Arthur Leonor? Is that the name of this body?
The thought lingered in Shin's fading consciousness as he was carried into a vehicle. A strange hybrid of a brass-ribbed carriage and an early motor car, its front engine rumbling low like a sleeping beast. Exhaustion pulled him under before they even cleared the cobblestone streets.
When he finally woke, his eyelashes fluttered against the soft press of a down pillow.
He opened his eyes slowly. The harsh darkness of the doctor's chamber was gone, replaced by the gentle, amber glow of wall-mounted lanterns and a brass chandelier hanging from a curved wooden ceiling. The room was circular, smelled faintly of dried lavender, camphor, and beeswax, and wrapped him in a heavy, comforting warmth.
Shin turned his head, his stiff neck protesting with a dull ache.
Sitting at a small desk beside the bed was a man in his early sixties, wearing a dark wool suit similar in cut to Officer Gerd's uniform. He had a thick, dark beard peppered with silver and was meticulously organizing brass instruments, glass vials, and rolled bandages inside an open leather kit. A doctor.
"How are you feeling?" the man asked softly, noticing Shin's movement.
Shin let his eyelids droop slightly, letting his voice sound weak and rasping. "My whole body feels stiff... What happened? Where am I?"
The doctor gave a small, reassuring smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Don't worry, son. You're safe now. You were rescued from an underground ring—an evil, ritualistic cult, I'm afraid. Fortunately, the constabulary arrived before they could do any lasting damage to you. Do you recall anything about how you were taken?"
An evil cult? Shin sighed internally, a quiet wave of exhaustion washing over him. What kind of luck is this?
He let out a dry cough, shaking his head faintly. "No... nothing from that day. My head throbs just trying to think about it."
"Then don't force it," the doctor said gently, reaching out to pat Shin's blanketed shoulder. "Trauma has a way of hiding itself. You need at least a week of strict bed rest. I'll write down a prescription for a mild sedative and an iron supplement. Make sure you don't miss a single dose."
The genuine warmth in the doctor's voice took Shin off guard. This man didn't even know his name, yet treated him with earnest care. The doctor scribbled neat, flowing script onto a slip of paper and slid it under a glass of water on the nightstand.
Shin hesitated, his dry throat swallowing with difficulty. "May I... ask your name?"
The doctor paused, a hint of surprise touching his eyes before settling into a warm grin. "Nouzen Rayfold. At your service."
He snapped his leather kit shut and stood up. "I'll take my leave now, but one last thing, your sister is outside. Spending quiet time with family does wonders for recovery. Just... keep the movement to a minimum."
A sister? Shin's breath hitched slightly. I have a sister here?
"Where is she?" Shin asked, sitting up just a fraction higher against the pillows.
"Waiting right in the office room," Dr. Rayfold replied, his tone softening with pity. "Poor girl was crying her heart out. You were missing for a full week; she filed reports, checked the precinct every single morning, hoping for news."
Dr. Rayfold offered a final nod and quietly slipped out the wooden door.
Left alone in the quiet warmth of the room, Shin waited anxiously. His mind drifted back to his previous life—to Miyu. He remembered his last moments with her, the burning regret of not knowing if she had survived. Was this a second chance at family, too?
Right now, I'm not Shin Nomiya, he reminded himself. I'm Arthur Leonor.
Patter, patter.
Soft, hurried footsteps approached down the hall. The door creaked open, framing a young girl. She wore a simple, faded linen dress, her long black hair slightly disheveled. Her dark eyes swept the room until they locked onto Shin.
For a long second, she just froze. Tears pooled at the edges of her eyes, reflecting the golden lantern light, before spilling down her cheeks.
"Brother!"
She rushed forward, throwing her arms around his neck. The sudden weight rattled Shin's sore ribs, but the warmth of her small frame—the raw, shaking relief in her voice—instantly erased the pain.
She wept silently against his shoulder, holding onto him as if he might vanish if she let go.
It felt so familiar. The scent of her hair, the desperate warmth- it was so much like Miyu. Shin relaxed his tense shoulders and wrapped his arms gently around her back, burying his face against her shoulder as tears prickled his own eyes.
"I'm home," he whispered.
They stayed like that for a long time until her crying softened into hiccuping breaths. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, she held his hand tightly, rambling between shaky sighs. She told him how he had vanished overnight from his room, how terrified she had been, and how she thought she was completely alone now.
Through her tear-duct-strained chatter, Shin pieced together the fragments of Arthur's life.
They were orphans. After their parents died from a sudden illness, a distant uncle and aunt had taken them in—not out of warmth, but basic obligation. Eventually, they were sent to this sprawling, smog-choked city for schooling. It was a cheap, rundown district with low-tier academies, but it was all their relatives could afford. Arthur had taken on grueling part-time work and lived in a cramped, drafty rental just so his sister could go to school without being a burden.
Shin listened quietly, nodding along, his heart warming at the deep bond these two shared.
I originally thought about pretending I lost all my memories, Shin thought, looking at her bright, tear-stained face. But I can't do that to her. Not after everything she's been through.
Yet, a chill of anxiety settled in the back of his mind.
He didn't know her name. He didn't know how Arthur spoke to her, what nicknames he used, or what small habits they shared. He was stepping into a role blind folded, with no script.
I'm in serious trouble...
And yet, as he looked at the soft golden light dancing across the room and felt the steady, calm rhythm of his sister's hand holding his, a faint, unexplainable confidence bloomed in his chest. For now, in this warm, safe room, everything felt like it was going to be alright.
…
On the second floor of the Ashen Cell's temporary safehouse, the air smelled of stale black tea, wet wool, and old parchment. Rain tapped a steady, muffled rhythm against the dark windowpanes.
"Has Arthur opened his eyes yet?" Gerd asked without looking up.
He sat behind a heavy mahogany desk cluttered with case files, inkwells, and official requisitions. Positioned near his elbow was a polished brass transceiver—an intricate web of gears and copper coils that looked similar to the tool garyuu used to communicate with Jasper. Beside it sat a small silver frame containing a photograph of Gerd standing beside his wife and two young children, their frozen smiles bright against the dreary room.
At a neighboring desk, half-swallowed by towering stacks of documents, sat a girl with vibrant, wine-red pigtails and round brass spectacles. She hummed a light tune, her pen flying across forms with practiced ease. Despite being barely twelve by the look of her, her cheerful expression suggested she genuinely enjoyed her mountain of paperwork. Her Name was Melissa.
"He has," answered Dr. Nouzen Rayfold, standing on the other side of Gerd's desk with his leather briefcase resting against his knee. "And just as you suspected, there was no trace of Arche residue whatsoever. The boy didn't fall victim to an Undercript Breaching ritual. Your instincts are as sharp as ever, Gerd."
"Is that so?" Gerd brushed off the compliment, his dark eyes narrowing. "When I saw his wounds, I was almost certain we were too late."
"The damage was severe," Dr. Nouzen admitted, his tone turning somber. "In my twenty-three years of practice, I've never seen anyone crawl back from death's door like that. It's nothing short of a miracle."
The doctor paused, leaning slightly closer. "Though... the nature of his injuries is troubling. It looked as if someone had intended to gouge out his internal organs."
"Could it have been the work of that old quack?"
"No," Dr. Nouzen shook his head firmly. "Those lacerations weren't made with standard surgical tools. If anything, the quack was trying to stitch him back together."
Gerd's brows knit into a deep furrow. "Tending to his wounds? How unusual... We'll need to look deeper into that." He pushed himself up from his chair, walking around the desk to stand before the physician. "Regardless, I appreciate your quick work, Dr. Nouzen. I'll continue to rely on you."
"Just doing my civic duty," Nouzen replied with a smooth, practiced smile as they shook hands.
As the doctor withdrew his hand into his coat pocket, a small white envelope quietly vanished into his sleeve, his discreet payment.
"Well then, if you'll excuse me, I have a long list of dying lives to attend to." Nouzen bowed slightly, turned on his heel, and slipped quietly past the wooden door.
Left in the quiet room, Gerd stared at the closed door, Nouzen's words echoing in his mind.
Someone tried to gouge out his organs...
If the quack wasn't responsible for those injuries, then this wasn't the work of that secret society. Which meant the situation had escalated far beyond what the bureau had initially feared.
Knock. Knock.
"Come in," Gerd called out.
Kane stepped into the office, his posture rigid and his expression grim.
"What do you have for me?" Gerd asked.
"A great deal, sir," Kane replied, stepping up to the desk. "The case of Arthur Leonor is growing stranger by the minute. First, using my skill, I detected deep, systematic trauma across his tissue. The boy has endured prolonged, excruciating physical torture, likely stretching all the way back into his early childhood."
Gerd raised an eyebrow. "And the sister?"
"I questioned her directly," Kane said. "She was utterly bewildered. She swears nothing like that ever happened to him. And despite what the physical evidence shows, my Skill confirms she isn't lying. She has lived alongside Arthur her entire life, yet she has no knowledge of any abuse."
Gerd rested a heavy hand on the corner of his desk. "That makes no sense. How could someone live under the same roof with a child for years and never notice severe physical torture?" He met Kane's eyes. "Any signs of memory manipulation?"
"None," Kane answered cleanly. "The girl's mind is completely unblemished. There isn't a shred of evidence to suggest a memory-altering Skill was used on her."
The room fell quiet save for the ticking of the brass clock on the wall. Gerd rubbed his chin, deep in thought.
Before he could speak, Kane continued, "There's more. You likely noticed it yourself, but when we pulled Arthur out of that basement, he was fully conscious. He was merely pretending to be unconscious."
"I saw," Gerd said softly. "I assumed he was terrified, biding his time for a chance to bolt. That part isn't unusual for a young man in that situation."
"It's not his fear that surprises me, sir," Kane said grimly. "It's the fact that he was conscious at all."
"Explain."
"As Dr. Nouzen reported, his physical state was critical. By all medical logic, he should have been dead or at the very least, in a deep coma as his brain shut down to preserve life. Remaining awake in that condition is biologically impossible without powerful internal or external Skill support. Yet, his body showed zero Arche residue. No Skills were active."
"An anomaly..." Gerd murmured under his breath, as if fitting a dark puzzle piece into place. "Grey Absolute was right to declare an emergency over this case. Keep a shadow on Arthur Leonor, even after he's discharged."
"Understood, sir." Kane hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze dropping. "As for the other victims rescued from the basement... most have survived. Except for the young girl anchored to the chair."
Gerd didn't ask for her name. He already remembered the tragic sight of the girl bound tightly to the cold iron piping.
"The survivors are receiving treatment," Kane added, "but many will suffer permanent physical disabilities. The mental trauma will stay with them for life."
"And the doctor?" Gerd asked, his voice hardening. "Did we identify him?"
"Yes. Here is the full profile on Philop Kotler." Kane handed over a thin Manila folder.
Gerd flipped it open.
Dr. Philop Kotler. Formerly a prominent surgeon in Count 595. In 597, an official investigation was launched after an abnormal spike in patient mortality. Investigators discovered he was deliberately leaving scalpels and needles inside patients during surgery, and in several cases, carving his own name into their internal organs. He was diagnosed as severely psychotic, stripped of his medical license, and committed to a high-security asylum before escaping two years ago.
Gerd's eyes scanned down to the bottom of the page, where a small passport photograph was paperclipped.
As he read the final line, his fingers tightened, crumpling the edge of the photograph. Disgust twisted his face.
The photo showed Dr. Philop Kotler standing proudly next to a young, dark-haired girl. Maya Kotler.
The only casualty in the basement.
"That monster..." Gerd spat quietly, looking at the picture of the young girl who had been tied to the chair in that dark clinic. "He did that to his own daughter."
Silence stretched across the room, thick and suffocating.
The heavy silence was broken by the sound of small, hurried footsteps. Melissa stood up from her desk, cradling a stack of yellowed ledgers in her arms. She trotted over to Gerd's desk and set them down with a heavy thud.
"These are the background files on the surrounding missing persons reports," Melissa said, adjusting her round spectacles. "You were right—they all vanish under similar circumstances. This operation has been running quietly for at least six months."
She gestured back to her desk, where over seven hundred separate folders sat stacked like miniature skyscrapers.
"I pulled every record that matched the pattern," she added brightly, though her voice lacked its earlier levity. "Of course, it's just my initial screening, so I can't guarantee every file is linked to Kotler."
Gerd looked at the colossal mountain of files on her desk, then gently patted Melissa on the head.
"Good work, Melissa," he said softly. "You've done well. I'll take it from here."
He turned his gaze back to the towering stacks of paper. He didn't say the words out loud to Melissa or Kane, but the truth was obvious to him.
Seven hundred missing cases. And almost every single one of them is likely already dead.
Gerd turned to face Kane, his dark eyes shadowed under the dim lantern light. "Has Riana started interrogating Philop Kotler yet?"
"Yes, sir," Kane replied smoothly, checking his pocket watch. "The interrogation should be underway right about now."
Deep in the subterranean confinement cell beneath the safehouse, the air was cold, thick with the stench of mildew, wet earth, and old blood.
Riana stood motionless in the center of the damp stone room. Her face was completely devoid of emotion, a stark, chilling contrast to her usual maiden-like demeanor. In her right hand, she held the leather-bound brass suitcase. With a swift flick of her wrist, she swung it open.
From within the impossible, void-like interior of the case, the same writhing, plant-like entity squeezed itself out into the dim light. Its slick, tendriled maw opened wide with a wet, nauseating squelch, vomiting Dr. Philop Kotler onto the filthy cobblestones.
The doctor hit the floor in a heap, soaked in foul, stringy saliva that glistened under the single flickering torch.
"Wh—what is this?!" Kotler shrieked, scrambling backward on hands and knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Where am I?! Where have you brought me?! Let me go this instant! I am innocent! I did nothing wrong!"
Riana snapped the suitcase shut. Without a word, she stepped forward and swung the heavy brass case with brutal, calculated strength.
CRACK.
The solid metal struck Kotler across the side of his jaw, sending his body flying through the air. He crashed violently against the damp stone wall, collapsing onto his side with a groan of pain.
"You kidnapped twenty-three people," Riana said. Her voice was flat, devoid of any human warmth. "Among them were children. Elderly men. And..." She paused, her eyes narrowing into cold slits. "...your own daughter. You murdered her."
Hearing those words, Kotler's eyes widened, shot through with red veins. A manic, psychotic fury took over his features. He bared his yellowed teeth like a rabid dog, clawing at the wall as he spat blood onto the floor.
"The hell are you talking about?!" he shrieked, his voice cracking into a mad, shrill pitch. "I didn't do anything wrong! All I did was give them a family! I put them where they belonged! If anything, those ungrateful b*stards should be down on their knees thanking me!"
Riana raised an eyebrow, recalling the horrific sight from the basement clinic—human beings stitched, mutilated, and anchored into rigid, grotesque poses to mimic a living room scene.
"So..." she whispered, her voice chilling the room down to the bone. "You were just playing house?"
Before Kotler could utter another word, Riana drove the tip of her boot violently into his chin, snapping his head back. In a flash, she brought the flat of her heavy suitcase crashing down against his throat, pinning his neck hard against the stone wall. Kotler gagged, his feet kicking uselessly at the air as she choked him against the masonry.
"You think human lives are a joke?" she whispered, leaning in close until her cold eyes were inches from his.
Kotler snarled, raising a fist to strike her, but mid-swing, his hand froze in place.
"What's the matter?" Riana mocked softly, a faint, cruel curve touching her lips. "Go on. Try to punch me."
Kotler didn't stop because he wanted to. He couldn't move.
Suddenly, the very air around him became immeasurably dense, heavy as liquid lead. The invisible atmosphere crushed down upon his chest and lungs, squeezing the oxygen out of his body. His jaw worked uselessly; his throat suffocated under an immense, unseen pressure that threatened to crush his windpipe.
Step... step...
The iron door creaked open, and Kane stepped into the cell, his posture impeccably neat.
"It seems things are progressing smoothly," Kane noted dryly.
At the sound of his voice, Riana instantly dropped her weight, stepping back from the doctor. Almost instantly, her posture slumped, her eyelids lowered, and her fierce, terrifying aura dissolved into her familiar, shy, maiden-like demeanor.
"They are," Riana whispered softly, clutching the handle of her suitcase to her chest. "Though, considering the severity of his mental illness, extracting an honest confession might prove time-consuming."
"That is precisely why the commander sent me," Kane replied, stepping past her. "I will take it from here."
Riana cast one final, stern glance at the gasping doctor before letting out a soft sigh. As she released her focus, the oppressive weight in the room evaporated.
Kotler collapsed onto all fours, coughing violently as air surged back into his starved lungs. Saliva dripping from his chin, he looked up at Kane and Riana with wide, bloodshot eyes brimming with murderous insanity. He scrambled to his feet like an animal and lunged forward, swinging a wild, frantic fist straight toward Riana's face.
His vision was blurry with rage and pain, but even through the haze, he could see that neither of them moved. They didn't flinch. They didn't draw a weapon. Riana didn't even bother to turn around.
Kotler blinked—just once—right before his knuckle could make contact.
When his eyes snapped open, the cell was gone.
He was standing in the center of his own subterranean clinic. The stench of rust, rot, and copper filled his nose. But the room was entirely empty. The twenty-three victims were gone. All that remained were dark, wet blood silhouettes stained into the floors and walls—brutal outlines marking where he had nailed, stitched, and anchored living flesh into iron pipes and furniture.
Kotler stood paralyzed in the silent room. With every heavy step he took, memory fragments burst in his brain: the wet slide of his scalpel, the high-pitched shrieks of terror, the sensation of warm blood dripping over his hands, the rattling final breaths of his victims. Yet his mind registered no guilt—only an eerie, hollow astonishment.
Cough!
A wet, rattling cough echoed from the dark corner of the room.
Kotler flinched, spinning around, his hands coming up defensively.
There, resting on the stained medical cot, was a figure. Kotler crept closer, his breathing shallow. Laid out on the mattress was an old, withered man—wrinkled, frail, and near death.
It was himself. An aged, decaying version of Philop Kotler.
Sitting in a wooden chair beside the bed was a woman, her head buried in her hands as she wept uncontrollably, clutching the old man's frail arm. It was his wife.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
A heavy pounding echoed at the front door of the clinic.
The weeping woman raised her head, wiping her wet face. "Hold on... I'll be right back, honey," she whispered weakly, pushing herself up from the chair and shuffling out of the room.
Kotler watched her leave in stunned silence, his heart hammering against his ribs. Slowly, his eyes drifted back to the old man on the bed.
Without warning, the old man's neck twisted with a sharp, sickening CRACK.
The withered head turned ninety degrees to face the real Kotler. The old man's eyes opened impossibly wide—the whites bloodshot, the pupils dilated into tiny black pinpricks. Then, his pale, dry lips split open into a smile so wide and unnatural that the skin at the corners of his mouth tore, revealing yellowed gums and black teeth.
It was an expression no living human could make.
An icy shiver sliced down Kotler's spine. Horror seized his heart. Whatever was lying on that bed... it wasn't him. It wasn't human.
Kotler took a frantic, shaking step backward, cold sweat drenching his shirt. But as he moved, the dead, grinning, doll-like head on the bed rotated in real-time, its wide, unblinking eyes tracking his every move.
Kotler blinked.
Shift.
Suddenly, he was no longer standing. He was looking up at the cracked, water-stained ceiling.
He was lying on the bed.
A suffocating exhaustion crashed over him. He tried to raise his arm, but his limbs were leaden, paralyzed by the agonizing aches of an ancient, failing body. He looked down at his hand—it was liver-spotted, skin paper-thin over bony, trembling knuckles. He turned his head toward the small mirror beside the nightstand and caught his reflection.
He was trapped inside the dying, frail husk of the old Kotler.
Step... step... step...
Bare footsteps sounded from the hallway. His wife returned to the room, but something was horribly wrong with her.
The tears were gone. Her eyes were blank, hollow glass spheres staring into nothingness. She moved stiffly, like a wooden marionette suspended by invisible threads, stopping at the threshold of the doorway. Behind her, the hallway was swallowed whole by pitch-black, unnatural shadows.
"Honey..." she rasped. Her voice was flat, mechanical, stripped of all emotion. "A man is at the door. He is looking for you. His name is... Rosel."
The moment that name left her lips, a cold, primal terror ripped through Kotler's soul.
NO! NO! NO! NOT HIM! ANYONE BUT HIM!
Panic screamed through every nerve in his mind. I have to run! I have to get out of here!
He forced every ounce of his willpower into his legs, trying to kick off the sheets, but his ancient, paralyzed body refused to obey. He was anchored to the mattress, trapped inside a decaying cage.
Then, he saw it.
Rising up out of the pitch-black void directly behind his wife was a colossal shadow. It was pitch black, a silhouette taller than the doorway, with sharp, glowing white slits for eyes and a wide, jagged grin that cut through the darkness.
The shadow smiled down at Kotler.
Slowly, the shadowy figure extended two massive, clawed hands. It reached out and grabbed Kotler's wife by both sides of her head.
RRRRRIIIIP!
With a sickening sound of tearing cartilage, snapping bone, and shredding muscle, the entity tore her head cleanly from her shoulders.
Blood gushed like a severed pipe, spraying across the walls and splashing hot, wet, and metallic directly onto Kotler's chest and face.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
Kotler screamed from the very depths of his lungs—a raw shriek of pure, unadulterated agony and terror.
The shadowy demon only grinned wider.
It took a slow, deliberate step into the room. Then another. With each step, its shadowy legs elongated unnaturally, its torso ballooning, its limbs twisting and bending like broken spider legs as it expanded to fill the entire bedroom.
It towered over the foot of the bed, casting a suffocating darkness over the helpless, paralyzed doctor, its grotesque, absurd smile opening wide enough to swallow him whole.