Reality, like a thin film, suddenly tore.
Carl abruptly found himself standing on a Manchester street. The morning mist still clung, appearing hazy and ominous under the streetlights. Sycamore leaves shivered in the cold wind, rustling softly.
The street was eerily quiet.
No street cleaners.
No residents opening their doors.
No sound of passing cars.
Only his police car sat silently ahead.
Carl sank to his knees, gasping for air, the cold wind battering his lungs.
Just then—
A searing pain erupted from his back.
A blade sliced through flesh, followed by another.
Driven by instinct, Carl lunged forward, using the momentum of his fall to spin around. Warm blood welled from his mouth, blooming into a macabre flower on the tarmac.
Yu Shimamura stood there, his eyes flickering between madness and a void, mouth slightly agape, his left hand clutching a blood-stained dagger.
"Kill him..."
Shimamura's voice was hoarse and hollow, a gibbering whisper from the depths of hell.
Carl lay on the cold ground, blood still gushing from his wounds. The world before him began to warp, colors blurring his vision, yet he could still discern Shimamura's form.
Shimamura knelt in the morning light, tears silently tracking down his cheeks, before a twisted smile suddenly spread across his face. His expression flickered between weeping and wild laughter, like a puppet whose strings had snapped.
He raised the blood-stained dagger, its tip pointed at his own throat. The blade reflected a stark, cold light. His movements were almost reverent, as if performing some ancient ritual.
The sound of the dagger piercing his throat was sickeningly clear.
Suddenly, an unprecedented chill emanated from the ground. Carl's very marrow seemed to freeze. The temperature plummeted, tiny cracking sounds erupting from the ground where his skin met it, as countless ice crystals grew at a frantic pace.
"The couple... murdered between 12:30 and 1 AM... yet the forensics team estimated their time of death to be two or three hours later..."
"So that's it."
He closed his eyes.
Forever.
Shimamura's corpse lay prone, blood spreading beneath him.
Abruptly, the surrounding morning light was swallowed by an opaque white mist. Clusters of inky shadows welled from the fog, circling Shimamura's corpse like hungry beasts. They emitted a faint rustling, eventually burrowing into Shimamura's body.
Carl's soul too, transformed into a wisp of shadow, was tugged by an irresistible force, merging into the already icy remains.
In that instant, Shimamura's body became like a rent black hole, innumerable imprisoned souls thrashing within. Daisy's soul was like shattered porcelain, her pale face criss-crossed with cracks, her wails crystallized into silent screams in the air. Her eyes held an endless sorrow, as if narrating unfinished desires.
Clark's form was like a shredded canvas, perpetually reforming and disintegrating in the darkness. Each reconstitution was accompanied by agonizing contortions, as if silently struggling against the shackles of fate. A final glimmer of hope flickered within those fragments, yet they could never fully coalesce.
Devin the bartender's arms pierced through layers of darkness, fingertips tracing pleas for salvation in the void. His movements were slow and resolute, seemingly seeking some exit to freedom, yet eternally unable to grasp the light. Those hands, once mixing countless drinks, could now only dance in futile agony in the perpetual gloom.
The dark-haired girl, Anko, her form ceaselessly distorting in the dark, as if trapped in an eternal nightmare. Her lips trembled slightly, seemingly murmuring an ancient incantation, attempting to rouse slumbering memories. Her existence was like an unfinished melody, echoing through the gloom.
Around each soul's neck coiled chains of obsidian darkness, forged, it seemed, from solidified despair, their surfaces etched with arcane runes. The chains intertwined and clashed, emitting a sound between weeping and a low whisper, as if narrating untold suffering.
Carl's soul kept its eyes tightly shut, yet could still feel the ripples of other souls' struggles in the darkness. The sound of the chains tightening was like hell's death knell, dragging these restless souls back into their eternal cage again and again.
The thick mist began to converge on Shimamura's corpse, like a colossal white python, slowly devouring it.
A pair of bare feet emerged from the mist, each step accompanied by the crisp clang of iron chains. A faded linen robe materialized next, its delicate fabric fluttering in the still air. An ethereal, genderless face appeared from the fog, a countenance so beautiful it was almost sickly, silver hair cascading like moonlight. Yet those eyes were like the gates of apocalypse – a pair of golden pupils flickered within silver-gray whites, like unquenchable infernal fires, mirroring all the world's sin and sorrow.
He drew a deep breath, savoring the sinner's blood coursing through his new form. The air was thick with the dampness of morning mist, mingled with the cloying sweetness of blood. Carl, the persistent detective, had sought to unravel the truth until his final breath.
Four hundred and forty years of waiting finally paid dividends in this moment. Andrew, Anko, Yu Shimamura, Clark... every marked soul had been a cornerstone for his resurrection. He flexed his fingers gently, relishing every minute sensation. His pawns had now all fulfilled their purpose.
Just then, the distinct sound of leather shoes echoed from the thick mist, drawing steadily closer, each step deliberate, as if treading upon the river of time. This was followed by a slow, measured applause, as if offering homage to this reunion after centuries.
"Should I call you God's Emissary, traitor to the Michel family, or...?" A flat voice emerged from the mist, carrying a hint of amusement, a touch of scrutiny, but mostly a recognition of old adversaries. The voice paused, then slowly uttered the words:
"Gordon van Michel."
The figure materialized from the thick mist, an Old Gentleman holding a gnarled ebony cane imbued with the power of judgment, its tip gently tapping the earth. His presence seemed to bring a sense of order alien to this unknown space.
The demon's golden pupils contracted slightly, a meaningful smile playing on its lips: "Quite unexpected, to find you are the first I meet. I had expected it would be the Silver Flash, WhitBlock's right-hand man."
Gordon's face flashed with a mocking smile, his gaze sharp and cold. "Thomas has killed too many of his emissaries." He slowly turned, seeking a chink in the Old Gentleman's armor. "The blood of those stray cats will eventually be accounted for."
The Old Gentleman's gaze was serene and profound, as if recalling the past. "It has been some time." He nodded slightly, his ebony cane trembling imperceptibly, as if in response to Gordon's every word.
Gordon gave a slight nod, his golden pupils flickering with an uneasy light in the mist. He could sense that every movement of the Old Gentleman held a deeper meaning, as if presaging the coming battle. "Four hundred and forty years is enough time to change too many people, too many things," the Old Gentleman murmured, as if perusing an ancient tome.
"Humans?" Gordon scoffed, his voice tinged with disdain. "Four centuries is enough for humanity to breed many generations, but demons... you remain unchanged."
Gordon's eyes narrowed, as if recalling their first encounter. "Just as when I first met you, forever bound by the Deceiver's covenant, even if that bond was merely one of master and pupil."
The Old Gentleman regarded Gordon calmly, as if able to peer into his soul. "And you?" he said slowly. "Can you forget your own master, the mysterious one known as 'The Prophet'?"
In the extreme cold, ice crystals began to dance erratically, like notes from an ancient score. The thick mist flowed between them, each surge carrying a faint echo, as if a summons from times past.
The morning light, piercing the mist, became dappled, tracing unfamiliar patterns on the ground; patterns that flowed slowly, as if narrating forgotten tales. Gordon sighed softly, a complex emotion in his eyes. "A new era is about to dawn, just as the Prophet foretold."
"Before we begin, I have a question for you." Gordon's voice held a note of caution; the Michel family bloodline thrummed within him, as if forewarning something.
The Old Gentleman inclined his head slightly, his gaze profound. "Pray tell," he replied evenly, his ebony cane tapping the ground softly. "I, too, have some matters to inquire about from you."
"How were you able to pinpoint my location?"
The Old Gentleman did not reply immediately, his gaze settling upon Carl's frozen corpse. He remained silent for a moment, as if reminiscing about bygone years. Gordon's brow furrowed slightly, sensing the other's hesitation, his patience wearing thin.
Gordon's lips suddenly twitched, then he erupted into a fit of laughter, the sound laced with madness. "I never thought you'd truly go mad for the Deceiver's resurrection, demon... do you truly loathe eternal life so much?"
The Old Gentleman adjusted his bowler hat, smiling faintly. "I have long forgotten what the passage of time truly means," he said, his voice as rich and smooth as aged whisky, each word imbued with power.
"You forge one-sided covenants with mortals," Gordon narrowed his eyes, recalling the Prophet's teachings. "That persistent detective, what is his relation to you now? Master or brother?"
"My proxy." The Old Gentleman softly uttered the two words, his gaze still resting on Carl's corpse. "Even when consumed, that stubborn soul remained under the protection of my covenant."
"Amusing," Gordon sneered, his tone tinged with contempt. "You clearly had the power to stop me directly, yet you merely watched from the shadows as he walked inevitably towards his death."
"Rules are rules," the Old Gentleman replied calmly. "I had to wait for him to complete his investigation."
No sooner had he spoken than the Old Gentleman's figure abruptly leaped backward, his movements fluid and swift, as if he had already anticipated Gordon's attack. Two man-high ice spikes suddenly thrust up from where he had been standing, while behind him, a colossal black void-ring ripped open. With a thunderous boom, two immense pillars of snow slammed into the ground, shaking the surroundings.
"Was sacrificing everything for his resurrection truly worth it?" Gordon asked, extending his right hand clenched into a fist. Everything before him, including the very air, froze instantaneously. That immense force, like the conduction of ice, surged towards the Old Gentleman in the sky.
The Old Gentleman remained utterly still in the air, his gaze calm, as if he had already foreseen Gordon's every move. A black void shield coalesced before him, the sound of fracturing ice echoing as a colossal white ice-sword appeared before the shield, yet failed to pierce it, ultimately shattering into fragments. Concurrently, the Old Gentleman's shield dissipated.
Heavy snow began to fall from the sky, and a fierce wind howled through, transforming the world into a vast expanse of white.
Amid the swirling snow, the Old Gentleman spoke: "Did you not foresee this day four hundred and forty years ago? You deliberately sought death, then ensured your bloodline continued, all to await this moment. You approached Thomas, stirring desires within mortals and driving them to corruption. You used Andrew and Anko to mark the souls you needed as 'sinners,' ultimately reclaiming them to aid your resurrection. For your rebirth, you didn't even spare your own kin."
Gordon made a pulling gesture with his hand; the clouds above abruptly plunged downwards, countless small ice-swords cascading from them, bearing down directly on the Old Gentleman. The Old Gentleman merely glanced up, and the ice-swords vanished instantly, the clouds dissipating with them.
"Demon, were you not also waiting?" Gordon said coldly, his voice tinged with despair. "The prophecy states that WhitBlock's power would wane after four centuries. Only when the World Guardian weakens can I truly live. I have endured too long, too much."
Gordon stretched out his hands, clenching them into illusory fists; a pair of invisible colossal hands seemed to squeeze the Old Gentleman. A black void shield reappeared around the Old Gentleman, and the two hands gradually solidified from transparency, compressing the spherical shield into a cylindrical form.
Gordon released his hands, and the giant manifest hands in the air slammed heavily onto the ground, emitting a dull thud. The Old Gentleman's shield dissipated with them, and he himself reappeared. The accumulated snow on the ground was shaken, scattering to reveal Detective Carl's corpse beneath, his face still frozen in bewilderment from his final moments.
"You are pursuing a meaningless endeavor," the Old Gentleman said, looking down at Gordon, his tone calm. "Just as you did when you stole the artifact and defected from the Tiger Shadow Society."
Gordon's breathing grew ragged, sweat trickling down his forehead. "Demon, I am not what you imagine," he retorted, his gaze sweeping over the corpses on the ground, his voice filled with pain and fury. "These foolish mortals were all willing. Clark yearned for continued life. Yu Shimamura sought to kill Carl, who had unmasked him. Carl himself died from avarice—he craved truths he ought not to know. Daisy and Dasco perished from insatiable lust. Devin was too deeply entwined with Thomas; the Michel family's blood is cursed, mortals cannot escape this doom, and he had aided Thomas in killing emissaries. WhitBlock would never let him off. Anko, under Andrew's command, personally killed her mortal mother to resurrect me. They are all sinners."
"Mortals are like moths; offer them a flame, and they will rush headlong into it without hesitation," the Old Gentleman shook his head, his voice filled with resignation and irony. "And demons can always effortlessly ignite that flame."
Gordon suddenly roared, "Are we not permitted to resist? Mortals are but a flock of utterly foolish sheep, but demon, faced with monstrous beings such as yourselves, am I not also a lamb to the slaughter?" He waved his hand again, and a swarm of tiny particles materialized out of thin air, flying towards the Old Gentleman. These were powers he had gathered during his time in the family, extracted from the corpse of a powerful demon, particles that had once helped him turn the tables on wave after wave of assassins dispatched by the Tiger Shadow Society; that demon was of the same lineage as the Old Gentleman.
This time, the Old Gentleman did not meet the attack head-on, but flew sideways, his movements revealing a hint of ease and confidence.
"Demon, do not forget whose dominion this world was before WhitBlock arrived," Gordon said, his eyes glinting with a mad light. "The streets watched over by his cats, the rules he controls, all should face their reckoning."
The Old Gentleman suddenly plummeted towards the ground; behind him, the myriad black particles merged with the previous ones, launching another assault.
"Your Creator granted you eternal life; your master was utterly fragmented," Gordon sneered, his voice laced with derision. "And you, the Eternal First Demon, can only wander this world like a lost spirit, stripped of all, appearing in various guises."
The Old Gentleman, having landed, drove his Staff of Judgment into the earth; an invisible ripple radiated outwards from his feet, and the black particles scattered, as if fleeing a predator.
"His corpse is in your possession, is it not?" Gordon cackled, his voice tinged with weariness. "If we do not resist WhitBlock now, once he recovers from his weakened state, we will have no further opportunity. Demon, let me go, I pledge not to oppose you. I merely wish to pursue the path of truth, guided by my master, the Prophet."
The black particles gradually transformed into black paper cranes, swirling around the Old Gentleman. Each crane carried ancient arcane arts, power bought with the lives of Gordon's descendants.
"Where is Thomas Yamia?" the Old Gentleman asked, his face expressionless, his tone betraying a hint of calm inquiry.
"Brave Thomas. Fearless Thomas. Foolish Thomas." Gordon sneered, a flicker of pain in his eyes. "He is lost in the temporal rift. That self-important fool thought his schemes could deceive the Michel family's simpletons and hide from me. He forgot whose blood flowed in his veins."
Having spoken, Gordon clenched his fists again. The black paper cranes all stabbed towards the Old Gentleman's body, yet there was no sound of flesh being pierced; the black paper cranes seemed to plunge into some arcane liquid.
"Gordon, you will never see that one return, nor will you reach the world he guided you towards." The Old Gentleman raised his Staff of Judgment; the black paper cranes impaled upon him converged towards its tip, swiftly coalescing into a colossal black sword. That flying sword, with lightning speed, pierced Gordon's body.
As the black greatsword ran through Gordon's body, a trickle of blood escaped his lips. The Michel family blood fell to the ground, its surface shimmering with a cursed gleam. He swayed, then dropped to one knee, black blood spreading across the ground like ink. The Old Gentleman watched in silence, his cane tapping softly.
"Do you truly think this is the end?" Gordon's voice suddenly resonated from all directions, carrying undisguised agony and despair.
A flicker of understanding passed through the Old Gentleman's eyes; his cane tapped the ground lightly. With a "thump," a colossal void-spear materialized out of thin air, thrusting violently towards the seemingly empty space to his right. The moment the spearhead tore through the air, a transparent figure appeared, precisely a clone of Gordon.
"How intriguing," the Old Gentleman murmured, continuing to tap his Staff of Judgment rhythmically. "Thump, thump, thump," each tap accompanied by the appearance of another void-spear. Spear-shadows proliferated, arcing outwards like a deluge in all directions.
Dull thuds echoed in the air as more and more of Gordon's clones were pierced and fell to the ground. Blood interwove on the surface, forming arcane patterns, as if mysterious runes were slowly taking shape.
Suddenly, all the corpses on the ground simultaneously dissolved into mist, condensing into dozens of translucent soul-forms. They let out piercing shrieks, charging at the Old Gentleman with a biting chill.
The Old Gentleman calmly raised his cane; a pitch-black rift suddenly tore open in the sky, rapidly expanding into a colossal void-ring. A powerful suction erupted from within the ring, like a ravenous behemoth opening its gaping maw.
The souls let out unwilling wails, absorbed one after another into the ring. Just then, Gordon, who had been kneeling, leaped to his feet, slamming his palms together. With a "boom," an invisible force-field sharply contracted around the Old Gentleman, compressing the very air until it shrieked.
The Old Gentleman's eyes instantly shifted from azure to blood-red; the void-ring above him suddenly swelled dramatically, and countless inky black arms extended from within, like living nightmares, wildly grasping outwards. Those arms pierced through the thick mist, seizing Gordon's attempts at evasion one by one.
Seeing this, Gordon's face fell, his inner fear and despair intertwining. He felt his power rapidly draining away, his breathing becoming shallow. "There must be a way..." he thought to himself, yet his external movements grew increasingly sluggish.
Gordon clasped his palms together again; the black blood on the ground suddenly boiled, transforming into thousands of sharp weapons. Swords, spears, arrows, they hung densely in the air, gleaming with a cold light. "Rise!" Gordon roared, and all the weapons simultaneously shot towards the Old Gentleman.
However, the Old Gentleman seemed to utterly disregard this lethal assault, his gaze suddenly turning skyward. There, the dark clouds summoned by Gordon were attempting a stealthy escape. Gordon's final clone was hidden within. The Old Gentleman's eyes reverted to azure; he raised his right hand, and the void-ring above him contracted sharply, shrinking into a dazzling black point.
The moment he released his fingers, the entire sky seemed to be torn apart by some unseen force. All the clouds vanished in an instant, turning to dust and ash, along with the weapons shot at him, dissolving into nothingness.
Silence once more descended upon the battlefield, broken only by a few snowflakes drifting quietly down.
Gordon's body trembled slightly; he knew this was his last chance. His knees bent slowly, palms facing each other, as he began to gather the last of his strength. Every particle in the air began to decelerate at that moment, as if time itself was on the verge of freezing.
"Frozen." Gordon's voice was hoarse and low, and a visible ring of cold energy spread outwards from him. Grass blades ceased to sway, falling snowflakes hung suspended in mid-air, and even the protons in the air began to solidify.
The black greatsword impaled in his body suddenly trembled, as if responding to some summons, and began to rotate slowly. The black energy on the blade flowed ceaselessly, emitting a low hum.
The Old Gentleman watched in silence, his ebony cane giving a slight flick. Space in the distance suddenly warped, and a pitch-black sphere, roughly three meters in diameter, instantly appeared beside him. When the absolute zero cold touched the sphere's surface, a crisp cracking sound erupted, like the echoing of a glacier rending apart.
A bitter smile touched Gordon's lips, as profound despair gradually eroded his will. He knew his power was almost utterly depleted, yet he still refused to yield. "Just one more chance..." he murmured, but could no longer conceal the tremor in his voice.
With a gasp, the black particles that had been shot at the Old Gentleman were drawn back into his body, as if by an immense gravitational pull. He abruptly slammed his head onto the ground; the moment his forehead struck the earth, a colossal silver tiger-head phantom coalesced behind him.
Space began to distort, as if someone were swirling dark chocolate and pure white milk together, reality churning into chaos. Yet the Old Gentleman simply tapped the void-sphere beside him with the tip of his cane. With a "crack," like the shattering of the most fragile glass, the warped space fragmented in that instant. The black sphere dissolved into tendrils of smoke, filling the ruptured spatial fissures anew.
Gordon raised his hands above his head, his golden pupils suddenly blazing with blinding light, but swiftly dimming again. The enveloping mist receded like a tide, and he felt his power rapidly ebb away, his consciousness blurring. He abandoned his dominion, pulling the battlefield back into the real world. The silver tiger-head behind him suddenly came alive, transforming into a colossal silver-glowing tiger that lunged towards the Old Gentleman.
Just as the silver tiger was about to touch the Old Gentleman, he lightly tapped its forehead with his cane. The silver tiger's form instantly disintegrated, dissolving into countless white specks of light, absorbed bit by bit by the Staff of Judgment.
"Aargh!" Gordon let out a pained roar, feeling his power utterly spent. His clothes tore into shreds, revealing a body covered in black script. The words seemed like living serpents, coiling up his cheeks, climbing onto his forehead. Each character held immense power. He let out another furious bellow, and the script suddenly ignited into furiously burning black flames, completely engulfing his body.
The flames spread wildly outwards, consuming everything in their path. A black shield first materialized on the Old Gentleman's body, and then countless inky black chains sprouted from its surface, writhing like living things.
Gordon's consciousness began to blur, his heart filled with endless despair and remorse. His resistance became futile, his body gradually losing control. "No... impossible..." he whispered, but his voice was now weak and faint.
The darkness summoned by Gordon finally consumed the Old Gentleman entirely.
Silence.
Then, faint cracking sounds. The darkness dissipated like a receding tide, revealing the Old Gentleman, utterly unscathed. Gordon knelt on the ground, gasping for breath, his last vestiges of power spent.
The Old Gentleman raised his Staff of Judgment once more, its tip lightly tapping the ground. Black tendrils suddenly emerged from beneath the earth, tightly coiling around Gordon. He was like a puppet bound by strings, or prey caught in a spider's web, utterly unable to move.
The Old Gentleman strode slowly towards Gordon, his steps steady and composed. By now, Gordon was blind, his skin scorched black. Those pupils that had once blazed with golden light were now nothing but dull emptiness. The Old Gentleman's cane rose high, its tip glowing with a faint, spectral light.
"It is over," the Old Gentleman said softly. Four hundred and forty years of waiting finally brought to a close in this moment.
The cane plunged into Gordon's skull, clean and swift. Just then, a pitch-black fissure abruptly tore open beneath Gordon's corpse, and countless pallid arms extended from within, grabbing the body like hungry beasts seizing their prey, dragging it into that eternal darkness. It was a summons from the abyss.
The fissure sealed shut, as if it had never been. Only a pool of black blood on the ground remained, still narrating all that had just transpired.
The Old Gentleman stood motionless, gazing at the pooling black blood, then glanced at Carl's corpse nearby. "My child, the game has begun, and no one can escape this destiny." He gently removed his bowler hat and bowed.