Thus, over the course of nearly two weeks, Arthur, along with Inspector Edward Winslow and a few other detectives from the police department who were dissatisfied with the higher-ups' orders to halt the investigation, began meticulously tracing the threads left by the victim. They collected the small clues the victim had left behind: tattered notebooks, scattered names, and even references to old houses on the outskirts of the city. In every place they entered, traces of madness were evident: symbols carved into the walls, black candles long extinguished, perhaps months ago at least, and floors stained with something that Arthur's mind, and that of the others present, could neither acknowledge nor accept for what it was, the red liquid of life… blood.
It became evident that many murders and disappearances had gone unnoticed, innocent victims lost in darkness without attracting any suspicion. Worse still, these sites and crimes were only discovered by chance, through the detectives' unauthorized investigations. The deeper Arthur and his team dug, the more apparent it became that these incidents were linked, perhaps even pointing to the hidden activities of this secretive Cult, whose influence and power allowed them to commit their heinous acts with impunity, leaving behind a complex web of suffering and tragedy.
For two weeks, Arthur and the team traced the Cult's hidden threads, gathering evidence from abandoned buildings, old archives, and encrypted messages. Each step brought them closer to the truth, and with every new piece of evidence, they realized the cost of solving this case might be higher than they could ever bear.
Despite this, Arthur could still be seen seated with Inspector Winslow and the rest of the team around a table cluttered with maps and notebooks. "Arthur, from now on, every step must be calculated," the inspector said tensely. "There is no room for error this time, because if we fail… There will be no turning back."
In response, Arthur merely nodded before speaking in a steady tone, "Don't worry… I know. Every piece of evidence, every observation, and every investigation conducted over the past two weeks has been meticulously calculated. Yet I must admit, they are far more insane than I initially expected. With every new thread and clue that emerges, they reveal another layer of the horror and madness in which this Cult is submerged. That's why … There can be no room for error at all this time." His golden eyes shone with unwavering resolve as he replied to the inspector.
Lloyd, a young detective in his mid-twenties who had been on excellent terms with Arthur and could even be said to have been friends with him, thanks to all the cases they had worked on together, including this ill-fated one, whispered, "I can't believe we're actually doing this... It feels like we're meddling in something we shouldn't be meddling in."
Arthur replied in a calm but firm voice, "Sometimes we have no other choice... Ultimately, it is our duty to stop them before they destroy more lives."
Nevertheless, Arthur and everyone with him, including Inspector Winslow Edward and the others, moved at midnight toward the abandoned building, which Arthur had discovered was the headquarters of the Cults. With every step they took toward the building on the outskirts of town, their footsteps seemed to weigh heavily on the ground, as if the darkness itself was testing them, especially given the fact that as soon as they entered the basement of the building, the back door of the cellar slammed shut with a loud metallic clang, and the air inside the basement filled with the smell of mold and ash. Then they appeared, their faces hidden by twisted masks, ritual daggers glinting in the torchlight. The team members screamed and tried to resist, but the masked men were far too quick for Arthur and the others to respond and fight back.
The masked men rushed towards Arthur and the others at speeds beyond imagination, like flashes of black light, their bodies moving at speeds beyond comprehension. Their footsteps made no sound, and there was no space between the daggers and the bodies of Arthur and his companions; they were struck before they even realized what was happening. With speeds that exceeded human comprehension, Arthur and the others could not move or resist at all. Faced with such inhuman speeds, it was as if they had been deprived of movement, and even their minds were unable to comprehend how these masked men were approaching them. The Cultists ' masks would flash for a moment, then disappear into the darkness the next, their daggers cutting through the air as if they were extensions of the hands of time itself, leaving Arthur, Inspector Winslow, and everyone else with them in a state of terror and complete helplessness, unable to resist or defend themselves in any way, as if they were mere puppets suspended in a display of supernatural power.
Not to mention that the terror and madness did not stop with the injuries Arthur and his companions had received, which had left them helpless on the ground due to the attacks of the masked men with their inhuman speed, as that was only the beginning. At the very moment that Arthur and the others with him fell helplessly to the ground due to the injuries they sustained from the sudden attack by the masked men, thick black chains emerged from the darkness as if they had been made from The deepest depths of the darkness of the night, wrapping themselves around the bodies of Arthur, Inspector Winslow, Detective Lloyd, and the rest of the team with insane and incomprehensible speed. As soon as the chains touched their bodies, an unimaginable, terrifying pain erupted within them, as if the chains were pulling at their nerves, breaking their bones, and setting their blood on fire. Their sharp cries of "Aaaahhh" pierced the silence of the basement and sent shivers through the air, announcing that they had become prisoners of torment beyond human endurance. But what was even more terrifying was the fact that this was only the beginning.
As Arthur and the others' screams faded throughout the dark dungeon, the darkness opened up again, revealing slow, steady footsteps accompanied by a heavy echo reverberating between the ancient stone walls. A man appeared who was different from the rest of the masked figures; his mask was far more terrifying, engraved with strange symbols that glowed in the torchlight, and his clothes, which exuded a repulsive dignity, clearly showed his gender as a man and his high status in this organization, and how he was not just a follower, but a person of high standing among them. He stood in front of the chained bodies, his dry laugh sending shivers down their spines, before speaking in a sarcastic tone dripping with contempt.
"Oh, look who we have here... It seems that the little mice that were sniffing around us have fallen into the trap just as we expected... You fools, do you really think you are capable of touching the forbidden? You have transgressed the taboos and approached secrets that humans are not even allowed to mention." Then he leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering as if whispering a secret. "And now... You and all those you love will become fuel for our sacrifices. Your blood will be spilled in the ritual, and your souls will open the gate for us."
At that moment, Arthur felt that those words, which were like the whisper of the devil, weighed heavily on him more than the chains themselves, hurting him more than the iron chains hurt his skin. He wanted to scream, to respond, but his voice was choked in his throat, as if darkness had swallowed him. His trembling gaze toward the masked man revealed only a mixture of anger and despair. At that moment, the insult was not only in his helplessness in the current situation, but also in hearing how the fate of their loved ones had become mere material to be coldly mentioned behind a cold mask. At that moment, Arthur felt as if the earth itself was pulling him into a bottomless abyss, where there was no hope or salvation, only the wait for torment beyond his comprehension or endurance.
As for the others, they were not much better off than he was. On the contrary, they were like corpses that had lost their will in the face of the dark and terrifying presence of the masked man, whose presence exuded darkness, death, and boundless madness. They seemed to be oscillating between pain and fear, unable to cling to even a shred of hope, especially after they understood the dark meaning behind the man's sarcastic words. At that moment, they became prisoners not only of their bodies, but also of their souls, stripped of any strength or hope, trapped between pain and humiliation, certain that what awaited them was only the beginning of a path to deeper torment.
"It's really ironic... don't you think? How, for the past few weeks, you have been nothing more than puppets moving on strings that we ourselves have woven for you, dancing to our tune without realizing it. And what's even better... There was someone like you, the so-called great detective, the king of mysteries... Leonharth. Ah, how pleased the master will be when I present him with a rare sacrifice like you... You, bearer of the golden blood."
"But do you know what makes it even more enjoyable, Leonharth? The fact that it was your pride that led you here. You were searching for the truth, for the mysteries hidden behind the veil of this world... but you never thought for a moment that you were nothing more than a small piece in a painting too big for you to comprehend. We were the ones who made your steps; we were the ones who drew the path that led you to this vault. And what you see now... is only the beginning of the ritual.
I am... the dark nightmare, the one who condemns souls to humiliation before they are offered as sacrifices to the Great Lord, and I am but a whisper of the whispers of the Great Lord. Prepare yourself, oh so great detective, for this time you will not face a mystery to solve and then find a way to escape your predicament safely like a hero in a fairy tale. What you will face this time is your inevitable death... You and everyone dear to you."
"Of course... It was you, Leonharth, who was the obstacle we had to remove. But luck and fate were always on your side. Even on that day, five years ago, when your story was supposed to end there, fate reached out and allowed you to survive. Since then, you have become the barrier that stands in our way, the obstacle we have always wanted to destroy. However, every time we tried to get rid of you, something would intervene and prevent us from eliminating you. But... once again, that's the least we could expect from you, bearer of the golden blood; it's never easy to get rid of you. You all are, after all, like cockroaches... difficult to crush, stubbornly clinging to life with disgusting tenacity." The masked man, or as he sarcastically and arrogantly called himself, "The Dark Nightmare," continued, as if talking about something he loved or his favorite show, filled with disgusting arrogance and pride that overflowed with every word he uttered.
Hearing all this, how could Arthur not understand and realize the terrifying truth of how everything he had been through so far, not only during this case, but also the tragedy five years ago at Leonharth's estate, and all the various misfortunes that had followed, that he had experienced over the previous five years to the current case, had all been orchestrated by this damn Cultic organization.
"Oh, that anger, that hatred in your eyes... What a wonderful sight, Kufufu," said the dark nightmare when he saw the anger and hatred in Arthur's amber eyes, hatred and anger resulting from his knowledge that they were, essentially, the cause of most of the misfortunes and hardships he had faced in his life over the past five years, and the fact that they were the ones who had destroyed his life and taken away everything dear to him. Seeing that sharp gaze filled with anger and hatred, the dark nightmare did not feel anger or anything of the sort. Quite the contrary, all he felt at that moment was excitement and indescribable happiness, because for him, there was no better feeling than seeing despair, hatred, and anger in the eyes and souls of his victims and sacrifices!
What followed was nothing short of a terrifying tragedy in every sense of the word, as Arthur and the others stood chained before the satanic ritual that had been revealed before their eyes. As the magical chants rose, sounding like terrifying demonic voices coming from the depths of the abyss, they echoed throughout the dark cellar until the whole place seemed to shake under their impact. With each demonic melody, the surrounding environment changed in a terrifying, nightmarish way, as the walls lit up with glowing orange-red magical runes that portended destruction. In the center of the room, a giant inverted pentagram appeared, radiating a terrifying hellish glow that made the air heavy with dread, as if it were a gateway to hell itself.
And then, from there, the real tragedy began to unfold before their eyes like a living nightmare, as Arthur and the others saw the horrific scene in the middle of the room: a row of tightly bound bodies, familiar faces pulsing with memory and pain. They were a mixture of innocent and vulnerable souls, ranging from children as young as eight or ten to elderly individuals burdened by the weight of years, some in their sixties and others in their seventies. All of them, without exception, were dear and unforgettable faces, the faces of their loved ones and those closest to them.
"Lara, Adam, Alice."
Inspector Winslow's cries pierced the silence like a stab as his eyes fell on his beloved wife, bound and gagged, and next to her, his two young children in a heartbreaking state. His voice trembled with panic as he shouted their names with a force he didn't know he had, as if the whole world had collapsed around him at that moment, while the darkness grew thicker, as if the room itself was feeding on their tragedy.
As the ritual began, the floor was filled with circles and symbols, and hymns rose, strange words echoing in the air, mixed with the screams of the detectives and their loved ones bound in the middle. Blood mixed with the symbols, and the earth shook as if it were breathing, while the entire scene resembled something out of a horror movie or a terrifying nightmare.
As the ritual intensified, the chants turned from strange sounds into hellish screams that pierced the ears. The floor began to greedily absorb the blood, as if it had been thirsty for thousands of years, while the crimson symbols rose, glowing with a sickening, nauseating light.
At that moment, the detectives and their loved ones began to wither before Arthur's eyes, as if life were being wrung from them thread by thread. A dark black beam pierced their chests, drawing their blood and vitality toward the circles, while their faces shifted from hope to horror, then froze in the last moment of pain. The faint crackling of bones could be heard, and skin shrinking back from bone, as if something were devouring them from within.
The cries of loved ones mingled with the hymns until it became impossible to distinguish between the voice of a screaming demon and a dying human being. The scene resembled a slow, collective withering, as their souls escaped their bodies to drift into darkness, while their eyes still stared at Arthur...pleading, terrified...before extinguishing forever.
Seeing this, Arthur's golden eyes, which had once been bright and lively, shrank under the weight of the horrific scene. A deep chill crept into his bones, his chest tightening and constricting as if the air itself had become too heavy to breathe. This was after he witnessed how the blood that had flowed from the victims' bodies gathered toward the five-pointed star, turning into deep red rivers that made their way through the stone cracks toward the center of the ritual.
There, a column of sickly red light rose, pulsing like a hellish heart overflowing with life. The Cultists, who had removed their masks at some point during all this madness, revealing their faces distorted with hysterical ecstasy, raised their arms high. The symbols painted on their skins had begun to glow and move, as if they were living creatures crawling over their bodies.
Only then did Arthur grasp the horrifying truth. What unfolded before him was not some staged sectarian rite carried out by deranged fanatics, like the countless vulgar cults he had crushed and dismantled in the past. No... because this time, it was real. What he witnessed was nothing less than a ritual to summon something from beyond the limits of this world, an entity that should never exist here, yet was answering the call of blood and the cries of chaos.
And then... "it" had appeared. The terrifying entity that had emerged from the darkness of the inverted pentagram was a huge black shadow, with countless eyes scattered across its monstrous body, rolling and staring in every direction. A mouth smiled, revealing a cold, meaningless smile, emitting a strange light that terrified the souls within their bodies.
One of the few survivors from the team let out a desperate cry that pierced the air, "No... this can't be!"
But it was to no avail, as they fell one after another, their cries fading into nothingness as the terrifying demonic entity swallowed them up without mercy.
Arthur, too, had tried to resist until his last breath, but he could not. Pain ravaged his body violently, each heartbeat like a thunderbolt tearing him apart from within, until he fell among the bloody runes that glowed until they covered the entire demonic vault. For the first time in his life, Arthur felt this way, a feeling of absolute and total despair that suffocated him until his last breath.
But... in his final moments amid this collapse, he noticed something strange. An unknown force crept inside him, a tremendous sense of energy coursing through his veins, unlike anything he had ever known before. His golden eyes lit up with a changing glow, transforming from their usual amber-gold sparkle to a rainbow of dancing colors, as if his very soul had exploded with light.
Of course, Arthur did not understand what was happening to him, but he felt a power he had never known before... a power that defied even the pain that had been gnawing at him.
And then... nothing.
For, in the end, his body surrendered to the darkness, and the last flashes of consciousness faded... But before he sank completely into eternal darkness, he felt a sharp prick; a subtle sensation that somehow assured him that what had happened moments before was not an illusion, but reality... And that whatever that strange power was, it was now part of his very being.
Nevertheless, this was the end of the road for the great detective, the Holmes of the age and the king of mysteries... or at least that was how it should have been. But, in the end, "the dead do not rest when the truth is buried," especially if the deceased himself was a detective who tirelessly sought the truth. Somehow, after being killed by a mysterious Cult, Arthur Leonharth, who had left this world at the age of 19 on March 19, 2019, found himself suddenly waking up. But he was not in his usual room in his private apartment. Instead, he found himself in a luxurious room with an antique feel; the walls covered with dark wood paneling, the furniture made of sturdy wood decorated with intricate carvings, sunlight shyly filtering through a small window, and the smell of old books permeating the room, carrying with it the fragrance of knowledge and strange memories.