Fring Street 95, Blue Sharks.
Elliot had spent a few more hours buried in his books, his gaze set with hope despite his constant sighing. “Nine gods, nine with golden blood?” Elliot ran his hand through his hair, his brow furrowed. He stared into the pages, letting his eyes blur for a moment. “But why do these gods have golden blood? The god I encountered… he was draped entirely in red, everything was red.” His shoulders slumped as he sighed again, replaying what he'd learned so far in his mind. “I can somewhat read the alphabet now, and I can manage a few simple sentences, but it’s still far from perfect.”
He blinked, a moment of realization dawning on his face. “But wait, is that all? No! Damn it, these words... normally it would take me days, maybe even weeks to learn this much. I’ve covered more than half in just a few hours!” A grin spread across his face as he rolled up his sleeves, glancing at his forearm, the faint traces of bruises fading away. His smile deepened.
Ring! Ding!
The bell at the door chimed as Elliot glanced toward the deepening twilight sky, streaks of turquoise still visible at the horizon.
“Elliot!?” A voice called from the next room, startling him as he rose to his feet.
“Yeah?”
William spoke, Elton standing just behind him, “How’s the studying going?” William gave a half-smile, placing a stack of documents from HCMBP on the table—three pictures with some sparse data. Casually glancing around, he and Elton removed their coats and helped themselves to water from a nearby cupboard.
“We’re heading back out. Won’t be back for a while,” William waved before they both disappeared as quickly as they’d arrived.
“Well, enjoy yourselves. I’ll just keep at it…” Elliot muttered to himself.
…
At the A9 Intelligence Division, disguised as a post office, six individuals sat in a dimly lit room. A round table with 13 chairs, half of them occupied. All eyes were on the calm Bill, who sat in silence. Some leaned forward, fingers interlaced, while others sat back, arms folded. One figure, with burn scars across his face and a tailored top hat, leaned back casually, his polished black shoes resting on the table. Gerlinger, the burned man, spoke, his voice deep and raspy, “There have been a few incidents. Here and there... mostly blue bloods.” He paused briefly before continuing, “But each of them had a trace of yellow blood in their system.”
Gerlinger’s words echoed through the room, leaving most unshaken—except for Bill, whose eyes widened for a brief moment. “Yellow blood? Does that mean the yellow-blooded are now against us?”
The darkness of the room seemed to swallow the sound of his voice, leaving only the rustle of papers in the silence. The four other figures sat motionless, watching.
“Whether they’re hostile or not, it’s hard to say. As for their intentions with these individuals, it remains a mystery. But there’s someone powerful behind this, without a doubt. Someone at least on the level of a three-blood, if not higher. Whoever they are, they’re formidable. At least green-blooded, perhaps more,” Gerlinger added, his voice gritty. He pointed toward the exit, “Help yourself before you leave, for Simon’s sake.”
For a moment, all eyes turned to Gerlinger, as if they had something to say. But the man’s charred face blended into the shadows as he rose and left the room. Bill’s gaze dropped to the barely visible floor, his expression melancholic. “I can just take what I want?”
He gave a slight nod of gratitude, his eyes still lowered, closing briefly. The orange-haired woman opened a black case, revealing its contents to Bill. The greed in the eyes of the other four was unmistakable. Inside the dark case were five syringes, each containing a different colored liquid: green, orange, yellow, violet, and brown. Without hesitation, Bill reached for the brown syringe, even though it contained the smallest dose.
…
Elton and William were combing through the area where the migrants were supposed to be, but only one of the three was anywhere to be found. They followed the third closely, conducting their investigation as they went.
“But don’t you find it strange?” William asked, scratching his brow.
“What do you mean?” Elton replied, glancing sideways at him.
“I mean, even though Trüben-City isn’t the largest place, only three migrants? That seems too few.” William’s gaze shifted, avoiding Elton’s scrutiny.
Elton smirked knowingly. “Don’t tell me you’ve taken a liking to the ‘one Elisia per week’ lady...” he muttered, though William quickly cut him off.
“No, no… it doesn’t matter,” William said dismissively, turning away. Elton chuckled under his breath but their focus soon shifted—they had reached their destination.
Three knocks. No answer. Five seconds later, louder knocks followed, still no response. Elton scaled the wall, clinging to the window ledge. “Kick the door in,” he called down, his face taking on a bluish tint from the evening light.
Pow!
With a single kick, the door swung open, the handle falling to the floor. Both men quickly drew their revolvers, pressing forward back-to-back through the narrow hallway.
“There’s someone here,” Elton muttered from behind William, gripping his revolver tightly as they crept forward. But what they found wasn’t a person—it was a room strewn with the dismembered body of a man, pieces scattered across the floor. The sight wasn’t new to them, but it didn’t make it any less grim.
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Elton was the first to speak, “There’s something over there.” He pointed to an unopened letter, soaked in blood—blue blood mingled with streaks of yellow.
…
It was only a few hours before everyone had returned to the detective agency, save for William and Elton. Chris, Elisia, and Bill sat together, waiting. Elliot continued his relentless study of the language of the gods, his progress nothing short of astonishing—he seemed to absorb knowledge at an incredible pace, though not without imperfections.
Bill, sitting with dark circles under his eyes, broke the silence, “We need to clarify something. From this point on, as soon as Elton and William return, we’re calling off this mission. We’ll have to forfeit the 200 Elis from Mr. Maggerson.”
Chris and Elisia exchanged confused glances before turning to Bill, leaning forward in their seats.
“But why?” they asked in unison.
Bill’s tone was serious. “It’s because of the killer. Whoever they are, they’re likely on the level of a three-blood or higher.”
Chris and Elisia fell silent, absorbing the gravity of the situation. Elisia spoke hesitantly, “If that’s the case, there’s nothing we can do.” She brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and Chris glanced at her from the side.
“So, what do we do now?” Chris asked, turning back to Bill. But before Bill could respond, the door chimed.
“We’ve got a hot lead!” Elton shouted as he entered, with William close behind. The three sitting at the table sighed in unison.
“Why the long faces?” William asked, puzzled by their lack of excitement. “We know where ‘V’ is hiding!”
This news shifted the mood entirely. Bill’s tired eyes focused sharply on the two men emerging from the shadowy, violet-lit hallway.
Elton continued, “V is currently holed up in an abandoned factory, waiting for those who managed to escape the unknown assailant. But the letter he sent out was never opened, and it couldn’t be passed along.”
He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. “But the problem is, they’ll soon go into hiding and leave the city since their plan has been uncovered.” Bill looked skeptical for the first time, then shifted his gaze to the inner pocket of his coat. As he waited for a response, the tension in the room thickened. Bill nodded. “Then that settles it.” Elton smiled as he and William retrieved their coats from the rack. But Elisia tugged at Bill's sleeve. “But the unknown man is at least a three-blood or higher.”
Bill initially looked down at the ground, but a moment later spoke more quietly, “This is our only lead. I need to inform the secret service first. You will wait for me nearby.” As he walked toward Elliot’s room, he added more loudly, “Take the green-blooded cartridges with you!”
Upon arriving at Elliot’s room, he found him asleep, sprawled over one of the books, drool trailing down his sleeve. Melancholy washed over Bill as he gazed at him, hesitating for a moment before murmuring as he draped his coat over Elliot’s back, “We won’t die, so you won’t either.” His words pained his heart, and his usually calm expression twisted slightly. But as quickly as he came, he had to leave again.
…
In the dark void, Elliot awoke with bleary eyes. It was dark, but suddenly a blinding emerald light illuminated the space. “Goddammit, turn off that light!” Yet he realized he was still in this abyss. Looking around, he saw two crystals, one glowing more fiercely than the other. The green light clearly triumphed, while the blue flickered into obscurity. Perhaps I should always choose the light that shines brightest, he mused.
Resolutely, he approached the uncut green crystal, gripping it with his speared hand as if it were a bullet. ‘You too, Lennard—I mean Eriksson—will feel the power of God.’ As the corners of Elliot's mouth curled into a smile in the infinite darkness, a strong wind swept through, carrying even brighter light.
Whoosh!
…
At a train station, waiting for the ten-day journey to Denklin in the Kingdom of Zentria, Eriksson Triesta held a sweet drink in his hand, stepping off the train with a cold, calculating gaze. Doubts bubbled in Elliot's mind. Will he not try to kill me just with his stare? But as Eriksson’s form passed by, Elliot steeled himself, looking ahead.
Thud!
Suddenly, Eriksson collided with a man who had grown broader than he was before. The person who bumped into Eriksson apologized lightly, revealing a bald head and a thin mustache, but his physique was well-built, making most men envious. “No problem,” Eriksson replied, his voice deep yet distinct from his previous self.
As their paths diverged, the bald man turned right while Eriksson moved left. If only the bald man knew whom he had just irritated, Elliot thought. Eriksson strolled past a shop, tossing his drink into a trash can without a glance. He remained unfazed, moving further left, his gaze fixed on a narrow alleyway.
As Elliot watched, perplexed, Eriksson began to run faster and faster. The images around him blurred, the human eye unable to keep pace, and suddenly he found himself behind a stranger—directly in front of the bald man. Without breaking a sweat or betraying a hint of emotion, Eriksson seized the heads of both men and forcefully slammed them together.
Thump!
A collision echoed, but it didn’t linger. The two men lay sprawled out, jaws slack in the cold, bluish darkness of the alley, which looked slightly filthy. In the distance, the sounds of rats scurrying out of trash bins could be heard. Eriksson reached into the pockets of both men, pulling out their wallets but keeping only his own—a brown leather wallet, now stuffed with notes from the other thieves. Should I do it now? A shiver ran down Elliot’s spine as he pondered.
It wasn’t long before Eriksson, who had reopened the cut on his fingertip, arrived at his designated spot. Elliot hesitated momentarily but, after some contemplation, made up his mind. “Lennard, go to the restroom and write. I’ll watch you from your newspaper.” The green light shone in Elliot’s eyes as the wind tousled his hair. Eriksson stood up as always, straight and monotonous, heading toward the restroom—specifically the nearby women’s restroom.
Stop! What are you doing? Once inside, Eriksson pressed the newspaper against the thin wall of the train. Get out! He cut deeper into his finger, blood oozing—a vivid green—as he wrote, “I watch you” in bold letters across the page.
“Eriksson, get out of the women’s restroom!” Elliot’s voice rang out again as the wind swirled. The green blood dripped from the paper, trailing down his finger and pooling on the floor. Eriksson walked out monotonously, standing still without further movement. He stared at the wall opposite him in the train until he finally glanced at his left and right hands.
On the newspaper, green letters dripped down, spelling out, “I watch you.”
“Reggy?” Eriksson asked, his voice steady and unwavering, not diverting his gaze from the ink. Reggy? Who was that again? He ruminated for a few seconds within the halls of his memory. Meanwhile, Eriksson remained focused, not glancing away or moving.
Suddenly, realization struck Elliot. Ah, that contractor. Now I remember. However, in a rush of thought, Elliot replied quickly while reflecting on something he had considered earlier. Concrete and precise…Concrete and precise.
“Lennard, write carefully with your blood on the newspaper, being careful not to spill after you go to the men’s restroom. No, I am the embodiment of God—a true God.” The light and the wind, then the desire of Elliot, the apparent God.
“No, I am the embodiment of God—a true God.” As he read, Eriksson remained unperturbed, but in a calm and flat tone, replied, “Then screw you.”