The room was quiet except for the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. The silence pressed against Cliffdon's ears until he finally spoke.
"What do you mean… trouble?" Cliffdon asked, his voice sharper than he intended.
Inspector Hangson leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as though choosing his words carefully. "What you fought in that factory was no ordinary man. You saw the shadows he commanded. That… thing he summoned."
Cliffdon shivered at the memory. The giant figure of smoke and claws, the countless whispers tangled inside its roar.
"I don't understand," he muttered. "Shadows… they're just shadows. He controlled them somehow, like magic. That's all."
Hangson shook his head slowly. "No, Mr. Williams. Not magic. Something far worse." He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if the walls themselves might be listening. "Those weren't shadows. They were people."
Cliffdon blinked, stunned. "People? What are you talking about?"
Hangson's jaw tightened. "Every man, woman, or child that Alastor kills… he doesn't simply leave their bodies behind. He binds their souls. Traps them inside his shadows. That titan you faced wasn't a beast. It was a collection of the dead. A puppet stitched together from every life he has taken."
Cliffdon's breath caught in his throat. His mind raced back to the fight—the way the creature's roar didn't sound like one voice, but like hundreds crying out at once. He hadn't wanted to believe it then. Now the thought made his stomach twist.
"You're saying…" His voice faltered. "You're saying all those people—"
"They're still there," Hangson cut in. His tone was grim, heavy. "Not alive. Not dead. Trapped. Every time Alastor strikes someone down, his shadows grow stronger. He doesn't just kill—he harvests."
Cliffdon clenched his fists. He had seen killers before, but this… this was something beyond cruelty. It was theft of life itself.
Hangson leaned back, eyes hard. "That's why he cannot be allowed to continue. Every second he breathes, he adds more to his collection. More voices to his army. Do you understand now? You weren't fighting Alastor alone. You were fighting everyone who ever fell under his scalpel."
The room seemed to close in around Cliffdon. His chest felt tight, his thoughts a blur.
"Then…" His words came haltingly, like they were pulled from deep water. "If we don't stop him, he'll keep killing. He'll keep growing stronger. Until…"
"Until there's no one left to fight him," Hangson finished coldly. He folded his hands together. "Cities could fall. Nations. His shadows will spread like a plague. And with every death, his chains of power will tighten. That is the kind of trouble I am speaking of, Mr. Williams."
For a long time Cliffdon sat in silence, the weight of the revelation pressing down on him. His mind refused to accept it, yet deep inside he knew it was true. He had heard it in that roar. He had felt it in the air around Alastor.
And now, the terrible truth was clear—every battle against the Doctor of Madness was not just against one enemy, but against all the souls chained inside his darkness.
The fire in the small lamp flickered, shadows crawling across the walls like restless insects. Cliffdon sat with his hands pressed against his knees, staring at the floor. The weight of Hangson's earlier words refused to leave him. Alastor's power… the dead he killed…
Cliffdon's gaze drifted to his own shadow stretching across the wooden floor. It shifted with the flame's movement—but for a brief second, he swore it twitched on its own.
His throat went dry.
"No… that's impossible." He blinked, but the unease only grew heavier in his chest.
Finally, he broke the silence.
"Inspector…" His voice cracked. "There's something I need to know."
Hangson, sitting opposite with his arms crossed, looked up. "Go on."
Cliffdon hesitated, then forced the words out. "My shadows. When I fight… when they move… they feel alive. Like they're something more than me. You said Alastor's power comes from the dead he killed. Tell me honestly… mine aren't the same, are they?"
Hangson's expression darkened. For a moment he said nothing. His eyes narrowed slightly, and Cliffdon noticed the man's jaw tighten.
The silence lasted too long.
Cliffdon leaned forward, voice sharpening. "Answer me. Am I like him?"
Hangson finally spoke, but his tone was quiet, almost reluctant.
"You're not Alastor. Not yet."
The word yet struck Cliffdon like a blade. His breath caught. "Not yet? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Hangson shifted in his chair, avoiding Cliffdon's eyes. "I've seen another man before… someone who walked the same path. His shadows started as tools. Weapons. Just like yours. But over time… they changed. They began whispering to him. Feeding on him. And in the end—"
He stopped himself, lips pressing into a thin line.
Cliffdon slammed a fist on the table. "And in the end what? Tell me!"
Hangson looked at him, and for the first time Cliffdon saw something in his eyes—fear. Not of Alastor, not of the Guild… but of him.
"You don't want the answer, Mr. Williams," Hangson muttered. He rose to his feet and reached for his coat. "Pray you never find it."
With that, he left the room, the door creaking shut behind him.
Cliffdon sat frozen in silence, his fists trembling. The lamp's flame flickered again, and his shadow stretched long across the floor. This time, he didn't imagine it. He heard something inside it. A faint whisper, too quiet to understand, but enough to chill him to the bone.
Cliffdon couldn't erase the image of Dr. Alastor—the way shadows bent to his will like chains forged from the dead. That memory burned inside him, urging him to understand his own power.
The ruined courtyard at the city's edge was silent, forgotten. Cracked stone lay beneath his boots, weeds creeping through the gaps. No one would come here. That was why he had chosen it.
Cliffdon raised his hand, focusing. Smoke leaked from his fingertips, drifting uselessly into the air before vanishing. He gritted his teeth and tried again, forcing the energy to hold. This time, it flickered into the shape of a weapon but collapsed before it could take form.
"Damn it…" he muttered under his breath.
A third attempt. He poured more will into it. Shadows bled along his arm, swirling violently before solidifying into the silver-and-gold flintlock. The veins along its surface pulsed faintly, alive in his grip. At last—success.
He steadied his breath and fired. The shot cracked through the courtyard, smoke ripping apart a piece of the broken wall. Dust scattered into the air.
But almost immediately, the weapon dissolved, and the ground around him shifted. His shadow spread unnaturally, spilling across the stone like liquid. Faces flickered within it—hollow eyes, twisted mouths—before melting back into the dark.
Cliffdon stumbled back, chest tightening. The silence pressed on him like a weight. He clenched his fists, furious at himself. He couldn't control it. Every attempt felt unstable, dangerous, as if he were calling something he didn't fully understand.
Then, from beneath his boots, the shadow quivered. A hand-shaped smear of black stretched outward, clawing faintly at the ground before sinking away again.
Cliffdon's throat went dry. He forced himself to steady his breath. One mistake already felt like too many—and if he lost control again, there was no telling what might crawl out of that darkness.
Cliffdon's shadow writhed across the broken stones, stretching and twisting until it snapped back under his control. His chest rose and fell heavily—sweat clinging to his brow. Every attempt felt wrong. Too heavy, too unstable.
"Not bad," a voice drawled from behind him, "but you look more like a man trying to wrestle with his own feet than a future shadow master."
Cliffdon spun around, hand instinctively ready to summon the flintlock again. Judas leaned casually against a half-crumbled wall, arms folded, an amused smirk tugging at his lips.
"Relax," Judas said, waving lazily. "If I wanted you dead, you'd already be a part of the dirt."
Cliffdon let out a sharp breath. "You followed me?"
"Followed you? Please." Judas pushed off the wall, strolling forward. "I just happened to notice my dear teammate stomping around the ruins like a stubborn goat. Thought I'd come watch the show. And what a show it is." He gestured at the cracked stones and the lingering smoke. "Ten out of ten for dramatic flair, zero for control."
Cliffdon scowled. "If you're just here to mock me, then leave."
Judas tilted his head, feigning hurt. "Ouch. Cold. But lucky for you, I'm generous with my wisdom." He crouched down, tapping his fingers against the shadow at Cliffdon's feet. The darkness quivered faintly at his touch.
"You're forcing it," Judas continued, suddenly serious. "Shadows aren't like steel or fire. You don't command them with brute strength—you tempt them, guide them. Push too hard, and they'll push back."
Cliffdon hesitated, watching as Judas straightened again. "And you know this how?"
Judas grinned. "Let's just say I've dabbled." He stepped back, motioning with his hand. "Try again. But this time, stop fighting it like it's an enemy. Think of it as… an old friend who's moody. Persuade it. Don't strangle it."
Cliffdon narrowed his eyes, then steadied his breath. He raised his hand once more. Smoke gathered, shaky at first, but steadier as he focused differently—less force, more patience. Slowly, the silver-and-gold flintlock solidified, its faint veins glowing more evenly.
The shot he fired cracked clean and sharp, the smoke dispersing in a tighter line that shattered another stone block. This time, his shadow only rippled lightly before settling.
Cliffdon blinked in surprise.
Judas clapped slowly, mock applause echoing through the courtyard. "See? You're already less pathetic."
Cliffdon exhaled, lowering the weapon as it dissolved. "You could've told me sooner instead of standing there making jokes."
"And miss the look on your face when the shadows tried to eat you?" Judas chuckled. "No chance."
Still smirking, Judas turned away, tossing a hand behind him. "Come on. Don't break yourself here. We'll need you in one piece if Dr. Alastor decides to crawl out of whatever hole he's hiding in."
Cliffdon lingered a moment, staring at his shadow. It was calmer now, but he could still feel it—restless, waiting.
Then, reluctantly, he followed Judas out of the ruins.
Next day. Progress continued.
Cliffdon raised his hand again, trying to summon the black smoke. This time it only puffed out for a second before fading like steam.
"Tch… useless," he muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead. He aimed again, but instead of the gun forming, a thin shadow stretched out of his arm and smacked the ground with a dull thud.
"That's not how you shoot, you know."
Cliffdon turned sharply—Judas was leaning against a tree, arms crossed, a smug grin plastered across his face.
"You again?" Cliffdon sighed. "Don't you have… better things to do?"
"Nope," Judas said without hesitation. "Besides, watching you wave your arms around like a headless chicken is the best entertainment I've had all week."
Cliffdon glared, but Judas only chuckled and walked over. He crouched beside the mark on the ground where the shadow had landed. "Not bad though. Messy, but it means the power's listening to you. Just doesn't trust you yet."
Cliffdon raised a brow. "Not trust me? It's my power."
"Mm… that's what you think," Judas teased, tapping his temple. "But from the looks of it, your little shadow buddy doesn't like being bossed around. Think of it less like holding a leash and more like… negotiating with a stubborn dog."
Cliffdon almost laughed despite himself. "Great. So I'm a dog trainer now."
"Exactly!" Judas clapped him on the back, nearly making him stumble. "Except your dog spits black smoke and might accidentally blow a hole through your wall if you get it mad."
"…That's not funny."
"It's a little funny." Judas grinned, then stood up and held out his hand. "Here, I'll show you. Focus on what you want the power to do, not what you're afraid it'll do. Big difference."
Cliffdon hesitated, then nodded. Together, they began testing again—this time with Judas making small corrections, mocking encouragements, and the occasional dramatic gasp whenever Cliffdon messed up.
But slowly, under the laughter and light jabs, Cliffdon felt the shadows begin to move a little more naturally, as if they really were listening.
After a few more tries, the shadows finally formed into the faint shape of a gun in Cliffdon's hand—unstable, but there. He blinked in surprise.
Judas whistled. "Well, look at that. Didn't think you'd manage it before sundown."
Cliffdon smirked faintly. "Guess I'm not completely hopeless."
"Don't get cocky," Judas shot back with a grin. "One wrong thought and you'll probably shoot yourself in the foot. But hey… progress is progress."
He stretched lazily and started walking off. "Alright, Williams, that's enough training for today. Don't want your shadows biting back just yet."
Cliffdon glanced at the fading weapon in his hand, determination sparking in his eyes. For the first time, the power didn't feel impossible—it felt… reachable.