The mayor responded, puzzled by this strange request, saying:
"A mask painted in yellow and red. But why?"
The detective stepped forward slightly, placing his hands on the table as he answered.
"To conceal my identity and prevent the mayors or nobles in the political palace from recognizing me."
The mayor chuckled lightly, glancing toward the detective before replying.
"No problem. I trust you with this case. Do whatever you see fit. Also, the party will begin on the third floor, in the room to the left, at exactly 8 PM. The mayors and I will be there."
Newfelite smiled and responded,
"I'll be there before the appointed time to check on a few things in the palace."
The mayor reached into his pocket, pulling out a white paper with some words written on it. He placed it on the table.
"This document grants you full access to roam anywhere inside the political palace."
Newfelite carefully examined the document, then placed it back on the table in front of the mayor, pointing at the last two lines.
"Mayor, I need you to add something specific. Write: 'He is permitted to wear the mask in all corridors of the palace without exception,' along with your unique signature."
The mayor smiled, taking out his pen and beginning to write.
"You truly are a genius, detective. I've never met anyone as sharp as you."
The mayor rose from his chair, adjusting his coat while wearing a suspicious smile, and said:
"The mask you requested will arrive tonight, detective, along with some other necessities."
They shook hands, and the mayor left the office.
The moment he stepped out, Newfelite noticed something disturbing—his desk drawer was bleeding! The very notebook he had placed in the drawer earlier was now oozing blood unnaturally.
He retrieved the notebook, flipping to page eleven. As soon as he opened it, the blood vanished into the pages, and new words emerged.
There were eleven words, repeating in a single sequence over and over again:
I and the Devil
I and the Devil
I and the Devil
.
.
.
Newfelite stared at the words, unable to grasp their meaning. He attempted to analyze them, but an eerie presence radiated from the letters, sending a chilling sensation through his body.
Then, near the window, a man stood calmly smoking, watching Newfelite with a wide, taunting grin.
"It seems you have many questions," the man said. "And the first one is: What do those mysterious words mean? Tell me, Clown, do you think they're true?"
Newfelite slid the notebook back into the drawer and turned to face the Red Raven, his voice filled with fury.
"Red Raven, in this world and the seven others, nothing will remain beyond my grasp. No force shall stand in my way. I am not just a clown… I am the writer, the architect of chaos in every corner of existence!"
The Red Raven stood, gazing at the pale moon through the window before responding in an unsettlingly calm tone.
"Strong words, Clown, but words mean nothing. Just don't repeat the mistakes of the past."
Newfelite's eyes widened at those cryptic words, as if they were uttered in the long-lost tongue of the Etruscans. He was lost in thought before he finally asked:
"What do you mean by 'the mistakes of the past,' Red Raven?"
The Red Raven smirked, his hidden mystery beginning to surface. He raised his index finger to his lips and whispered coldly:
"Didn't I tell you? No questions… 'Ivoryan Tellus.'"
The mayor responded, puzzled by this strange request, saying:
"A mask painted in yellow and red. But why?"
The detective stepped forward slightly, placing his hands on the table as he answered.
"To conceal my identity and prevent the mayors or nobles in the political palace from recognizing me."
The mayor chuckled lightly, glancing toward the detective before replying.
"No problem. I trust you with this case. Do whatever you see fit. Also, the party will begin on the third floor, in the room to the left, at exactly 8 PM. The mayors and I will be there."
Newfelite smiled and responded,
"I'll be there before the appointed time to check on a few things in the palace."
The mayor reached into his pocket, pulling out a white paper with some words written on it. He placed it on the table.
"This document grants you full access to roam anywhere inside the political palace."
Newfelite carefully examined the document, then placed it back on the table in front of the mayor, pointing at the last two lines.
"Mayor, I need you to add something specific. Write: 'He is permitted to wear the mask in all corridors of the palace without exception,' along with your unique signature."
The mayor smiled, taking out his pen and beginning to write.
"You truly are a genius, detective. I've never met anyone as sharp as you."
The mayor rose from his chair, adjusting his coat while wearing a suspicious smile, and said:
"The mask you requested will arrive tonight, detective, along with some other necessities."
They shook hands, and the mayor left the office.
The moment he stepped out, Newfelite noticed something disturbing—his desk drawer was bleeding! The very notebook he had placed in the drawer earlier was now oozing blood unnaturally.
He retrieved the notebook, flipping to page eleven. As soon as he opened it, the blood vanished into the pages, and new words emerged.
There were eleven words, repeating in a single sequence over and over again:
I and the Devil
I and the Devil
I and the Devil
.
.
.
Newfelite stared at the words, unable to grasp their meaning. He attempted to analyze them, but an eerie presence radiated from the letters, sending a chilling sensation through his body.
Then, near the window, a man stood calmly smoking, watching Newfelite with a wide, taunting grin.
"It seems you have many questions," the man said. "And the first one is: What do those mysterious words mean? Tell me, Clown, do you think they're true?"
Newfelite slid the notebook back into the drawer and turned to face the Red Raven, his voice filled with fury.
"Red Raven, in this world and the seven others, nothing will remain beyond my grasp. No force shall stand in my way. I am not just a clown… I am the writer, the architect of chaos in every corner of existence!"
The Red Raven stood, gazing at the pale moon through the window before responding in an unsettlingly calm tone.
"Strong words, Clown, but words mean nothing. Just don't repeat the mistakes of the past."
Newfelite's eyes widened at those cryptic words, as if they were uttered in the long-lost tongue of the Etruscans. He was lost in thought before he finally asked:
"What do you mean by 'the mistakes of the past,' Red Raven?"
The Red Raven smirked, his hidden mystery beginning to surface. He raised his index finger to his lips and whispered coldly:
"Didn't I tell you? No questions… 'Ivoryan Tellus.'"
A crimson mist swirled around the Red Crow, and in an instant, he vanished completely from the office. The detective was taken aback by the strange and mysterious events surrounding him. Rising from his chair, he stepped toward the mirror to check if anything about him had changed. But nothing had—his white hair and sky-blue eyes remained the same.
One question echoed in Newfelite's primitive mind: Who is 'Ivorean Tellus' ?
He sat back down, pulled open the drawer, and retrieved the bloodstained notebook. Flipping through its pages, he searched for anything significant. But to his surprise, all the pages were blank.
His mind was clouded with uncertainty, but one thing became clear—he had to coexist with the mysteries of this world. Any name uttered by the Red Crow, or anyone else, must have a meaning. He placed the notebook back in the drawer, lit a cigarette, and took a long drag while gazing at the white moon.
Hours passed before a knock on the door broke the silence.
"Come in," the detective ordered.
A guard entered, carrying a medium-sized box. "Detective, this parcel is from Mayor Ivan Collins."
Newfelite rose from his chair, took the package, and set it on the desk, dismissing the guard. Drawing a dagger, he carefully sliced through the packaging. Inside, he found clothes neatly folded over something else—a crimson mask.
Lifting it, he examined its distinctive design. A scratch ran across its right side, and from it, blood seemed to trickle down. The mask had a cover for the eyes, dyed deep red, and a wide, unsettling grin beneath which shimmered a luminous crimson hue.
Newfelite placed the mask over his face and turned to the mirror. At that moment, a hand emerged from within the glass, grabbing him and pulling him through.
He found himself in the cosmic void of 'Mekenora's Universe.'
Scattered planets, glowing in myriad colors, floated around him. Multiple suns illuminated the vast expanse, while on the other side of the abyss, a fracture in space bled crimson rain. Three scarlet moons formed a circular pattern above an infinitely long table.
Newfelite was seated on a towering chair crafted from celestial bodies, within which galaxies swirled endlessly. To his left sat a man; to his right, a woman.
Adjusting the mask, the detective spoke with arrogance and grandeur:
"I am the master of the Scarlet Star."
Then, turning to the guests, he continued:
"Welcome. I am known as The Jester. How may I assist you?"
The man on the right, dressed in formal attire with a red-threaded hat, had golden hair. The woman on the left had long black hair, striking green eyes, and wore a long black coat over a shirt.
The man spoke with evident respect.
"Sir Jester, we are detectives from the Ninth World. We seek your counsel regarding a murder case."
The woman followed, her voice carrying the same deference.
"A murderer is tearing out his victims' hearts mercilessly—without any tools, just with his bare hands. But the strangest part? We can't find a single trace of evidence pointing to him."
The Jester placed his hands on the table.
"Does he always kill in the same manner? Always ripping out the heart? Does he ever switch hands, using his left instead of his right?"
The male detective, slightly puzzled by the question, responded.
"No, sir Jester. He always uses his right hand."
The Jester leaned back slightly, pressing his fingertips together.
"Does he exhibit surgical precision when extracting the hearts?"
The woman, now looking between the table and the Jester, answered in a soft but firm voice.
"Yes. His precision is terrifying—he never damages a single artery."
A confident smirk formed behind the Jester's mask.
"Search the hospitals."
The male detective hesitated.
"Sir… we have already thought of that, but we found nothing."
Leaning forward, the Jester interlocked his fingers.
"Check the most renowned hospitals. Ask the director about a man with an unparalleled mastery of his right hand in cardiovascular surgery. Once you gather the details, you will know exactly where to find him."
The green-eyed woman was taken aback.
"And if we find nothing, sir Jester? What then?"
The Jester's eyes gleamed beneath his mask as he turned toward the male detective.
"Mr. Braiden."
Braiden froze.
"Yes?"
His mind raced. How does he know my name? I never introduced myself!
The Jester, running his fingers along the crimson beneath his mask, spoke again.
"Before entering the director's office, open your hand completely. Something will appear on it… leave the rest to it."
The woman, her voice laced with both concern and caution, asked:
"But what if the information is wrong? What if it leads us nowhere?"
A chilling smile crept across the Jester's face, shrouded in mystery.
"Leave everything to Braiden's hand… it will know how to solve everything."
Then, his tone shifted to something darker—a warning.
"Protect your hearts well, Mr. Braiden and Ms. Neleen. When you finally face him, you won't know what form he might take."
Neleen turned to Braiden, her expression a mixture of shock and disbelief.
How does he know our names? Who is this man? A higher being? Or something else entirely?
Braiden, regaining his composure, responded with quiet confidence.
"We will take your advice seriously, sir Jester."
Neleen placed five fingers over her chest, speaking with solemnity.
"We will do our best. But if we need you again, will we find you here?"
The Jester's voice brimmed with arrogance and certainty.
"I surround you at all times… always."
Suddenly, the realm trembled violently. The infinite table shattered, and the Jester's celestial throne collapsed.
Newfelite snapped back to reality, finding himself in his office, clutching the mask. His eyes reflected a storm of emotions.
Then, a voice—deep, amused, and terrifying—cut through the silence.
"Oh, my dear child… you're finally beginning to take shape. But be warned—mistakes can cost you everything.
My dear, dear child…"