Twin cars engraved with pearl-colored gemstones stopped in front of a shabby house.

Its wooden walls, barely withstanding the light breeze of the slow morning and surrounded by the wilderness of a backward province, would have been considered a rather picturesque remnant of rural Hautefoi if not for the ominous screams escaping its frames.

A group of four Policiers got out of the vehicles, bearing the regalia of the local law enforcement. Behind them, a boy and a girl dragged their feet in civilian clothes, seemingly new to their teenage years.

"This place reeks of bloodthirst."

Although the boy wrinkled his nose, his eyes impassively scanned their surroundings. "No apparent traps. We can't confirm if it's the work of an Esoteric yet, so keep your guard up."

The Policiers, while much older and grizzled-looking, grunted obediently at the youngster's words. They readied their breechloading rifles as they advanced in a practiced formation, visibly tense.

Dust flew out once they broke the door to the ground floor, revealing sets of clean patches roughly the shape of human feet. The traces circled around a rotten table, skipping past the entryways to the living room and kitchen and heading up the second floor's stairs.

The boy narrowed his brown gaze. "Two people, a man and a woman, most likely. There doesn't seem to be any sign of struggle."

"They went up willingly?" one of the Policiers asked.

The agonizing howls grew stronger, shaking the ceiling and sending shivers down their spines.

"Whatever led to this, I find it hard to believe it was voluntary." The boy paused, listening to the horrifying shrieks. "If it's really an Esoteric, then this sits outside our usual scope of activities. You'll need to prioritize your own lives first. The Marshalcy might have tight links with the Desperles industrialist, but we won't sacrifice precious Policiers for the sake of his woman."

"Yes, my Lord!"

Carefully following the trail, the group quickly reached a dilapidated hallway, empty of all ornaments or furniture. At its end, they saw a thick, crude door reinforced with a hasty barricade. A single sign hung from a bloodied nail, reading:

Do not disturb.

The girl huffed, her fists tightening. "Should I break it?"

"It's a trap. Whoever put it there is egging us on. They knew we were tracking Lady Camille, yet still proceeded with their crime. A madman, perhaps?"

As the boy's voice trailed, the cries coming from the other side abruptly ended. All that remained was a low trill, akin to the scraping sound of two rubbing strings.

"Step back," he ordered the Policiers before raising his hand towards the door. "Brace yourselves for whatever lies ahead. Do not hesitate to shoot anyone and anything that looks remotely hostile."

A black wind shot out of his palm, hitting the closed gate with the barest touch. The seemingly harmless blow birthed a strange whistling tune, then a snap.

Crack.

It all crumbled away in the next second, withering and cracking as the corners tore themselves out of their frames. The ruined planks plunged forward into a thick darkness, its veil barely affected by the thin specks of sunlight slipping through the covered window.

"Oh, what a surprise. It seems we had an audience."

A voice greeted the lined Policiers, their weapons hoisted in a shooting stance. They focused on a tall silhouette farther inside the obscurity, its face and clothes hidden from their eyes.

The girl shivered, though not in fear. "Enemy ahead."

"An Esoteric, huh?" The boy sighed, glancing at an inhuman, twitchy mound sitting on the bed next to the shadowed figure. "I assume that thing there is Lady Camille Desperles? Let's make things clear: out-of-season ritualistic slaughters are harshly prosecuted, and I doubt you have a permit. Surrender quietly, and we may let the Church's courts judge you."

The man chuckled. "A tempting offer, I must say. The Church of the Others does look kindly upon those who keep to the old ways. Unfortunately, I have taken a rather artistic approach to my work. Speaking from experience, these displays of creativity earn more spurn than praise, especially from the clergy."

"I would expect no less. Killing without proper guidelines is nothing more than meaningless butchery. Oh well, the public does not see much difference in either these days. Gone was the era when the Hautefoy understood the nuance between religious sacrifice and a madman's thirst for blood."

"I like how you think," the silhouette mused. "Mayhaps we're kindred spirits?"

The boy sneered in response. "Hardly. Empathy and piety are opposite concepts in Hautefoi, yet they remain nonetheless proof of our inherent humanity. Yours is a beastly act prompted by neither religion nor instinct. Do not presume that I fall prey to the same baseness as you do, scum."

"On the contrary, I believe my passion is the most profound show of humanity I can muster."

"Speaking with you irks me," the boy spat. "Policiers, if he utters another word, shoot him dead."

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"I ask you not to, gentlemen." The man clapped his hands once. "These clothes of mine have been made with much talent and love, and I'd rather not force my dear couturier to fix bullet holes."

Threads of pure silk swirled around the Policiers' wrists and necks, stringing them upwards like motionless puppets.

The girl reacted almost instantly, cupping her hand behind her back as she mouthed, "Sword."

The windows exploded in thousands of tiny pieces that dug through the shutters, coiling across the room and sculpting a blade of glass between her delicate fingers.

Her figure blurred as she ran across the wall, cutting the restrictive strands and closing onto the enemy Esoteric.

The curtains' sway briefly turned the place alight, revealing the man's ruffled collar and black trousers. By the time their eyes steered toward his face, he had already spread the bed's drapes to cover himself, preventing a good look at his features.

"Artistic types are quite shy by nature. Do excuse this discourtesy."

The remains of Lady Desperles let out a sudden moan, forcing everyone's attention on her.

Her limbs and neck had been forcibly dislocated to arch backward and point up, mimicking a flower's filaments. Her wrinkled, blood-drenched skin was flayed and wrapped around the extremities, akin to petals in full bloom.

Despite this disposition, she seemed to move still, contracting her arms and legs like an animal about to pounce.

The girl twirled her sword mid-jump, slashing the upper part of Lady Camille's skull before she had even chosen her target. Pinkish grains sprang from her open cranium as she went limp, allowing her assailant to pass through.

"Powdered brain... that's the sign of a botched Thanaturgism. You're an amateur, aren't you?" The girl let go of her weapon, her mockery ringing as flat as her expression. "Hammer."

Half the ceiling collapsed, its timber spiraling downward to build a gigantic hammer in the girl's grasp.

Twice her size and thrice her weight, its ludicrous form meant nothing as she swung it as gracefully as the glass sword, destroying the office and blasting everything outside the house through the nearest wall.

Lady Camille's mangled corpse splattered gruesomely on the ground after a two-story fall, though there was no sign of her killer.

An instant later, the girl picked up on a shadow sliding out of her vision outside the house, probably heading for the nearby woods.

"He ran away."

As the Policiers struggled to their feet, the boy approached the gaping hole.

"You let him go."

"No need to point that out loud," she barked, annoyed. "You should know why, however."

The boy nodded, then glanced back. "The killer has fled to the forest. Follow him, but do not engage him in combat. We'll take care of things here."

The disoriented Policiers quickly regained their bearings, grunting in acknowledgment before running down the stairs for the chase.

"You're a far better fighter than me," the boy continued. "Your kind tends to see things bookish types like me can easily overlook, hence why I trust your assessments. So tell me, what scares you so much about this man?"

The girl gritted her teeth. "I'm not scared! He was just too unthreatening. Esoterics usually give me chills, but this one seemed harmless to my senses. It was an odd feeling, so I didn't take anything he showed us at face value."

"Hm. Your instincts are always spot on. The best killers aren't the ones who look scariest... or strongest. It's the ones that appear weak enough to bypass your defenses. In that aspect, you did well to keep your guard up—"

A splash of warm ichor covered the boy's cheek, punctuated by a thick, metallic stench. He turned around, only to see blood splurting out of the girl's neck in short bursts.

Her head was gone.

"My, my, what an oddity," a hauntingly familiar voice said.

The boy immediately attempted to move away from its source, but he proved to be too slow.

An iron grip clasped his throat, and a pair of gloved fingers dug into his eyes, crushing them against his orbital bones.

Despite the violence of the wounds, he uttered no cry.

"Moderate ability with Esoterism, an unnatural lack of fear and no sense of pain..." The attacker effortlessly lifted the boy by the neck, studying him like a laboratory rat. "You're Sealed Phantoms—ghosts of dead humans invoked into vessels of flesh. An example of a perfected Thanaturgism."

Since the enemy knew of this, the boy realized there was no point in struggling. His limbs went limp, awaiting the embrace of his second death. "Be quick with it. I'll be sure to come back and hunt you down, trash."

"Oh, did my little play vex you?" The killer spoke with the same charming timbre as earlier. Even if he couldn't see him, the boy could picture his smiling face through his tone alone. "Every performer requires a stage double. That's simply common sense."

"I have no interest in your parlor tricks. Kill me already."

"When a Sealed Phantom's vessel dies, its soul returns to its invoker. Are you that eager to see your dear master again? Such a nicely trained pup." The killer gradually strengthened his grasp, choking the boy. "I'm afraid we shall spend a tiny bit more time together."

The boy couldn't help but snicker. "What are you going to do? Torture me? Sealed Phantoms can't feel pain."

"From physical torture, that is," the killer declared, a low cackle tinging his words with a bad omen.

It started with an uncomfortable ache, rising from the boy's lower abdomen akin to claws mangling his insides. While there was no apparent wound on his body, he felt his skin peel and reveal the agonizing pulses of flesh underneath, dreading the tormenting touch of even a slight breeze.

"H—how?"

As the boy's fear surfaced, the throbs grew at a measured pace, playing with him in anticipation of the crescendo of his suffering.

"Allow me a brief lecture, little ghostling. You see, souls and bodies are made to fit each other. The harmonization of a human's physical and metaphysical concepts is an irrational byproduct of an anomaly in the Formulaic Realm. In other words, souls are errors that weren't intended, yet were allowed merely because they perfectly integrated into our existence."

The killer's breathing grew uneven, and his heart pounded faster than ever. He was getting excited about something, and the boy was scared to find out what it was.

"However, you are housed in a husk that never belonged to you—a container, not unlike a cage of thorns, inside which your vagrant soul was forcibly stuffed to do your master's bidding. Sealed Phantoms may not experience their vessel's pain, but have you ever wondered what it would feel like to be torn out of your small prison? To be compressed and fizzled through a hole a hundredth of your size? Ahh, here it comes~"

There was a flash—a boiling point as the boy's mind blanked out. The world mattered no more, for the only thing he could now experience was pain.

aAaaaaAAAAAH!

Did this scream escape his mouth, or was it an echo of his stifled thoughts?

He did not know, nor did he wish to. The sole thing that held any significance was the end; the blissful quiet and serenity of death. He wanted nothing but to experience its kiss once again.

"Fear not, my little ghostling. You shall see your master soon enough, and when that happens, tell him something for me."

He didn't care. He couldn't care. The weight of his agony was already too much to bear.

"Tell him that his old friend is coming for him—that I have finally found the adequate technique to sublime his wretched life with."

Perhaps it was loyalty, or maybe a strong sense of duty? The boy didn't understand why, but a glint of sanity cleared his fogged wits long enough for him to ask:

"Who are you?"

"Oh, me?" The killer taunted him with a pause, testing his limits. "My close friends tend to call me by my stage name, though for you, it's Murderer. Sir Murderer."