Chapter 13 The Void behind the mask
"This hatred is an endless fire, devouring all, yet never sated. Its thirst is boundless, its hunger eternal—It will not rest, it will not waver, Until the world crumbles to ash, Until all fades to nothing."
The man regained consciousness, his vision blurred and his head heavy, as if he were drowning in fog. He staggered to his feet, the ground beneath him slick and sticky. Then it hit him—a sharp, metallic scent that jolted him into full awareness.
The smell of blood.
His vision sharpened, and he saw it. A grotesque scene sprawled out before him. Hundreds of horned rabbit corpses lay scattered in a chaotic, ritualistic display. It resembled a diabolical altar—twisted and macabre, as if crafted to appease something dark, something unspeakable.
His breath hitched as his eyes drifted downward.
"WHAAAA!" The scream tore out of him as he realized where he stood.
Beneath his feet lay the corpse of the Rabbit King, its body contorted into the shape of a grotesque throne. It was an artful horror, a throne fit for a king of blood and carnage.
"UGH—GLORK!" He stumbled down from the altar, doubling over as he vomited onto the crimson-soaked ground. His heart pounded, fear and confusion racing through his veins. He wiped his mouth, his hands trembling as he muttered to himself, "What… what the hell happened?"
His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the pool of blood. In its reflective surface, he saw it—his reflection.
What looked back at him wasn’t a man.
It was a monster.
His armor was drenched in coagulated blood, his crimson eyes burning with a fiery, inhuman light. The grotesque figure in the reflection wasn’t him—it couldn’t be him.
"No…" he whispered, panic rising as he scrambled away from the puddle. His foot slipped on the slick ground, sending him sprawling face-first into the corpses.
"UGH!" He grunted, his face now inches from the twisted expressions of the dead rabbits. Their wide, empty eyes stared back at him. His voice trembled as he asked himself, "Who… who could have done something so cruel, so vile?"
"Yah," came a familiar voice, light and mocking. "Who could have?"
The man froze. His blood ran cold. Slowly, he turned toward the voice.
"JEFFRY!?"
There, floating near the throne, was the cat. Its grinning face and unblinking eyes shimmered in the bloodstained air. Jeffry’s gaze lingered on the throne, his paw tracing its jagged edges with an almost reverent touch.
"Beautiful, isn’t it?" Jeffry said, his tone soft with nostalgia, as if he were admiring a masterpiece.
"NO!" the man barked, his voice cracking. "What kind of sick monster looks at that and thinks it’s beautiful!?"
Jeffry’s grin widened, his tone almost affectionate. "Hah. You’ll understand its beauty soon enough."
The man’s chest tightened. "What do you mean by that?" he demanded, his voice trembling. "I’m leaving this place before it changes me!"
Jeffry tilted his head, his grin unyielding. "Oh, but it already has. Who do you think made all this?" He gestured lazily at the carnage surrounding them.
The man’s breath caught in his throat. "No… no, no, no…" His mind raced, fragments of memory clawing their way to the surface. The fight. The frenzy. The unrelenting hatred that consumed him.
"NONONONO!" he screamed, his hands clutching at his head.
"YES! YOU DID!" Jeffry’s voice rang out, gleeful and unrelenting. "and it was beautiful"
"NOOOOO!" The man’s scream tore through the air, tears streaming down his face. He sank to his knees, his entire body trembling. "This… this can’t be. I’m not a monster. I don’t take pleasure in this. I’m not… I’m not!"
Jeffry’s voice turned cold, calculating. "But don’t get too excited. The Rabbit King was only the first of seven the beast of lust… Rodraiel, you have a long way to go."
The man froze, his tears forgotten. He turned to Jeffry, his voice barely above a whisper. "Where did you learn that? No… when did I learn that?" His eyes widened with horror. "You’re not real. You’re just an illusion!"
Jeffry chuckled, the sound low and menacing. "I never said I wasn’t."
The man’s desperation turned to rage. "WHAT ARE YOU!?" he roared, his voice raw as he grabbed a jagged bone from the ground. He lunged toward Jeffry, swinging wildly—
But the cat was gone.
"I’ll see you again," Jeffry’s disembodied voice echoed around him, tinged with malice. "When you leave this place."
The bone slipped from his trembling hand, clattering against the blood-soaked ground. His breaths came in ragged gasps, each one heavier than the last, as his mind churned with questions—urgent, suffocating, unanswered. Slowly, he sank to his knees, his body folding under the weight of confusion and despair.
The silence pressed in, cold and unyielding, and within it, a hollow ache gnawed at his heart. It was an emptiness vast and unrelenting—a void no light could penetrate, no solace could fill. Yet, as the darkness seeped into every corner of his being, something shifted.
A shadow, nameless and formless, stirred within that hollow. it Is something and at the same time it is nothing.
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"Nothing. We’ve got nothing," a city guard muttered, breaking the quiet, as he handed over a folder filled with reports to a woman in a long black coat.
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"Nothing?" Officer Cynthia Gandmill’s voice cut through the air like a blade, her gaze sharp and unyielding. "Not a single witness?" She flipped through the papers with practiced precision, her expression tightening.
Officer Cynthia Gandmill- a novel woman who became the chief of the investigative police unit of the City of Terramill at such a young age of 19 by solving two difficult cases just before her graduation from the academy.
Behind her, a young woman with fiery orange hair and a pristine white uniform followed silently, her every movement poised as she kept pace with her superior. The two strode purposefully through the rain-slicked alleyway, where the faint murmurs of the investigative team carried on the damp air.
The two women strode toward the cordoned-off crime scene in the shadowy back alley, where several officers and investigators were gathered.
"Ah, Officer Gandmill’s here," one of the investigators said, straightening up as she approached.
"Status report," Gandmill commanded, her tone firm, radiating an authority that silenced the murmurs around her.
One of the investigators stepped forward, his voice shaky but determined. "Yes, ma’am. The attack occurred late last night. Suspect identity: unknown. Murder weapon: unknown. Twelve civilians confirmed dead at the scene. One survivor, but..."
"But what?" Gandmill interjected, her brow furrowing.
"The survivor is... unresponsive," the man explained cautiously. "He seems to have lost his sanity after the incident. He’s been transported to a psychiatric ward, but so far, communication has been impossible, all he's saying is 'its hollow, there's nothing, the monster is hollow' repeatedly"
Gandmill’s eyes narrowed as she surveyed the scene. "No guards stationed nearby?"
The investigator nodded hesitantly. "There were, ma’am. Three guards are assigned for every four blocks in the city. Security’s been tight ever since the disappearance cases began. The closest patrol was stationed about a block and a half away."
Her assistant, Sarah, chimed in, "Could this be connected to the disappearances?"
"Unlikely," the investigator replied. "The pattern and timing don’t match. This attack was far more violent and sudden."
"And how is it," Gandmill muttered, almost to herself, "that no one heard the commotion—twelve people killed in one night?"
"Last night’s rainstorm might have masked the noise," the investigator offered. "Heavy rainfall could’ve drowned out any sounds of struggle."
"Possible," Gandmill murmured, though her expression remained unconvinced. Her sharp eyes caught something near the gutter. She crouched down, inspecting the ground closely. "Sarah, hand me your pen."
"Yes, ma’am," Sarah said, quickly offering her pen.
Using it, Gandmill scraped at a hardened substance on the pavement. She examined it closely. "Dried blood," she muttered.
The officers around her leaned in as she stood, holding the flake of blood between her fingers. "This didn’t happen during the rain," she explained, her tone decisive. "If it had, the rain would’ve washed most of the blood away before it could coagulate like this."
The investigator frowned. "Then why didn’t the guards hear anything?"
"Possibly silencing magic," Sarah suggested.
Gandmill shook her head. "Unlikely. Silencing an area this large would leave a residual mana signature. Any mage or guard within eight blocks would’ve sensed it immediately. My guess is they used an artifact to mask the noise."
Her gaze shifted upward, scanning the windows overlooking the alley. "What about the residents? Did anyone see or hear anything?"
The investigator sighed. "We questioned the neighbors. All they said was that it was unusually dark and eerily quiet last night. No one saw a thing until after the rain started, and by then, it was already too late."
"No sound, no presence, no weapon..." Gandmill exhaled, her frustration palpable. "It’s like chasing shadows."
She lingered, her eyes sweeping over the blood-stained alleyway. The silence hung thick, broken only by the soft drip of water trickling from the rooftops above. "But shadows," she murmured, almost to herself, "always leave something behind."
Straightening up, she turned to the assembled officers. "Identify the victims," she commanded. "Find out who they were and who might have had a reason to harm them. I'll request reinforcements from the station. Whoever did this isn’t just dangerous—they’re bold. If they have the audacity to commit this atrocity within our fortified city, it means we haven’t yet seen the full extent of what they’re capable of."
Her voice carried a weight of urgency. "We can’t afford to underestimate them."
She shifted her gaze to her assistant. "Sarah, take copies of the reports to my office. I’ll meet you there shortly."
"Where are you going, ma’am?" Sarah asked, hesitating.
"Just sending off a colleague," Gandmill replied curtly, her tone leaving no room for further questions. "Dismissed."
"Yes, ma’am!" Sarah and the officers replied in unison, snapping to attention before dispersing to carry out their orders.
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At the city gate, the morning sun gleamed off the weapons and armor of a group of four adventurers waiting for their assignment.
“Excited to finally visit the city, Marcus?” asked Thomas, a swordsman in shining blue armor, his grin wide as he turned to the robed figure beside him.
“Not at all,” Marcus replied in a flat, disinterested tone. “The dark spirits whisper that something awful awaits. You seem overly eager, though—why?”
“Why? Because it’s my chance to fight sea dragons in the sunken city of Thalmyra! How could I not be excited?” Thomas said, practically bouncing with enthusiasm.
“Well, I can’t blame you,” chimed in Sora, a rogue with an easy smirk. “That place is bursting with treasures and monsters whose body parts are just waiting to be harvested and sold!” Her mind clearly wandered to visions of gold and riches.
“We’re not here to talk about money, Sora,” Astra, the paladin, interjected sternly. “This is an escort mission, not a raid. Our job is to protect the researchers and ensure their project goes smoothly.”
“Hmph, big sis Astra, always so serious,” Sora teased, sticking out her tongue. “Maybe if we earn enough, you can finally buy that expensive dress you’ve been eyeing and actually act like a girl for once.”
“Shut up!” Astra snapped, her face flushing bright red.
“What a beautiful sight,” Thomas said with exaggerated wistfulness, gesturing toward the two women. “Two lovely ladies teasing each other in the morning—am I right, Marcus?”
“Leave me alone,” Marcus muttered, his tone icy as ever.
Before the banter could escalate further, three figures approached them. Two were grown men—one wearing an ornate mask—and the third appeared to be a boy of about sixteen or seventeen.
“Good morning. Are you the adventurers sent by the guild to escort us to Thalmyra?” the man leading the group asked with a polite smile. “My name is Viktor Volcas.”
“Uh, yeah. That’s us,” Thomas replied, stepping forward. “I’m Thomas, the swordsman. This is our warlock, Marcus; our rogue, Sora; and our paladin, Astra.”
“Well, I’ll be relying on your expertise,” Viktor said warmly. “This man here will be our guide—he’s a writer from Catleas. His name is Aizen Deathblade Wolfraven.”
Aizen stepped forward, his posture confident. “Pleasure to meet you. You can just call me Aizen. I’ll make sure you don’t get lost in Thalmyra’s labyrinthine streets,” he said, offering a firm handshake. “And this is my son, Robert Deathblade Wolfraven. He’ll be joining us as part of his training.”
“Nice to meet you both,” Thomas said, shaking Aizen’s hand. “We’ll be at the carriage once you’re ready.”
The adventurers began preparing the carriage when the sound of hurried footsteps approached.
“Looks like I made it!” a woman’s voice called out.
The group turned to see Officer Cynthia Gandmill approaching briskly, her coat trailing behind her.
“Cyn!” Viktor exclaimed, his face lighting up as he stepped forward for a hug. “You didn’t have to come see me off. Don’t you have work to do?”
“This is your biggest case yet! It would’ve been rude not to,” Cynthia replied, embracing him warmly.
Her eyes flicked to the two unfamiliar figures behind Viktor. “And who are they?”
“This is Aizen, our guide, and his son, Robert,” Viktor explained.
Cynthia extended her hand. “Nice to meet you, Aizen. Robert.”
Aizen hesitated for a brief moment before shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you as well,” he said, his voice measured.
Cynthia’s gaze lingered on Aizen’s mask. “I know it’s not uncommon for people in the city to wear masks for personal or cultural reasons,” she said carefully. “But if it’s not too forward to ask… why the mask, Mr. Aizen?”