The dim room was solemnly silent, with only the heavy breathing and the faint sound of a pen nib scratching on paper echoing through the space.
Shermans didn't notice that fine beads of sweat had already covered his forehead. As he delved deeper into his thoughts, he seemed to be getting ever closer to the truth, recording everything that came to his mind in the hefty notebook.
"Where exactly did this plague, known as the Demon, originate from, and when did it begin? We've killed so many, yet why have we never found a 'pure' Demon?"
Fear and exhilaration coexisted in his heart. Shermans felt as if he had become younger. As he pondered, his thoughts raced increasingly fast. He even felt that his recent musings had pushed human understanding of Demons forward by a measure.
Suddenly, he remembered something, set down his pen, and flipped to the earlier pages in the notebook.
