[Outside the Guild of Preservation]
[Bond Street Plaza]
The morning air was crisp, but Arthur seemed determined to ignore it. He stood on the pavement, slouching as if his own spine was too heavy to support.
He let out a long, theatrical yawn, stretching his arms until his joints popped. Then, with a lazy, half-hearted motion, he crossed his legs and bowed. It was elegant, yet incredibly sloppy.
"Let me introduce myself officially," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. "I am Arthur Uther Pendragon."
Lucian blinked. Pendragon? Like the legends? Is he serious?
"But," Arthur added, straightening up and rubbing his eye, "you can just call me Art. Or Arthur, if you must."
"Nice to meet you, Sir Arthur," Lucian replied, gripping his cane. "As you know, I am Lucian. And yes, I don't have a last name. I am an orphan."
Arthur looked at Lucian, his black eyes hazy and unfocused.
"Let's go, Luci," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "We have a job to do."
[Bond Street – Sector 2]
[Residential Block]
They took a carriage to Sector 2. Unlike the polished cobblestones of the Plaza, this area was cramped. The buildings were tall, narrow tenements pressed together like rotting teeth.
They arrived at a dilapidated apartment complex. The front door was broken, hanging off its hinges.
"Third floor," Arthur muttered, dragging his feet up the stairs.
They stopped in front of a peeling wooden door. Arthur pushed it open.
Squeaaak.
The hinges groaned, announcing their arrival to the silence.
Immediately, the smell hit them.
It was a thick, cloying stench—metallic copper mixed with wet mold and rotting garbage. Lucian gagged. His stomach churned, bile rising in his throat. He quickly clamped a hand over his nose to stop himself from vomiting.
The room was small and dim. There was barely any furniture, just a few crates and a mattress on the floor.
And the body.
Lying on the dirty white carpet next to the mattress was a woman, seemingly in her late twenties. Her skin was pale, almost gray. Her arms were splayed out, and her wrists were slashed. A rusted knife lay near her fingertips.
Arthur didn't flinch. He walked straight to the body, stepping over the pool of dried blood with practiced indifference.
He knelt down, sniffing the air like a hound, though his eyes remained half-closed.
"Hmm... interesting," Arthur hummed. "Lucian, come here. Can you feel anything?"
Lucian stepped closer, trying to breathe through his mouth. He looked at the scene—the knife, the cuts, the isolation.
"I can't feel anything, Sir," Lucian admitted, confused. "I am not sure what is going on. It looks like she tried to commit suicide. The cuts are deep. I don't see any signs of a struggle."
Arthur closed his eyes, swaying slightly as if he might fall asleep right there.
"Hmm. Interesting perspective," he yawned. "But you know... something is off. I can feel it."
Lucian frowned. "What is wrong? Even if she was killed, the killer must have removed all the evidence."
Arthur held up a finger, silencing him.
"Think, Luci. Why would someone kill her?"
Arthur gestured to the empty, rotting room. "She is a beggar. She has nothing. Even if a thief broke in, there is nothing here to steal. No money, no artifacts."
Arthur sighed, rubbing his temples. "I don't want to think too hard. It's not good for my brain."
He stood up and winked at Lucian. The gesture gave Lucian cold feet. Despite the laziness, there was something sharp beneath Arthur's drowsiness.
"Let me tell you a fact about these buildings," Arthur whispered.
He pointed a finger upward.
"We are on the top floor. In these old tenements, there is always a small crawlspace... a loft, right below the roof."
Lucian's blood ran cold. He took a step back, his eyes darting to the wooden planks of the ceiling.
"So," Arthur continued, his voice dropping to a murmur. "The killer didn't leave. He isn't a thief. He is a hunter. And he is still here."
"He is right above us, waiting patiently for more kills."
Crack.
A floorboard creaked above them.
Lucian's heart hammered against his ribs. Terror flooded his system. He was trapped in a small room with a corpse and a hidden murderer.
I need to run. I need to—
[SYSTEM ALERT]
[Constraint Active: Sin of Pride]
[Effect: You cannot feel Fear.]
[Immunity to Mental Corruption: Active.]
Whoosh.
The panic evaporated instantly. Lucian's trembling hands stilled. His posture straightened. The urge to flee was replaced by a cold, arrogant annoyance.
Hide? From me? Lucian thought. Phew. I am relieved. My powers are still working.
"He is up there," Arthur said, pointing at a small hatch in the ceiling.
As he pointed, a sound broke the silence.
Drip.
A drop of liquid fell from the wooden planks of the ceiling.
Splat.
It hit the floor between Lucian and Arthur.
Lucian looked down. It wasn't red blood. It was pitch black, viscous like tar or ink.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
More drops began to fall, oozing through the cracks in the ceiling like the building itself was sweating darkness. It hit the floorboards with a heavy, wet sound. The smell of rot intensified.
Then—
SNAP.
The world went black.
It wasn't just the lights going out. It was a supernatural darkness, thick and heavy like ink. The windows, the door, the weak sunlight—everything vanished. The black drops had swallowed the light.
Lucian couldn't see his own hands. He couldn't see the corpse.
He turned toward where Arthur had been standing.
In the pitch-black void, two lights appeared.
They were red.
Arthur's eyes were glowing in the dark, luminous and terrifying. Something seemed to be shifting inside his pupils, growing and warping.
Arthur's voice cut through the darkness, no longer sleepy, but thrilled.
"Now... this is getting interesting."