.
Moments later, the officers began dispersing the crowd. Silas turned to head back inside, relieved to leave the intensity of the scene behind. But just as he reached the door, a voice stopped him cold.
"Excuse me," the man said. His voice was low, calm, and commanding.
Silas froze, a chill running through him as he slowly turned around. The man was standing just a few steps away, his eyes fixed on him with unsettling focus.
"What's wrong, sir?" Silas asked, his voice tight. He tried to sound neutral, but the unease in his tone betrayed him.
The man held out a small, neat business card. "Detective Harold Grant. Homicide," he said simply. His tone was steady, but there was an edge to it—a weight that made the words linger in the air. "If you recall anything unusual about tonight—or anything that doesn't sit right Come to This address"
Silas hesitated before taking the card, his fingers brushing against the detective's for a brief moment. He glanced at it, then back up at Grant, who was still watching him with that unsettling intensity.
"I… I don't think I saw anything unusual," Silas said, his voice faltering slightly.
Grant didn't respond immediately. Instead, he studied Silas for another moment, his eyes narrowing as though weighing the truth of his words. Finally, he gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"Sometimes people don't realize what's important until later," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "Keep it in mind."
Without another word, the detective turned and walked away, his figure disappearing into the chaos of the crime scene.
Silas stood frozen, staring down at the card in his hand. He could feel his heart pounding, a dull thud that echoed in his ears. As he slipped the card into his pocket and turned to head back inside, a thought gnawed at the edges of his mind.
What had the detective seen in him to make him stop?
Silas closed the door behind him, the muffled hum of the crowd fading into silence. The small room offered little comfort; its sparse furnishings and dim light only amplified the tension coiling in his chest. He sank into the worn chair by the window, pulling the business card from his pocket...
--------
In his Quiet room
Silas returned to his room in a daze, questioning the fate of his murdered neighbor.
Could it be connected to last night's strange castle?
The more he dwelled on it, the more perplexed he became.While reading through Evoce's notes, Silas couldn't shake the unease creeping into his thoughts. What exactly had the detective seen in him to warrant such suspicion?
He wasn't involved in his neighbor's murder—he was sure of that. Yet, doubt lingered like a shadow, refusing to leave.
Two options played in his mind:
"Ignore the detective and bury myself in my research on angels and devils, or confront him and put his baseless suspicions to rest…"
His fingers drummed nervously against the table as he mulled it over. Ignoring the detective felt tempting—safe, even—but he knew it wouldn't make the problem disappear. With a resigned sigh, he leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.
"I have nothing to hide. I'm innocent," he murmured, more to convince himself than anyone else.
---
After some deliberation, Silas decided to have breakfast and visit the address written on the card.
After packing a few items he thought might come in handy—just in case—Silas stepped out of his
house, Silas walked along the sidewalk across from the crime scene. After a while, a carriage stopped nearby, and he quickly approached the driver to inquire about the location on the card.
The driver muttered to himself for a few moments before finally recalling the address. He gestured for Silas to climb aboard.
Inside the carriage, Silas leaned back against the animal-skin seat. Gazing out the window at the bustling streets, he grew pensive. The events of that morning—the horrific crime so close to home—were far from ordinary.
Watching people go about their lives, seemingly oblivious to the murder just a few blocks away, Silas let out a weary sigh.
After a few minutes, the carriage came to a halt in front of what appeared to be an office. Silas stepped out, paid the driver, and watched as the carriage rolled away down the street.
Ensuring the area was clear, Silas cautiously approached Detective Harold's door. His heart pounded in his chest, each step heavier than the last.
Knock, knock!
The sound of his knock echoed in the stillness, and within moments, the door creaked open. Harold stood there, his sharp gaze scanning Silas before he stepped aside to let him in.
"Come in," Harold said simply.
Silas hesitated before stepping inside, his eyes sweeping over the office. It was surprisingly orderly for someone as busy as Harold, though piles of papers hinted at the chaos beneath the surface. Silas kept his gaze low, feeling the weight of the situation settle over him like a fog.
Harold returned to his seat, and Silas shifted on his feet, swallowing the lump in his throat. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, Harold cut him off, his tone firm and unwavering.
"This isn't about the murder," Harold said abruptly.
Silas froze, confusion flickering across his face. He blinked, his mind racing for answers, but before he could form a question, Harold continued.
"The investigation revealed something unexpected," Harold said, leaning forward. "The killer wasn't targeting the victim. They were after someone else—someone nearby."
The words hit Silas like a physical blow. His breath caught, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"Wait... what are you saying?" Silas asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Harold's expression darkened, his voice dropping lower. "I'm saying the perpetrator was targeting you—or perhaps someone in your family. What's certain is that your house was the focus. And this..." Harold paused, his eyes narrowing. "This isn't the work of a human."
Silas's knees felt weak. He stumbled back a step, shaking his head as if to clear it.
"That's impossible," he muttered, his voice trembling. "How could you even know that?"
A faint smile tugged at Harold's lips, though it carried no warmth. "Have you ever heard of mystical beings or demons...?" Harold asked, his tone low and laden with meaning.
Silas gave a small nod, his eyes fixed on Harold. "There are some... I've read about them in newspapers," he replied tersely, carefully choosing his words.
"And do you think they're real?" Harold's gaze bore into him, as if trying to catch a flicker of emotion escaping Silas's expression.
Silas fell silent, his thoughts delving into the labyrinth of memories, wrestling with a truth not easily accepted.
(If it were the old me... I would have said 'no' without hesitation. But after what happened at the Evoce mansion, how can I call them unreal?)
Noticing Silas's silence, Harold gave a faint smile. His eyes held a knowing gleam, as though he'd already deduced the answer. "They're real," Harold said, his voice deep and carrying the weight of certainty.
"In fact, their existence is recorded in the Third Era—in various carvings and ancient manuscripts. Some call them saviors, while others remember them as harbingers of destruction."
Silas murmured to himself, The Third Era... My diary notes that it was the age when the Church of the Flame God first emerged.
"The Church of the Flame... It appeared during the Third Era, when the Meilith Empire still ruled over the lands of Zein," Silas whispered, almost to himself. "It's the oldest church in history. There's no record of any other church before its time."
Harold, noticing Silas lost in thought, gave a faint, enigmatic smile. "Let me be more straightforward," he said softly. "Demons, ghosts, or hybrids—whatever is targeting your family... they will return. And this time, the story might take a very different turn."
Harold's words hit Silas like a cold wave. He couldn't imagine what might happen if that prophecy came true.
Harold continued, his voice steady yet commanding. "That's why I'm inviting you to join Vermilion."
(Vermilion? What is that?) Silas wondered, confusion flickering across his face. Even my diary hasn't mentioned it.
"Vermilion is a special task force operating under the Church of the Flame God, Soltheon," Harold explained, crossing his arms over his chest. "We are tasked with maintaining balance, monitoring all supernatural phenomena and anomalies across the Alcyte Empire, ensuring places like Tibur remain under control."
"And I'm offering you protection," Harold added, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Join Vermilion. Not only will you be safer, but you might also have a chance to capture the killer who's after you."
Silas pondered the offer seriously, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts.
(Vermilion... it seems the Church of the Flame has been keeping the supernatural in check, protecting humanity. But...) Silas frowned.
(Joining them also means I'll be under closer watch. Even so, this might be the only way to protect them... the ones I have left.)
After weighing the risks and consequences, Silas gave a slow nod.
Harold smiled, a satisfied glint in his eyes. "Good," he said simply, the single word carrying the weight of a decision that had just altered everything.
Harold stood and walked over to the side table, opening a small drawer. From within, he retrieved a business card, its edges crisp and clean, and handed it to Silas.
"Go to him," Harold said, his voice steady but laden with unspoken intent. "Just tell him that Harold sent you."
Silas took the card, his fingers brushing against the smooth surface as he studied it briefly. Without a word, he turned and left the office. Behind him, Harold sank back into his chair, his expression unreadable as he watched the door close softly.
---
The chill of the evening air bit at Silas's skin as he left Harold's office. His fingers tightened around the card as he stared at the strange name printed on it.
"What kind of name is this?" he murmured, frowning.
The streetlights cast long shadows as he walked, his mind swirling with Harold's revelations. The idea that something—or someone—had marked him or his family filled him with a dread he couldn't shake.
"What am I supposed to do now?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Deep inside, another voice whispered, cold and firm. Even if they aren't your real family, they're still yours to protect. You owe them that much.
His jaw clenched, and he quickened his pace, each step heavier with determination and fear.
---
As he reached the address, his gaze fell on the door. A strange, intricate symbol was carved into the wood, faint but unmistakable.
Silas's breath caught in his throat. That symbol—it was familiar. The last time he'd seen it was at the cursed Evoce mansion, a place he'd hoped never to think of again.
He hesitated, his hand hovering over the door. The air around him felt heavier, the quiet almost deafening.
Drawing a deep breath to steady himself, Silas raised his hand and knocked...
.
.
.