Heather’s bar had once again become the center of attention. It always was the most filled of the bars in Ur whenever the clock struck seven to bring forth evening on the new year’s holiday—the first of January—which was equally the historical day Fitzroy had won the Great War over Lemur.
There were celebrations all around the Foreign District in that regard.
Myriads of buildings—some tall, some short, and with either steeped or conical roofs—were cloaked in white. And each one was adorned by their aglow windows and doors with varying types of festive decorations, consisting of green garlands beautified by translucent bronze-colored gemstones twinkling under the light of the stars and full moon.
The gas lamps standing tall in lines around the streets, sent forth their warm pockets of lights onto the pristine snow covering the grounds, and into an enchanting dance.
With the crispy and chilly air came falling snowflakes, and the occasional whiff of burning woods, roasted chestnuts, and countless other scents that mingled with the ones of spices and the likes.
There were also the distinct sounds of laughter and music pouring out from the countless buildings congesting the area, as well as the muffled footsteps of the gentlemen and ladies, and, as well, children, shuffling about dressed in thick, comfy clothes fitted for the weather.
And the mixture of the happy snorts of horses pulling carriages to the left of the streets, and the sputters of the steam cars driving on the right, brought up the feeling that even animals and non-living things were participating in the festivity as well.
The ambience was amazing, cozy, captivating. Though the Emperor’s curfew still remained. And everyone knew that they would have to leave the bars, pubs, and restaurants soon enough to head home before it turned eleven.
Egor Mason was no different.
But even though he wanted to gulp down a few more tankards of ale, he had no choice but to release his bladder from its troubles first. He needed to make space for more of that fine unhopped brew of malt and yeast after all.
The door of Heather’s bar pushed open, and with it emerged Egor with a hearty burp from the deafening rumbles that made up the interior of the bar. His black eyes were narrowed as though they sought any form of rest, and his legs shook with every step he took.
The unmarried man in his late thirties was dressed in a black woolen turtleneck and pants, his deep brown hair a wrinkled mess, and the great pack of goatee he had did little to make him look like the refined chocolate business prodigy he usually was during the day.
He cared little for his appearance at this point in time though; it was a festive season, he needed to enjoy himself. And he was also celebrating the new deals he’d signed with major investors for his ever growing company.
Very soon he would become a well renowned figure in the world of chocolate production, and he had a sure feeling that he was likely to take the top spot.
Such an achievement would push him into the higher class from the middle he was currently in, and maybe even the chance to obtain nobility in the House of Lords; that was if he could become a Baron, or better still, get a recommendation.
But in truth, he was not against settling for the House of Commons. That was far easily achievable.
Seeing what he could accomplish, yes, he had every right to celebrate!
Groggily, as the drunkard he currently was, Egor moved toward the alleyway to his left where the toilet shed of Heather’s bar was located, uncaring about the people waddling through the streets and the possibility of him bumping into them.
They all did well to avoid him either way, but their follow up mumbles were of no necessity since Egor paid no mind to them—rather, it was impossible for him to heed them in his state.
In the alley Egor swerved into, there were five toilet sheds lined all the way to its end where a high brick wall stood, each one spread out at least five feets from the other. They were built as additions to the wall of Heather’s bar, and were of unmortared marbles and steep roofs, which in return made their interiors icy cold, considering the current chilly weather.
Egor minded not though. It seemed like his drunkenness made his body immune to feeling cold despite his current lack of gloves and an overcoat.
He checked all the first four toilets, unimpressed by their state, before he settled for the last of the five to ease himself.
Whistling a tune in a professional manner usually meant for a seasoned musician, he whipped out his prong and sent a stream of water into the ceramic closet sprouting from the wooden floor, his face flushing deeper with every moan in between his whistles.
“Ah… Refreshing,” he mumbled as he cleansed himself with the bucket of water to the left of the toilet before exiting the shed. Easing his bladder seemed to lower the effects of his drunken state in return.
But just as he arrived outside, his somewhat reinvigorated senses tingled, causing him to stretch his neck forward and further narrow his eyes while he concentrated on the shadowed wall across from him.
“Who’s there?!” he voiced calmly, having come to the conclusion that he really was being watched. But nobody answered. “Heh, playing pranks, are you? You a peasant child? What? You want some chocolate? Know who I am don’t you?”
Still no reply came. And this time Egor had his hair stand upright on his napes.
The person watching him was no child!
Egor quickly dipped his hand into his pocket and brought out a knife made out of seemingly sharpened cedar wood—but still wood nonetheless.
Although, he was not so stupid as to reveal a wooden knife to threaten a person if it had no attacking power. And at that moment, he mumbled a recitation, causing raging blue flames to ignite all around the wooden knife’s body like a cloak, bar the part that made up its hilt.
He smiled then, at the person he had not yet seen.
“Orsted sent you, didn’t he?” Egor laughed. “That balding man fears me defeating him?! Wow! Well, come on, won’t you?! Come out! I don’t need to call for help. Heh, I can take you on myself, you measly assassin. I’m an Ascender, I’ll have you know!”
The cold wind blew audibly as Egor’s taunts died down, and it was then that the unseen figure beneath the shadows finally let his presence be confirmed.
“Elia Brentford…”
The voice that had emanated was hoarse, sharp, and at the same time shrill. It was almost like sandpaper was being scoured annoyingly on a rough surface, making the words come forth as unpleasant. Despite that, it was unmistakable that it was a man’s voice.
Egor was not surprised that his suspicion had been proven correct, although he still narrowed his brows, but only because of the name that had been called cryptically.
“Elia Brentford?” Egor questioned in some sort of pompous tone tinged by repulsion, his flaming knife well held in his right hand with a stance ready for action. “Are you deranged, you puny assassin? Why mention a name I do not know? Who in a horse’s arse is that?!”
It took a few seconds, but, amidst the ruckus clouding the walkway perpendicular to the darkened alley, a reply came from the hidden person, bearing the words, “Your victim.”
“Huh…?!” Egor Mason’s nose squeezed erratically, and with his countenance shifting into one of bamboozlement, the hidden figure suddenly appeared from the deep, dark shadows covering the other end of the alleyway.
The once-hidden person, who had now manifested into view, had the figure of a male of average height, seemingly an inch shorter than Egor.
He was dressed in a shirt, vest, and leather gloves, as well as a snuggly fitted trousers with a somewhat large belt around his waist, seemingly holding something by his side. And covering his feet were sturdy shin-high boots that looked to be able to resist the limiting effects snow had on movements.
Each of the garments were equally of the color of night, making them almost indiscernible beneath the also-black ragged trench coat which was draped over them with its collars raised up above chin height.
It was that, along with the strangely blackened hair the emerged figure had, which made it obvious why his being had been completely hidden within the shadows of the alley.
But if the strangely garbed person’s aim had been to imbue some sort of fear into Egor with his appearance, it had apparently been an utter failure.
And that result was because of the roughly trimmed pale mask he had obstructing the features of his face. A disguise which had inverted diamond shaped eyes in the form of glasses—its right eye bearing a mild vertical gash—and an exaggerated smile brought forth from a single line curved up to his ears by its edges with countless striae perpendicular to it.
Egor Mason was a whimsical man who saw jokes in everything possible, and that was why he was trying so hard to suppress his laughter which had arisen from the sight of a figure that was meant to make anyone shiver in fright.
“What…” Egor trailed off as his eyelids filled with lessened drunkenness welled up with tears of amusement, his flaming knife shivering in his right hand. “Has Orsted lost it?!” He finally laughed. “He’s employing clowns as assassins now, is it?! What a joke!”
The figure being laughed at made no sounds. He instead dipped his gloved hands into the flap pockets of his ragged trench coat, and kept on watching Egor who was enjoying himself in a manner that was required of a festive night.
After a few seconds of merriment in front of the last toilet shed in the alleyway, Egor used the forefinger of his left hand to wipe off his tears as his laughter subsided.
“Why the mask?” he asked soon after, seemingly as some form of joke—maybe in hopes of another wave of hilarity coming over him.
“To hide my face,” the masked figure indulged him, his shrill voice ever so evident.
“What? Are you some hideous monster underneath it? A very ugly person by society's standards?”
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The masked man tilted his head somewhat indiscernibly. “I’d claim it to be the opposite,” he bragged, obviously playing along. Then, all of a sudden, his tone changed. “Do you recall Elia Brentford?”
Egor was clearly not happy with the abrupt appearance of that question again as his cheerful mood instantly turned sour.
“You’re not from Orsted, are you?” Tensing up his body, the drunken man seemed to have his intoxication forcibly lowered another as he came to a deduction he was not pleased with. “Who are you really?”
“Elia Brentford,” the masked man continued, circumventing the question he had been asked. “A young attractive lady with blonde hair of the peasant class. Works at Mason’s Dark Chocolate Factory as a mixer, and was deflowered forcefully as some sort of celebration on the day she came of age, which was on December 20th.”
Egor’s eyes widened considerably at first before narrowing into crinkled slits. He spat next from the edge of his mouth as his lips twisted in something akin to irritation.
“And?” His voice grew taut with fury, and so had his grip on his weapon.
“Do you confirm that there was no consent?” The masked man’s hoarse and shrill tone intensified, but his body did not move an inch from where he was standing, making it hard to picture what his exact expression was beneath the mask.
Egor’s lips flattened.
“What does it matter? I’ve been cleared by the police, you dimwit. What will giving you any sort of information now prove?” A scoff forced itself out of him next. “Are you her brother or something?” He eyed the masked man from head to toe. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Peasants tend to behave deranged by this time of the year. Is it money you want? Compensation? I’ll give you some. Come to the factory tomorrow, and stop wasting my time here.”
The man with a profound goatee relaxed his action stance as he prepared himself to take leave of this child’s play, but before he could do that the masked man brought out a piece of paper from his pocket and raised it at him causing him to halt.
“This emerged from your hidden safe behind your office cupboard. It is evidence of your dealings with underground cartels, the Hivemind especially. Exposing this to the public will subject you to losing your factory due to fraudulent acts.” Egor’s eyes bulged visibly at those words. “I ask once more. Do you confirm that there was no consent?”
Egor Mason’s nostrils flared as he retook his predatory stance, this time his body shivering in an attempt to attack the masked man before him.
“Hand me that paper!” he roared. “Hand it over now, or I swear to Chronos I’ll kill you right where you stand!”
The masked man simply returned the paper back to his pocket, leaving his hand in there in a languid manner as though all Egor’s words had been lost to the icy wind whirling through the night.
“Are you deaf?! I said "hand it over!””
“I have decided to take your silence to my question as a no,” the masked man announced. “Egor Mason, you have been found guilty by ‘The Reaper’ of a crime of sexual assault, and therefore you have been sentenced to death. Resent yourself in the afterlife for your wrongdoings.”
Egor bursted out laughing.
“You?! You kill me?! I’m an Ascender! Only those in the Echelon ranks can harm me! Only Ascenders of such a caliber! You are obviously none of those, and just a stupid person running around with delusions of being a vigilante. I, Egor Mason, am the judge here, and I will be the only one to pass any sentence—”
The distance between them was nothing less than twenty steps, but all it took was five before the figure of the reaper turned blurry for a moment, and the whole gap between them vanished into nonexistence.
Egor’s breath and words caught in his gullet at that. And a second later, the figure of the reaper enhanced eerily—along with the darkness—in so much creepy detail that it seemed as though he had turned into a benevolent giant. The sight caused Egor to have cold sweats pour out from every pore of his body, despite the chilly air of winter’s night, as a nauseating pressure enveloped him.
This was not as a result of something as mild as fear. The sensation Egor felt now was greater. It was something more wicked and sinister; something he’d never felt before. It was nothing short of utter dread.
All of a sudden, with a soft wave of his left hand, the reaper put out the supernatural blue flame that had been cloaking Egor’s wooden knife, and in return incited the man to let go of his only weapon in shock before stumbling to the ground and wrapping himself into a ball.
“Sorry. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again,” Egor Mason whimpered erratically with a lowered voice, his pompous persona fading instantly like the last wisp of smoke from an extinguished fire. “I forced myself on her. I did. I did. Please let me live. Please. I beg of you.”
The reaper crouched, then cupped Egor’s chin with his forefinger and thumb as he turned the man’s face around, prompting them both to gaze at each other.
Egor’s eyes flickered though, almost as chaotic as his body. He was too afraid to look directly at the reaper’s smiling mask, his blanched expression giving off the impression that he felt he would die if he did that.
“Didn’t Elia beg the same way you are doing now?” the reaper mentioned, his shrill voice further causing Egor to shiver, and of course waste no time in responding.
“She… She did…”
“And did you listen to her pleas?”
“No… I didn’t…”
The reaper brought out his left hand from his pocket and twirled a finger around in the air in some sort of fluid motion. Egor dared not to look. His gaze remained on the alleyway ground filled with patches of snow.
“Then why should I listen to yours?”
Egor tried to speak but his lips kept trembling, forcing him to constantly utter a bunch of gibberish. He then took a glance toward the well-brightened street in longing, and that seemed to put a leash on his mouth’s tremors. But only for a reason, one he had almost done if not for the reaper’s hand suddenly acting as a muzzle over his mouth.
“Trying to scream for help was a bad idea; one which just hastened your death,” the reaper announced.
Egor shook his head fervently, and at that moment, with hastened speed, his right hand brought something into the reaper’s view—something magnificent, something eye-catching, and it no doubt did its job.
It was a purple crystal—clear and transparent—and not much more than the size of a pebble. But even with its smallness, it was still alluring, and so much that a presence so life threatening instantly had its focus drawn to it.
“What is this?”
Obviously curious, the reaper allowed his grip over Egor’s mouth to lessen. He needed an answer.
“It’s called opium,” Egor said with a trembling voice, his gaze still well placed to the ground, while the crystal was firmly held between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s a drug. A fast rising one within the underground network. I’ve not used one yet, but it is said to be very powerful and works wonders in ways no one can explain. It is very expensive as well. Just one of these rocks sells for nothing less than a thousand mints. I can give it to you if you let me live. More and more I will bring, as much as you request. If you want I can make you a dealer. I-I don’t mean to be rude, but you don’t seem to be of the upper class. With the money you can easily buy a noble status and rise up the ranks. Heh… Spare me, please. I can be of use to you.”
There was a lingering silence as soon as Egor’s talking ended, almost giving the impression that his proposal would not be heeded. But shortly after, the opium found itself exchanging hands, going from Egor’s to the reaper’s. And with that Egor found himself free from the reaper’s muzzle-grasp as well.
“I see…” The shrill voice of the reaper was of a lower tone now as he rose to his feet. And because of that action Egor found a slow smile rise on his face in relief even though his hands were still trembling.
“Thank you,” Egor Mason mumbled, his eyes still well placed on the ground. The dread he had felt for this being had not yet completely left his body even though the enigmatic aura that had made him collapse had subsided somewhat. But at least he was going to live. At least… “Thank—”
Egor had been about to show his appreciation one more time when he heard the snap of fingers, inciting him to put a stop to his words.
But before he’d had the chance to process why such a sound had come forth, he felt an abrupt sensation of both the bones and flesh in his head inflating with a lot more pressure than they could handle.
It was less than a few seconds until his head had swollen ominously to an extent that it had the nature of a bloated fish, restricting his ability to either breathe or make a sound. Then suddenly it burst, causing bones and brain juice to splatter all over the snow, and dye the door of the toilet shed red.
The performance of that scene had an uncanny similarity to that of a needle being poked into an aerated balloon, bringing it to a sharp pop as it exploded.
…
There were no snowflakes falling from the early morning sky, but still the air was abnormally cold—almost even in a worse condition than when snow was pouring down.
Hallo Elm didn’t like that, not one bit, especially since he should still be at home resting, seeing as his self proclaimed off-days included the 2nd of January, which was the current date of the day.
But he had no choice. There was a clue to his case at the scene he was heading toward, and he could not let the police officers clean it all up before he’d gotten a chance to see it for himself.
Puffing air into his gloved palms as he highlighted from the public carriage he had boarded, Hallo, who was dressed in his favorite white overcoat with ermine furs trimmed around its hems, shuffled past the onlookers crowding the walkway, and approached the police cordon that barricaded the alleyway beside Heather’s bar.
Upon getting there, before any of the officers could motion him away, he quickly whipped out his bounty hunter’s license from his flap pocket and showed it to them, exposing the intricate logo of an eye to its left, and the irregular circular clock representing the Crest of Time to its right.
“Echelon 7 Ascender. Hallo Elm,” he added in case they somehow had no clue on what the license was.
And as a reply, the officers keeping guard over the entrance of the scenery—each dressed in knee length coats buttoned all the way to their high collars—bowed and allowed him passage through.
The insignia emblazoned on the helmets of the officers was of the design of the Crest of Time, making known their affiliation with Ur’s police department; while the lack of bath stars on their epaulets discerned their rank of constable to the white coated Ascender.
Entering the alley with a smile on his face, Hallo greeted every single official collectively at once, “Good morning, boys. Good morning, chief inspector.”
There was obviously nothing good about the morning, but he was only trying his best to cheer up the mood of the inspectors and sergeants combing and marking the gory scene he met.
Although, that had no success, and the momentary stares of the officers told him all he needed to know.
And in that regard, he just kept the rest of his spirit uplifting antics to himself, while he headed for the toilet shed at the end of the alley, and the chief inspector stationed to take over the investigation of the crime.
He had known the man with a receding hairline was the one in charge because he was the only person who had three bath stars on the epaulet of his uniform—the highest rank among the officers in the scene of crime.
The chief inspector turned to Hallo when he heard the greeting—his top hat in hand—and scrutinized the sleepy eyed man of fine ebony skin that had approached him.
“And who are you?” The chief inspector’s voice was a little bit rough.
Hallo retained his smile, causing the swollen under lids of his eyes to become even more visible.
“Hallo Elm,” he replied. “Echelon 7 Ascender, and bounty hunter. You can tack on private detective to my titles, if you want, seeing as this job is slowly turning me into one.” He scratched his untrimmed black hair next with a yawn. His sleep was calling.
“Hmph…” The chief inspector scoffed and returned his age-filled gaze back to the messy scenery consisting of flesh, bones, brains, and blood. “Well, this is simply a murder case, so I’m not sure you’re needed here. The police force can handle it alone.”
“Nope.” Hallo shook both his head and a finger in denial and a bit dramatically. “This is the fourth death by this method since November, isn’t it? I wouldn’t be here if the police force could handle it—which you obviously can’t since it’s now become four murders.” The chief inspector remained silent, his arms folded, despite the words of Hallo that would seem provocative to any officer. “In fact, you all are not supposed to be working on this case any longer as it is involved with the supernatural.”
The following words though made the middle aged inspector’s expression have a slight change.
His peering gaze narrowed at the lifeless and headless body that was lying on the wooden floor of the toilet shed with a paper on its chest.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m ninety percent sure that this case is related to the current job I’m working on.” Hallo Elm shifted closer to the somewhat muscular inspector, doing so in order to see the words that had been written on the opened door of the toilet shed. And at the sight he nodded indiscernibly. “A job regarding a certain corrupted one who illegally obtained the rank of an Echelon 9 Ascender.”
Scribbled in crimson red on the toilet shed’s door was the sentence:
‘Death Comes Knocking Only Once…’