I stood there, amidst the damp cellar, listening to the rain penetrating the tiles and lashing the marble floor, mimicking the frantic rhythm of my heart in my chest.
My eyes were glued to the open wooden box on the barrel. I saw the symbol carved on its edge,a serpent wrapped around an apple and noticed a new symbol: a giant owl.
"How many times have I faced something like this?" I whispered to myself, my footsteps barely audible on the wooden stairs.
I didn't become the best investigator in Elgarh for nothing. Memory suddenly surged, pulling me back to a desolate past.
I remember the first case I took... I was a young, ambitious investigator, my drive overshadowing my experience.
I watched the criminal with the same breathless curiosity and confusing anticipation, trying to understand what was happening in his dark mind, to grasp the threads of truth before they vanished from my hands.
Those nights were long, teaching me that the human mind is sometimes crueler than any weapon.
But there is one name, only one, that remained etched in my bones with a cold clarity surpassing everything else:
"Andrea Chika."
Memory played the role of the executioner. I recall the names of all the criminals, every thief, every addict, every person convicted of trivial cases... but Chika was a puzzle. Every victim of his was more horrific than the last, every corpse a twisted, repulsive message.
I tried hard to infiltrate the labyrinth of his mind, driven by a strange, morbid curiosity. I stayed up nights asking questions, the kind that shake the foundations of the profession:
"Why am I trying to fix a mess that the whole world caused?"
This question made me hate my job. Since childhood, I've tried to understand the human mind—that complex, fragile enigma and I saw limitless potential in people. Now, I see a bottomless pit of violence and nihilism.
Why does he kill? Is he merely a beast quenching his thirst with blood, or is he a desperate philosopher who sees crime as the highest art?
I felt lost, torn between my desire for justice and my disgust at the nature of this justice, which only chases the aftermath and never prevents the affliction.
But slowly, I began to understand Chika's messages. He killed everyone who had committed some sins; he believed he was delivering divine justice, but he reaped nothing but ruin and chaos.
I also remember the moment of his capture... It was a night enveloped in dense fog, as if the city itself refused to witness the end of this nightmare. The air was freezing, and the smell of rust and mud filled the abandoned train station where we cornered him.
I carried a heavy rifle, its weight dragging down my hand, and behind me stood a large Gendarmerie team, fingers on triggers, awaiting my command. A mix of fear and savage excitement controlled me.
Then I saw him. Andrea Chika.
He was neither a giant nor a monster. He was a medium-height man wearing a faded coat. His face was pale, with sharp, unremarkable features, but his eyes... his eyes were cold gray, devoid of any fear or emotion, as if they were polished glass. He wasn't trembling or shaking.
When I pointed the rifle at him, he didn't quickly raise his hands. He looked at me with absolute calmness, then smiled that faint smile that never once spoke of fear.
Chika said to me with a calmness that sucked all the air from my chest:
"You haven't achieved justice, Investigator. You've merely reset a chaos that was part of nature. Every person I killed was the cause of suffering for many people..."
He spoke of chaos as if it were a natural balance, and murder as if it were a cosmic necessity. He judged me with his cold voice, as if he were the judge and I the guilty one who had spoiled the rules of the game.
I couldn't utter a single word because he was right...
And when we started interrogating him, he spoke of the Owl that sees in the dark, and of it being
"The Eye of the Night that knows who deserves to be eaten."
At the time, I thought he was the Owl.
But now, as I look at this symbol before me...
I realized he was just a feather from a much larger wing.
Suddenly, the heavy silence of the cellar was pierced by the sound of light but distinct footsteps coming from the stairs. Arenwald's heart stopped for a few seconds. It wasn't the sound of Ainliss returning from upstairs.
Arenwald spun around with frantic speed, his pistol rising automatically, skillfully hiding behind a row of stacked oak barrels and dark wine bottles. The cold cellar was now a potential bullet trap. He held his breath, ignoring the smell of old wine and wet mud.
He began watching the reflection of movement on the polished surface of the wine bottles, which reflected the faint yellow light. Finally, he noticed the tall shadow of Ainliss walking, carrying his drawn sword.
Arenwald sighed with fleeting relief, then said in a very low voice, barely a whisper, to cut through the humming rain:
"Ainliss! The killer is here. Don't move!"
But these words, despite their whisper, were enough to cause chaos. Ainliss felt panic. His heart dropped to his stomach, and he froze completely.
He raised his head, his eyes searching for the source of the sound in the darkness.
Then, with sudden terror, a hand wearing a dark glove shot out from between the rows of wine next to Arenwald, pointing toward Ainliss. The intention was to lure him.
A shiver of horror ran down Arenwald's spine. That wasn't his hand! The killer was just meters away from him, hidden among the shadows!
Ainliss, having seen the hand in the cellar gloom and thinking it was Arenwald's, said:
"I'm coming to you..."
It was a heavy moment, suspended between their racing heartbeats. Arenwald couldn't speak or move; the words froze in his throat as he watched the mysterious hand reveal itself to Ainliss.
Suddenly, everything happened in a split second.
Arenwald burst out of his hiding spot, shouting a warning with all his might:
"Ainliss! Noooooo! It's a traaaappp!"
But the scream came too late. Ainliss's body lunged forward, as if propelled by a massive, unseen force, violently colliding with a row of thick wine bottles.
The glass shattered like thunder, hundreds of shards flew into the air, and dark red wine spilled like blood onto the muddy floor.
Ainliss fell onto his back, torn by the glass, letting out a short, stifled scream followed by a deep moan. Arenwald remained stunned, watching the blood mix with the wine.
Arenwald started moving toward Ainliss, who was writhing in pain among the glass shards and spilled wine.
He moved his pistol slowly and steadily, his eyes scouring the shadows for the source of the mysterious attack.
Suddenly, and without warning, the masked figure launched out of its hiding spot behind the far rows of wine, raging like a storm.
The killer attacked with his long knife toward Arenwald with deadly force.
The investigator quickly retreated, feeling the cold red wine seep into his leather boots, and the cellar turned into a bloody trap.
The killer was now almost cornered: between the rows of dark wine bottles reflecting the pale light, Ainliss who was severely injured, and the armed Arenwald.
Arenwald spoke in a strong, challenging voice, trying to gain control of the situation:
"Man! Stop this madness!"
Arenwald saw him clearly now: a tall, slender, terrifying man.
He was wearing a dark black cloak covering him from head to toe, adorned with enigmatic golden embellishments.
But what forcefully caught Arenwald's attention was the emblem adorning the chest of the cloak: a gigantic eye in the center of a glowing golden sun, shining with a deceptive gleam under the pale yellow light of the cellar.
The killer began to approach Arenwald with slow, deliberate, terrifying steps; his footsteps made barely any sound on the wet floor. There was only a short distance between them.
Arenwald placed his finger on the trigger, his heart pounding like a drum. He said sharply:
"Stop..."
The killer didn't care. He continued to approach, his knife gleaming in the darkness.
Arenwald pulled the trigger, and the brass bullet shot toward the killer.....
But...The bullet didn't hit the killer; it suddenly stopped in mid-air, centimeters from his white mask. It began moving frantically in place, as if subjected to immense, invisible pressure.
Arenwald took two steps back, staring at the scene with shocked terror. He said, his voice trembling:
"That explains a lot..."
The metal bullet shriveled, crushed in on itself until it became a small, distorted sphere, then fell under their feet. This was no ordinary criminal.
Arenwald said again, pointing his now-useless weapon:
"Who are you...?"
The killer responded with a strange gesture. He placed his hand over the two eyes on the mask, covering them, leaving only the third eye on the forehead prominent.
"Mother fucker !" Arenwald slightly regained his composure and continued firing, but the bullets stopped and deformed one after the other, to no avail.
Suddenly, Ainliss's scream, mixed with blood and pain, pierced the air.
The Elf swung his blood-stained sword in a desperate attempt toward the killer, but before he could complete his move, both men felt an enormous, invisible pressure surrounding their bodies, as if they had plunged into deep water.
They were forcefully thrown to the side, and the pressure instantly caused them to lose consciousness.
The killer began walking calmly and steadily, stepping over the two prone bodies. He ascended the cellar stairs, heading outside.
Upstairs, he faced three gendarmes carrying their worn rifles.
One of them said, his hand trembling:
"S... Surrender!"
The killer raise his hands. Suddenly, the air around them began to grow heavier and darker.
The pressure began to increase until the electric lamps exploded with a sharp buzzing sound.
As for the three gendarmes, their bodies began to fold in on themselves unnaturally, as if an invisible force was crushing them. They fell dead to the ground.
The killer escaped again, leaving behind a cellar full of blood and wine, and a ground floor filled with new corpses. Meaningless chaos, but it was part of his brutal game.