Chapter 2: Jack, The Reaper

As the morning sun graced the horizon with its gentle radiance, a chorus of avian melodies filled the air, their dulcet tunes interwoven with murmurs of early risers engaged in conversation. The tempestuous storm of the previous night seemed a distant memory, its turbulent presence subdued by the placidity of the present.

Yet, within this ethereal calmness, an anguished cry rent the tranquil atmosphere, its reverberations stirring ripples of disquiet among the bystanders.

The anguished cries of a young woman pierced the air, acting as a clarion call that summoned the concerned souls in the vicinity. A throng of sympathetic figures swiftly congregated around her, predominantly women, their maternal instincts propelling them forward to offer solace. They enveloped her, forming a protective shield against her torment, gently guiding her to the side where they sought to provide comfort.

Her once bright eyes were now swollen and red from ceaseless weeping, the trails of tears tracing their sorrowful path down her cheeks. The visage that had once exuded a fair and captivating beauty was now marred by her anguish, the weight of her grief etched upon her delicate features. Her voice, strained and trembling, carried the weight of sorrow, intermingled with occasional coughs that bore witness to her emotional turmoil.

Her tear-stained face, fair and adorned with beauty, displayed the anguish that consumed her. The once pristine dress now bore the marks of her grief, dirtied from her distraught state as she nearly collapsed upon the ground. Her voice, choked with sorrow, trembled and wavered with each word, accompanied by occasional coughs, as she revealed the tragic truth: Senior Scholar James Jorvan, her husband, was dead. Murder had claimed his life within the confines of his own room.

The room stood witness to a ghastly sight that filled those who beheld it with unbridled horror. Senior Scholar James Jorvan lay lifeless, his neck brutally slit, a gaping wound that extended from his chest to his abdomen. The sight alone sent shivers down the spines of those who dared to glance upon it.

Men and women alike stood frozen on the threshold, their bodies paralyzed by a mixture of fear and morbid fascination. The air grew heavy with tension as their hearts pounded within their chests, the rapid beat serving as a chilling reminder of the sinister event that had unfolded within those walls. Baffled and perplexed, they hesitated to enter the room of the crime, their minds awash with a potent blend of dread and disbelief.

"Good heavens, what in the world has transpired...?" Fon, a gentleman of the highest regard, gasped in disbelief, his eyes widening as they took in the gruesome scene before him.

His companion, a stalwart friend who had joined him in investigating the crime, spoke in hushed tones. "Murder, Fon, that is the chilling truth. A malevolent hand has orchestrated this heinous act."

Following his friend's gaze, Fon's attention was drawn to a distinct mark upon the lifeless man's hand. It resembled the sinuous trail of a serpent, rendered in ominous black ink. A sense of foreboding gripped Fon's heart as realization dawned upon him.

"Hans... Could it be the work of the Devil Worshippers?" Fon whispered, his voice trembling with fear and trepidation, acknowledging the dark presence that loomed over them.

"Undoubtedly," Hans concurred, his gaze fixed upon the sinister mark. Though not formally trained detectives or members of any investigative agency, they were esteemed professors of literature, their knowledge and wisdom commanding respect among their peers. Engrossed in their conversation, they seemed momentarily detached from the gravity of the crime scene unfolding before them.

"But, what purpose did this killing serve?"

Fon, on the verge of delving deeper into his inquiries, was abruptly interrupted by the entrance of another figure. A hushed silence descended upon the room, punctuated only by the mournful cries of the distraught woman. All other sounds faded into oblivion as the newcomer made his presence known.

Dressed in a black coat and adorned with a hat, the man carried himself with an air of authority. His cane provided support as he walked, and though devoid of a mustache, the remnants of a recently shaved face hinted at meticulous grooming. Wrinkles were absent from his countenance, for he possessed a youthful visage that belied his esteemed reputation.

"Stynus Storm," someone whispered in reverent tones, the excitement palpable among those who beheld him for the first time. The name carried weight, echoing through the room as a testament to the man's revered status.

Stynus Storm, the enigmatic figure who graced the crime scene, possessed a reputation that surpassed mere familial renown. While his father's legacy certainly cast a formidable shadow, Stynus had carved his own path to greatness. A rare combination of innate talent and unwavering dedication had propelled him to heights unparalleled by his peers, attaining the esteemed rank of 'Master Scholar' – a distinction that had eluded all others.

Guided by George Palam, an aged man in his seventies and the trusted butler of James' family, Stynus Storm advanced towards the designated room. Excitement flickered in George's eyes, having whispered about Stynus' arrival moments before. Eager to lead the way, he prepared to enter the room.

However, Stynus abruptly halted George's progress with a subtle motion of his cane, blocking his path. George, taken aback by the unexpected obstruction, swiftly stepped aside, deferring to Stynus' command.

With calculated deliberation, Stynus approached the room's threshold but refrained from crossing it. His right hand slid inside his coat, retrieving a pebble he had serendipitously picked up from the street only moments earlier.

"Pray tell, what is the purpose of this pebble?" George questioned, his curiosity piqued.

"It possesses the remarkable ability to sense malevolent energies," Stynus explained, a glimmer of intrigue dancing in his eyes. With deliberate care, he rolled the pebble into the room, its trajectory leading it to rest near a table positioned beside the lifeless body. A smile of satisfaction played upon Stynus' lips as he ventured forward, taking his first step into the room. His focus was not on the body but on the table where the pebble had found its place.

Stynus's keen eyes fell upon the table, concealed beneath a somber black cloth. With a sense of urgency, he gestured for George to remove the covering, ensuring he wore a pair of gloves beforehand. As the cloth was lifted, a startling revelation emerged—a serpent-shaped pattern of blood stains adorned the surface.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"Evil," George uttered, his voice filled with trepidation, closely observing the room alongside Stynus.

"Aye, indeed," Stynus acknowledged with a knowing smile. His gaze shifted to the position of the serpent's head, pointing towards the north side of the room. Without hesitation, he turned his head to the right, where a small card had been discreetly affixed to the wall.

Stynus's voice cut through the air, "174 centimeters..."

"Pardon?" George inquired, perplexed by the seemingly unrelated statement.

"My height," Stynus clarified, his tone steady as he approached the wall where the card had been deliberately placed, as if beckoning him to investigate further.

As George approached the card, his eyes widened in shock, causing him to instinctively recoil. The card bore a chilling symbol—a letter J intertwined with an image of a joker. This joker, clad in a black cloak and clutching a menacing scythe, represented a notorious figure well-known to them both: "The Reaper."

Stynus, observant as ever, took note of the symbol and the name that escaped George's trembling lips - "Jack, the Reaper."

A knowing smile played upon Stynus' lips as he replied, "I arrived in this town only moments ago, yet he had foreknowledge of my presence."

"Sir, do you not think that this could be a mere coincidence?" George inquired, his voice trembling with fear.

Stynus, his countenance steady and resolute, met George's gaze. "Within the intricate web of existence, there are no coincidences—only the concealed threads of purpose and hidden connections awaiting revelation," he responded, his words imbued with a sense of profound conviction. With a deliberate motion, he adorned a white glove on his right hand and carefully retrieved the card, studying it intently for a moment.

"Jack, the Reaper. A Devil Worshipper..."

"For an entire year, I have pursued him, yet he has eluded my grasp," Stynus shared, turning towards George. Placing a reassuring hand on the old butler's shoulder, he began to make his way out of the room.

Approaching the distraught widow, whose tears had reduced her to a near state of unconsciousness, Stynus witnessed the depth of her love for her departed husband. Several compassionate women encircled her, their presence offering solace in this time of profound grief. However, upon Stynus' arrival, their demeanor shifted. Adjusting their attire, they promptly rose from the ground, recognizing his authority. A simple nod from Stynus conveyed his desire for them to grant him a moment alone with the grieving widow.

As the others departed, Stynus crouched down, positioning himself closer to the bereaved woman. His gaze met hers, filled with empathy and understanding, as he spoke softly, "I pray that you shed no more tears."

The widow gazed into Stynus' eyes, her voice trembling as she expressed her love for her late husband and her struggle to contain her overwhelming grief.

The widow expressed the depth of her love, lamenting, "My love for him was profound."

Stynus, meeting her gaze, responded with empathy, "True love knows no bounds, and it is evident in the depths of your grief."

The widow, her voice filled with both sorrow and curiosity, posed a question, "But how could you understand, great sir? I see no sorrow in your eyes. It seems you are well acquainted with death."

Stynus didn't respond to that. He, removing his hat, offered her a compassionate look.

"I should not burden you further, but perhaps sharing this will lighten your heart," Stynus began, his voice gentle. The widow waited in anticipation, her eyes fixed on him.

"Your husband..." Stynus paused, collecting his thoughts. "He was no ordinary man. He was a great man who accomplished remarkable deeds. Remember this and carry his legacy within you."

With these words of solace, Stynus rose from his crouched position. The widow shed a few more tears, but Stynus had fulfilled his duty of providing motivation. He replaced his hat, exiting the room and signaling to the other women to attend to her needs with a nod of assurance.

As Fon approached Stynus, accompanied by his friend Hans, he inquired about the identity of the perpetrator. Stynus, wearing a knowing smile, replied, "My good sir, your keen intellect will surely lead you to the truth." Sensing others eavesdropping on their conversation, Fon suggested they find a secluded place for a private discussion.

After a brief moment of solitude, Fon spoke, "Could it be the infamous Reaper?"

Stynus responded with a knowing smile, allowing the unspoken answer to linger in the air. Hans interjected, expressing his curiosity about the Reaper's motive in killing James. Fon mentioned the news released by Sir Grey Storm, and Stynus nodded in acknowledgment.

"Yes, the patterns of death orchestrated by the Reaper are all too apparent," Fon continued.

Stynus, swiftly interjecting, completed the thought, stating, "Only Devil Worshippers."

Fon and Hans shared a meaningful glance, their unspoken thoughts aligning. Fon subtly gestured towards the door, indicating James as the subject of their inquiry. With a mix of apprehension and curiosity, Fon cautiously asked, "He...? He was?"

Stynus maintained his silence, yet his nonverbal response conveyed everything they needed to know.

A contemplative hush settled over them, each lost in their own thoughts, until Stynus finally broke the silence. "I must take my leave now, in pursuit of the perpetrator. May the Goddess watch over you."

"May the Goddess be with you," Fon and Hans chorused, both removing their hats and bowing in a show of respect and goodwill.

Meanwhile…

In the parking area, a man draped in a black coat approached a carriage, his gait light and his left hand clutching a suitcase. Seeking to secure transportation, he politely inquired, "Good sir, is the carriage available?"

Startled from his slumber, a man who had been dozing inside the carriage hastily retrieved the newspaper that had slipped down his face. "Ah, yes, indeed it is," he responded, swiftly adjusting his hat.

The driver's attention shifted to the horses, which emitted peculiar and apprehensive sounds as if unsettled by an unseen presence. Curiosity tinged the stranger's deep voice as he queried, "Are they not trained?"

Chuckling, the driver quipped, "Haha, it's my first day on the job, and I've borrowed this wagon from a friend. The horses are still getting accustomed to me." The remark was met with a lighthearted jest.

"As long as you know how to drive," the stranger commented, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

"Haha, you won't find a better driver than me in the entire city!" the driver boasted, gesturing for the man to embark upon the carriage. "Good sir, may I have the pleasure of knowing your name?"

A mischievous smile played upon the stranger's lips as he prepared to climb into the carriage. With a flourish, he responded, "I am Jack. Pleasure. Take me to the Sindy's Graveyard."

"Alright, good sir, that I will do so."

With a swift movement, Jack entered the carriage, promptly closing the door behind him. Within seconds, he retrieved a seemingly empty suitcase, concealing its true nature. Gently pressing a particular spot on the top-right corner, the surface tilted, revealing a small hidden compartment.

Carefully, Jack inserted his index finger into the concealed space, lifting a crimson plate to unveil an unexpected treasure. Nestled within the opened circular headpiece of a necklace were the photographs of a woman—the same widow seen earlier—and the man named James.

'I did not want to do this…'

'But I had to. Against my will.', a drop left his eye, falling on the photo.

A somber reflection crossed Jack's face as he contemplated his next move. "Yet another kill," he whispered, his voice filled with a mix of resignation and sympathy. "Poor James..."

"And that makes it 99," Jack muttered under his breath, a flicker of anticipation and determination gleaming in his eyes.

'Just one more kill.'

He stared at the photographs in the necklace, a mix of conflicting emotions coursing through him. "Just one more," he vowed, his voice tinged with desperation. 'One more, and I will be free... Free from The Devil's Curse.'

Note:

[1] Jack - Title: The Reaper; Task: 100 kills [humans] in 500 days; Devil's Rank: 10.

[2] Devil's Curse: A sinister enchantment inflicted upon those who dared to dabble in forbidden magic, particularly the dark arts. This curse binds its victims, compelling them to carry out malevolent tasks under the command of an unseen force. Failure to comply with these twisted demands brings forth dire consequences, ranging from a grisly demise to something even more horrifying.

[3] Devil's Rank: A number that denotes how close a person is to becoming the actual Devil. The lower the number, the higher the proximity with the Devil.