"Welcome, Neophyte. I didn't expect you to arrive so quickly. What happened on your way here?"
Neophyte detailed the entire incident, leaving the mayor astonished. The mayor placed his thumb and index finger on his chin, then said:
"It seems some criminals are angry with you, detective. You should be careful; we never know what might happen next."
Neophyte responded with a wide, unsettling grin. He had a dangerous feeling about this man.
The clock struck 6:15 PM. The mayor stood up from his chair, and Neophyte followed, saying:
"Mr. Mayor, I will stay by your side at all times because we don't know when the killer will strike."
Neophyte added:
"The murderer has incredible accuracy—he can strike vital points with terrifying precision."
As he grabbed the door handle, the mayor was momentarily surprised by Neophyte's words but quickly masked it with a smile, replying:
"We will remain highly vigilant. Thank you, detective, for this valuable insight."
Both men descended the stairs, drawing the attention of everyone around them. To them, the detective beside the mayor was an enigma.
They arrived at a table where the mayors were seated. The mayor, Ivan Collins, pulled out a chair and joined them.
One of the mayors, Marcus Bensilf, turned to Ivan Collins and asked:
"Something strange, Mayor Ivan—why is Anglock not with you this time? And why is your butler accompanying you instead?"
Ivan Collins smiled and simply replied:
"Private matters. I'll explain later."
As Neophyte observed the situation, an eerie sensation crept over him—something was about to happen. And his intuition was right.
A minute later, three knives were thrown.
The first struck a woman.
The second was intercepted by Neophyte's hand, protecting Mayor Ivan.
The third found its mark in Mayor Holder Kennedy.
Neophyte pulled the knife from his hand as chaos erupted. Acting swiftly, he led the three mayors to the third floor and locked them inside the mayor's office. Drawing a dagger from beneath his coat, he turned to them and said:
"It seems the killer has begun his move."
Just then, a piercing sound filled the air—a knife stabbing into flesh. Neophyte turned his head to find Mayor Jokoran Al-Midi had been struck down.
Neophyte ushered two mayors out of the room, then set his gaze upon the killer.
The assassin wore a scarf over his head, with a grotesque, blood-stained grin painted on top. His long white shirt and black pants were soaked in crimson.
With a sinister smile, the murderer licked the blood from his knife and laughed eerily.
Neophyte locked the office door and let out a crazed laugh of his own, his voice dripping with madness.
"Oh… the clown has finally moved on his own. Is he controlling me? No… I am the one in control. I am the clown."
Neophyte raised his middle finger at the killer, his voice turning deep and menacing.
"How do you wish to surrender your soul, oh bearer of fate? Do you wish to endure the agony of life until your last breath—to see hell with the eyes of your heart before you descend into its deepest pits? Or would you rather embrace silent death, where oblivion is a mercy compared to what awaits? I can show you things no eye has seen, no heart has endured. Choose wisely, for every choice is a step toward an inescapable fate."
The killer laughed maniacally.
"I never expected a detective of such high standing to be this insane. I didn't picture you as this kind of madman. But… we are two sides of the same coin. No 'Joe.' No 'Pride.' Only 'Jet'… Once I kill you with the Saint's Knife and finish the other two, the universe will witness the grandest finale in Tartarus."
With sudden intensity, the murderer tore his clothes apart, revealing his grotesque body—his abdomen was an entire factory, manufacturing knives. His body trembled with excitement as he spoke in delirium.
"Let's begin, detective… or should I say, mad clown?"
The clown lunged, aiming to wound the murderer's hand, but the assassin dodged, instantly launching a razor-sharp knife toward him. The clown deflected it just in time.
He attacked again, this time stabbing the killer's stomach. The assassin retaliated, gripping the clown's head and driving a knife deep into his face. A piece of the clown's mask shattered, revealing a bloody gash on his left cheek.
Blood poured freely, yet the clown grinned widely, dragging his fingers from the corner of his mouth to his ear in a twisted smear of red. His laughter grew hysterical.
Somewhere in the shadows, an enigmatic presence watched over "the writer"—someone either crimson or unknown.
The clown's voice rang out, dripping with wild insanity.
"Make me enjoy this, you son of a bitch!"
The thunder roared violently, and the rain poured down in torrents, nearly blinding anyone who dared to look. Lightning flashed through the darkness of the room, illuminating it with a terrifying brilliance. In this stormy atmosphere, a wicked grin spread across the killer's face, while the clown's lips curled into a smile just as deranged.
But there was a stark difference between the grin of a lunatic who had lost his mind completely, driven only by raw impulse, and the cold, calculated smile of a man who hid behind it a pure, unfiltered malice.
The clown wiped the blood dripping from his mouth up to his ear, grinning widely, revealing bloodstained teeth. That ominous smile sent a chill through the killer, whose victorious smirk from moments before began to falter.
Before the killer could regain control, Neophyte suddenly stomped on him with full force, his voice shattering the eerie silence as he bellowed:
"Make me enjoy this, you filthy son of a whore! Do you call that an attack? That was nothing but a tickle, you pathetic bastard!"
His words echoed through the space, thick with menace and a bloodthirsty desire for vengeance, drenching the moment in a tangible aura of terror.
The killer yanked a knife from his own gut, his expression darkening with rage as he snarled:
"You're starting to piss me off. I won't let you rest, even in your grave, clown."
The clown lunged forward, ripping away the killer's hood and plunging his blade into his eye. Without hesitation, he delivered a brutal kick to the killer's stomach. But the moment his foot connected, a blade from within the killer's abdomen shot out, piercing the clown's leg.
The killer staggered back, revealing his face—handsome yet twisted, with short black hair, a single crimson eye, sharp features, dark circles beneath his eyes, and a small notch missing from his ear.
Covering his mutilated eye with one hand, the killer suddenly burst into laughter. He dipped his index finger into the fresh blood leaking from his socket, smeared it across his lips, and grinned widely at the clown.
"It's my blood… My god, it's my blood… And it tastes divine." His voice was soaked in twisted delight. "Detective, you've truly entertained me. I've never met such a magnificent opponent. That's why I'll grant you the honor of knowing my name before you drown in the depths of Hades… I am Amkshurar Ktranirowa."
The clown scoffed, utterly indifferent. "As if I give a damn, you son of a bitch."
Amkshurar hurled three knives at the clown. He managed to evade two, but the third embedded itself in his back. Seizing the moment, Amkshurar raised his blade to the clown's throat and dragged it across in a swift horizontal motion.
A violent spray of blood erupted from the clown's neck, staining the floor in crimson. But in the blink of an eye, the wound began to close, healing gradually.
Amkshurar tilted his head slightly to the right, his single eye gleaming with a chilling sharpness. "You're not normal, detective… You're just like me."
The clown placed his hand on his head, letting out a hysterical, bone-chilling laugh. "Don't compare me to the likes of you, scum. You're nothing but a lost stray dog… And I'll be the one to put you on the right path—straight to Hades."