The incident, online, was dubbed ‘The Death of Dante Searcher.’ Thirty years ago, the time that the mystery originated, the rumor of Princess Higanbana spread all over the continent, even going as far as to become a phenomena in the underground circles of wannabe detectives and fans of horror and mystery. All over the world, Dante’s death spread, and a thousand questions arose from minds all alike.
Who was Dante Searcher?
The police had an answer. He didn’t exist. More specifically, none of the victims existed. Matching records from where all of the victims originated from, it was proven that none of them existed. Additionally, some of the victims who were present in the story matched descriptions of historic people who died hundreds of years prior, further disproving the story.
In short, the story was a forgery. A fake. The events could not have happened. Additionally, there were no bodies present in the castle, nor were there any evidence left behind. On top of that, many different ‘variations’ of said story existed — tales spun and woven by all sorts of people who had their own takes on the events. Many existed, but only a few made their way into the mainstream, a few tales that became the battleground of truth and illusions.
But the mystery, in the face of endless criticism and debunking, survived. The public eye looked away from the tragedy and only the most fanatical followers of murder mysteries clung on.
They clung onto the woman they called Beatrice.
She kept the secrets of the tragedy to herself. Locked away in a vault, she made sure no one could ever lay eyes upon the testimony which holds the true series of events that played out. The hum of a bell filled the day, ringing away till the night. Inside that vault and behind the gate, she sat and waited with the three books.
They hadn’t been opened in years, and Beatrice made sure things stayed that way. With a pipe in hand and a phone in the other, she stood up to leave the vault which housed the three books. The door locked behind her — shut and locked, and on the front, on the four letters, she left the code BICE.
It was time to leave, and Beatrice spent her days quietly enjoying a gentle cup of tea outside of a cafe in the inner city of Southern Hesha — a technological hub where the nation’s internet sprung forth like a spring. It was the internet, after all, which made her both famous and infamous.
With a cup of scarlet tea in her hand and Higanbana flowers adorned in her hair, she lived up to her name. She was the scarlet, macabre princess who roamed the city and the people there knew that all too well — to the point that they went up to her with no regard for privacy.
That day, a trio of girls ran up to her — highschoolers who spent their time both studying and theorizing. They were online friends who traveled from all over the globe, wherever the mystery had spread to, and they ran up to Beatrice with notebooks in hand.
“Princess Higanbana!” they cried. “Please look over our notes and tell us if we’re one step closer to the truth!”
It was mostly the younger teens who played wannabe detective, and like a caretaker with rowdy kids to watch over, Beatrice obliged. The trio dumped their notebooks onto her coffee table, nearly spilling her tea. They watched as she picked between the three and opened up their renditions of ‘The Death of Dante Searcher’.
The first copy was written by a local south Heshan girl — a highschooler, and judging from the fact she wrote in Cobellian, she was most likely a student studying to go overseas.
“The Death of Dante Searcher, case analysis by Maya08,” Beatrice read, and she was quick to skim over the entire case file — a trait she developed over the years.
“I read over the big three versions of the case again and again, and after careful consideration of the events that played out,” the girl said. “I believe that this has to be the most accurate portrayal of events.”
“I hear that a lot,” Beatrice said, and she finished up — clearing the five page summary and filing before closing it shut.
“I looked it over, and I believe that the real culprit was Calina,” Maya proclaimed. “Think about it. She’s the self proclaimed innocent priestess who wants to do nothing but heal others, right? That’s a massive red flag, don’t you think?”
“Yes, it is. She makes for an obvious twist culprit.”
“And that’s why I think she did it alone using black magic, hidden away in the depths of the Octavian sect — magic only a priest or priestess could get their hands on.”
Beatrice nodded, then pushed the case file back to Maya08, the girl’s online username.
“Well? Is this correct? Did I crack the code?” Maya asked, proudly. Beatrice simply smirked.
“It’s up to you to decide for yourself how the events truly played out.”
Maya looked a little disappointed by the answer and took her notebook back. Next was a Zahnian girl from the central continent, and with her notebook set in the second position, Beatrice began her skimming.
“The Death of Dante Searcher and the Case for Why Howell Herman is Guilty, by StanAki221,” Beatrice read. The girl was clearly a fan of Aki’s.
“Personally, I believe Howell Herman is guilty of the crimes,” she claimed. “While he did die in the start, I think his spirit remained — and through supernatural means, I think he managed to slaughter the rest of the victims.”
“A spirit?” Beatrice asked, and the girl nodded fiercely.
“Think about it. From the impossible closed room murder in the ballroom to Dante seeing Bibi — it all makes sense. It has to have been done by the princess and her magic.”
Beatrice, hearing that, smirked. She pulled out a notepad and a pen of red ink, then began drawing a transmutation circle. The sight of it made the fangirl shiver.
“What’s that?” the girl asked, and Beatrice finished up with a few ominous symbols.
“A transmutation circle, one that turns lead into gold,” she answered, and when she pulled out a short, sacrificial dagger, the girl looked terrified. Alongside that, she brought out a coin made of lead.
“If you believe in magic, then you must believe in alchemy as well, do you?” Beatrice asked. “If you truly do, then cut your hand and use your blood to activate the transmutation circle.”
“Magic?” she whispered, and unconsciously, her hand moved towards the dagger Beatrice offered — but in an instant, she took it away.
“Just kidding,” Beatrice said. “The circle wouldn’t transmute lead to gold.”
“Really? So it was a fake?”
“Indeed. In the business, we call them alchemist traps as it only sacrifices the activator’s soul, turning them into a philosopher’s stone.”
Hearing that, the girl shuddered and Beatrice broke her calm and cool demeanor to let out a cackle of a laugh. With that, she pocketed the transmutation circle, dagger and coin to move onto the third theory.
The third girl had gone into the cafe and returned with a tray of drinks, three ice teas and a fourth one — a boba filled drink, one she offered to Beatrice. It seemed like the girl had done her homework and knew that she’d get a better response if she bribed Beatrice with her favorite drink.
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The girl with glasses as thick as a soda can approached her with a nervous look.
“I’m known online as DanteXHowellLover, and this is my testimony,” she proclaimed, pushing forward her book.
Beatrice saw the cover and gawked at it — utterly shocked. On the cover was the title, The Death of Dante Searcher, A Forbidden Romance, and drawn in pencil was a pair of men holding one another provocatively, a sight that made passerby stop and stare out of shock. The two resembled Dante and Howell, the two of them drawn in an anime style called Shonen-ai. The piece could be classified as BL fanfic.
“I believe that Dante and Howell are secret gay lovers, and they had to kill everyone together to hide their secret,” the shipper explained.
Beatrice froze, then bounced back to life when she realized the girl was serious.
“What evidence would you say supports that theory?”
“Well, the online testimonies can all be classified as fakes, so until you release the real one, we can assume that all of them are forgeries, right?” she asked. “If that’s the case, then that means anything is possible, and anything could’ve happened — including a world where Howell and Dante really were gay lovers.”
“You realize that these might be real people you’re shipping, right?”
The three looked at Beatrice like she was the strange one, then turned to whisper to one another before looking back at her with smiles.
“Well… they’re real in a way,” the first girl said.
“They’re real to some people,” the second said.
And the third burst into an apology, shouting, “I’m sorry! I should’ve asked you before shipping your characters together!”
Hearing that, Beatrice shut her eyes, then nodded in acceptance. The three left with smiles, all while Beatrice sat alone, staring blankly as a thousand thoughts ran through her head. The police had made their statements clear. The case of Dante Searcher did not happen. There was no proof that it happened. The victims were all people who only exist in historical textbooks separated by centuries.
In other words, it didn’t happen because there was no proof that it could have happened. Nonexistent until proven otherwise. The police had long dropped the case, leaving it to eccentrics and wannabe detectives.
Beatrice clung onto impossible odds, and with her pipe in hand, she let out a drag of smoke. Of course, her morning tea was reserved only for her mornings. She had an event to appear in later in the afternoon, and with a briefcase by her side, she made her way to the city’s convention center.
The police did shut the case down, but that applied only to their offices and branches. The people clung onto the story, gathering twice a year at ‘Mystery Con’, a convention held specifically for this niche. The convention spawned around her and the testimony she owned and kept under lock and key.
There, on a stage and under natural lighting, a crowd of people sat in the audience seats while a pair sat on the stage. The two were the head figures of truth and lies — the elected figureheads who represented either side. Sat in the middle on a fancy couch chair was Beatrice, their mediator.
On the left was the representative of truth, or so he claimed. He was a middle aged man, a little chubby and stubbly in the chin region, but he made up for it with one Hell of a tailored suit.
On the right was the representative of reality, or so he claimed. He was a little older, a little chubbier and a little more stubbly in the chin region, but he made up for it with an even fancier tailored suit — one he flaunted.
The two were clearly rivals, and with microphones in both their hands, they began their debate.
“First murder,” the man on the left said. “The death of Howell Herman. We’ll be playing under orthodox rules, which means only the three highest rated versions of the case will be used.”
There were many fakes and forgeries, so the community created their own guidelines which separated the wheat from the chaff. It cut out thousands of fanmade and false accounts of the events, leaving a trio which, while different in their own ways, were rated highly following the guideline.
The three were the most trustworthy versions of the story, and thus, were dubbed the ‘orthodox method’ of sleuthing.
The other debater nodded in agreement, saying, “We’ll use orthodox rules and the victims will be named in order for simplicity’s sake.”
With that in place, a projector flicked on, revealing the layout of the castle and the back entrance where victim one died. All three stories came to the same conclusion. Howell’s corpse was found outside the door, propped up against it. Howell was represented by an X placed on the other side of a door.
The three had the same outcomes in terms of victims and deaths, but the evidence surrounding them were different. All three were written from Dante’s perspective, but the evidence provided from his thoughts and observations led to wildly different results.
And with wild differences, it led to a piling up of nonsense and bad faith arguments to either prove or disprove theories.
Beatrice sat, pipe in hand, watching blankly as the two argued over every detail, occasionally turning to the crowd for inputs. Finally, the two turned to Beatrice for her input.
She was the only one who knew the truth and she was the only one preventing them from obtaining the closure of an ending. She carried Dante’s written testimony, the key to it all.
“Is it true?” they asked. “Was Misha correct? In one of the three versions, Dante claimed to have killed Howell before planting his corpse by the door. Is that true?”
“I won’t say,” Beatrice replied. It was her usual response, and her blank poker face eliminated attempts at reading her body language.
This ‘game’ played out and the two churned through each victim, treating them like a puzzle to solve. Beatrice stood firm in her denying of input, and while some people questioned why she was even invited on, a single question reminded them of her significance.
“Princess Higanbana? When will you release the true testimony?” the left man asked. “It’d be so much easier to solve this case if we had all the facts straight.”
“It’s because she’s a fraud,” the right man answered. “By holding back the truth, she can hold onto her infamy for much longer. This case is a zombie case. Dead, and we all know it. All we can do is either wait for the true testimony to be revealed, or move on to better things to waste our life on.” and he turned to Beatrice to ask, “Just when are you gonna release the case? Or are you gonna hold on till the fame dries up?”
Beatrice, hearing that, turned to him with that same, unfeeling expression, then smirked.
“I’ve been thinking about releasing it for some time now, but because of your rude comments, I’m thinking about holding on for another thousand years.”
“You’re joking, right?” he asked, with devastation on his face. Beatrice returned to her neutral expression and shrugged.
“Perhaps,” she answered.
With that, they dug through every victim, picking apart the bones for their marrow, ripping out the entrails and guts of the story for any hint of a clue — anything that would lead to an ending.
Beatrice clung on, and when it was all over, she bowed and left. She made her way out, pipe in hand, and a trail of followers ran after her like paparazzi — and that included the actual paparazzi. Cameras snapped, microphones shot up and questions rang out like a hail of bullets.
“Beatrice! Beatrice!”
“Please! Tell us! Is the story real!? Are the victims real!?”
“Were the police wrong!? Or are they hiding the truth from us!?”
“Is this all a conspiracy!? Are you part of the New World Order!?”
‘Beatrice! Beatrice!’ they’d cry, and when she was younger, she appreciated the attention, but now that she was eighteen, it became a hassle. She walked, facing forwards, answering to no one. Not even to the figurehead of reality who came, notepad in hand, demanding answers despite having called her a fraud.
“First victim! Howell!” they cried. “Was he killed by Dante!? Was he killed by Wright!? Or maybe, is he even dead at all!?”
No response. They moved on.
“Second victim! Baron Gadro! Was he killed by Wright!? Was he killed by Calina with poison disguised as medicine!? Or maybe, was he killed by Misha, who he trusted!?”
No response. Next victim.
“Third victim! Shinjiro Aki! Was she killed by Wright!? Was she actually shot!? Is her corpse actually a fake!?”
Next victim.
“Fourth victim! Wright Bernstein! Was he killed by Dante!? Was he actually the second culprit who was killed by his partner!?
Fifth victim! Iffrah Pezra! Did she commit suicide after cheating on her long lost fiance!? Or was she killed by Dante, then hanged to look like a suicide!?”
“You may believe what you like,” Beatrice said as an answer to every question. The figurehead tried to stop her from moving by getting in her way. He turned to see a limousine speed by, and he narrowly avoided getting hit by leaping away — landing in an autumn puddle by the road.
“Beatrice! Please! Tell us the truth!” he cried, all while the door opened and a pair of bodyguards stepped out.
Beatrice turned to him and smiled.
“One day, I’ll release the truth. I swear it.”