"Old Friend"

"The eight swordsmen guarding Mr. Tales at the time of the incident—their bodies are all here. Out of respect, and also because of the urgency, we haven't moved them at all. They remain as they were."

Gilbert stood on the third-floor corridor of Mindis Hall, addressing Lady Jinnie, whose expression was grim, before the eight corpses before them.

Yordel stood quietly to one side.

"Six Mortal Tier swordsmen with excellent skill, rich combat experience, and the potential to break through to Transcendent Rank, along with two genuine Transcendent Rank experts—all had their carotid arteries slashed by an irregular sharp weapon."

Gilbert paced over to one corpse, crouched down, and pressed a hand to its neck. An ugly, horrifying wound was revealed, already discolored, the blood within long clotted.

"Our preliminary estimate is that the attacker may be an Extreme Realm expert. To kill all eight in an instant requires exquisite technique and unfathomable power, and his speed was such that even Yordel couldn't catch up."

"And then there's that terrifying ability to conceal himself. When the intrusion occurred, we had every entrance and exit guarded, yet he still slipped in. Yordel didn't sense anyone at all."

Gilbert spoke his conjectures with a heavy face. He pulled a pocket watch from his breast pocket and stared at the time: half past six in the evening.

Even the moon had risen.

Jinnie furrowed her brows tightly, her lips—full and alluring—pressed together, accentuating the beauty mark beside her mouth. She crossed her arms, sank into deep thought for a moment, then suddenly raised a hand and snapped her fingers.

"Take off their helmets."

At Gilbert's glance, several nearby guards stepped forward and removed the helmets from the dead.

Jinnie walked forward, her elegant Female Official's high-heeled boots clicking, and crouched on one knee to examine each face closely.

"Carotid artery hemorrhage—they didn't have much time before death, only enough to struggle on the ground for a while. That period was their respective window to witness the killer."

"Each of their expressions," Jinnie said cautiously as she leaned in to observe, "has subtle differences."

"These four were lying face down. Their expressions before death are very consistent: anger, hatred, resentment, gritted teeth. They likely had no time to react at all, facing a fatal blow straight to death, dying without knowing the truth. That's why they show such bitterness and fury."

"These two were lying on their sides, expressions of shock, disbelief, and confusion. They must have sensed the killer's fatal strike and tried desperately to counter but failed. That left them greatly astonished and bewildered. The time they spent struggling on the ground froze those expressions on their faces."

"The last two should be the strongest. One lies on his back, the other sits slumped against the wall. Their expressions are far more nuanced than the other six. The one lying down shows regret and pain; the one sitting shows relief and helplessness. They also fought back hard but still failed. However, they were likely the last to die, so they struggled long enough to see the killer, hence their deathbed remorse and sudden realization. In other words, for these two, if they had known the enemy's identity in advance, they could have mounted an effective response."

Jinnie stood up coldly, crossed her arms, and looked at the somewhat resigned Gilbert beside her. She spoke with finality:

"The killer is not an Extreme Realm expert!"

"If it were an Extreme Realm powerhouse so overwhelming that resistance was impossible, the last two would have shown despair and fear. The killer must have used a special technique, ability, or mechanism. He cleverly struck the Strong Ones first, then the six weaker ones last. That's why the two strongest, after falling, had the chance and time to see the killer and his method."

"Though not at Extreme Realm, his speed is very fast—perhaps approaching or even surpassing half of Extreme Realm experts. But precisely because he hasn't reached Extreme Realm, there was still an order to his kills."

Yordel stepped forward, crouched before the bodies, as if verifying Jinnie's words.

Gilbert stared blankly at the woman before him, as if seeing the spirited young girl from twenty years ago in the courtroom.

And the young, sunny youth who often stood behind her.

He sighed inwardly and walked up to her.

"Lady Jinnie, I know you were once the finest Alert Officer in the capital, even involved in the Year of Blood's royal assassination investigation, tracking the Air Elementalist, and frequently seconded by the Kingdom Secret Bureau." Gilbert clasped his hands behind his back and said calmly:

"Your reasoning is also brilliant, as sharp as ever."

"But our top priority is to find that child."

Jinnie pondered, glancing at him.

The finest Alert Officer?

Her fist unconsciously clenched.

Bullshit Alert Officer.

But this charming lady showed no emotion. Instead, she raised her left hand from where it rested on her other arm, habitually brushed the beauty mark to the left of her lips, and gave a silent, light laugh.

"Men, truly the embodiment of carelessness and oversight."

Gilbert narrowed his eyes, tipping his hat slightly in a gesture of confusion.

"Haven't I made it clear enough?" Jinnie dropped her hands, strode forward without ceremony, and pointed at the bodies before her with full confidence:

"These two Transcendent Rank guards were the strongest, standing together, and the first to be attacked. These two came next, and the other four were the last to be struck. But the order of their deaths was reversed: the strongest struggled the longest and saw the killer!"

"If I determine their positions before the attack, I can trace the trajectory and find where the killer entered."

"Though the amount of blood loss is so great that the stains have mixed, making it hard to find traces of the guards' death throes."

"But based on the time of arterial bleeding and the speed of a person struggling on the ground, with the two strongest as centers, I can draw two circles—their range of movement from before the attack to death."

"Don't forget, these two strongest were attacked almost simultaneously by the same weapon, meaning they were standing together before the attack."

"So, the intersection of these two circles is where they were attacked!"

"Two circles have two intersections. One of them is the answer—the actual spot where they were attacked, which is also where the killer entered." Jinnie's expression was focused as she traced shapes with her steps, her words making both Gilbert and Yordel watch her seriously.

"Based on the last gaze of these two strongest, after killing everyone, the killer appeared at this spot. I'd guess that's also where the child was standing."

"Starting from the killer's final appearance," Jinnie stood at that spot and stepped backward step by step, "following the order of their attacks, roughly find the killer's path of movement." She slowly walked past several bodies and back to the two strongest. "The end of the path connects back to the area of these two circles. The closest point is this intersection!"

Jinnie walked past the scattered corpses, her gaze sharp, and finally stopped at one place:

"Here—this is where the two strongest were first attacked. In other words, where the killer entered and made his first move!"

Gilbert quickly stepped forward and looked around.

"You mean the killer appeared here suddenly?" he said slowly. "The Mercenary squad did fight their way here. But that's impossible. This is still far from the stairs. In the time we cleaned up, he had nowhere to hide."

Jinnie let out another light, contemptuous laugh.

Only Yordel silently stepped forward, pointing at a small decorative vase nearby.

Such vases were common in the corridor, but this one was the closest to where Jinnie stood.

Under Gilbert's puzzled gaze, Jinnie strode over, grabbed the vase, and smashed it without hesitation!

"Crash!"

She crouched down silently, picked up a shard of the vase, examined it closely, then lightly wiped her finger along the inner surface and held it up for the two "useless men" to see.

Gilbert was startled to find red bloodstains on Jinnie's finger!

Yordel also crouched down and picked up several fragments.

The inner walls of the vase were dotted with tiny droplets of blood as well.

"Nowhere to hide?" Jinnie sneered, leaving Gilbert somewhat embarrassed.

"So," Gilbert said, taking the vase shard as his expression shifted, "this is—"

Jinnie stood up and said crisply:

"Victims: eight. Cause of death: carotid artery hemorrhage."

"Perpetrator: a Transcendent Rank Blood Race, i.e., a vampire. Weapon: Blood Race claws—"

Just as Jinnie was getting into her stride, she suddenly froze, realizing the situation she was in.

So she clenched her teeth and swallowed the rest of her words.

After all, I'm no longer an Alert Officer.

Jinnie shook her head, clearing away irrelevant emotions.

"So, he relied on his innate blood-melting talent to infiltrate and hide, and his innate instantaneous speed to kill and abduct—not his own combat strength." Jinnie looked up and shot Gilbert a glare. "This is what you call an Extreme Realm expert?"

Gilbert was deeply embarrassed, but he knew this wasn't the time for pride, so he asked politely, "Truly an eye-opener. So, the child?"

This counts as an eye-opener? Jinnie thought scornfully.

What narrow-minded high-and-mighty types you are—if you'd seen the Star Kingdom's "Secret Section," Exeter's "Dark Chamber," the Suye Dynasty's Black-Robed Guard, and the Hanbur Dynasty's "Quintana," if you'd seen their methods, you'd know how many terrifying figures lurk in the shadows beneath the surface, people who could learn all your secrets with just a flick of their fingers.

Then her eyes sharpened, and she declared decisively: "At the time of the incident—when it happened, the sun hadn't set yet! He could only use blood-melting to hide, blending into those hired teams!"

"A Blood Race below Extreme Realm can only melt into blood, and for no more than half an hour. That means those hired teams arrived here within half an hour!"

"A hired team traveling at full speed, covering half an hour's distance to the Dusk Star District, could only come from the DC District, lined with noble estates, the Morning Star District, home to City Hall and commercial hubs, or the Central District, where Revival Palace is located!"

Jinnie exhaled. The mature beauty finished her deduction and instinctively reached behind her waist, only to grasp at empty air.

She paused again, then laughed bitterly to herself. That's right, I'm not an Alert Officer anymore. Even my smoking habit, I quit long ago.

That intern who used to follow behind me, handing me a light—hasn't he long since become someone else?

She let out a sigh.

The sharp-witted Lady put away her memories and looked at Gilbert.

"Make your decision, Count."

Gilbert took a deep breath. "The ones sending people to test us are definitely the nobles. The DC District is large, and its estates are the best places to hide a Blood Race! Though there are quite a few estates over there—"

Yordel's figure flickered and vanished.

Gilbert choked on the rest of his words at his colleague's unceremonious departure. He could only sigh. "Well, at least it narrows the search range."

Gilbert looked at Jinnie and gave her a slight nod.

She merely snorted in response.

Gilbert took no offense and began redeploying his men:

"Open the reserve armory. Full gear. Switch to exorcist silver swords!"

"Pick the best thirty men and follow me! Target: DC District!"

"Bring that lamp!"

"Thump! Thump! Thump-thump-thump!"

The dull pounding from the ceiling continued, growing more urgent!

Chris spun around, his expression turning anxious for the first time. He looked at Tales with displeasure and ordered Istrone, "Take him back to the dungeon! Lock him up tight!"

Then, before Istrone or Tales could react, the old man and Rolana vanished from sight!

Istrone's face lit up with excitement. He grabbed Tales, ignoring the latter's struggles and shouts ("Hey hey, what's going on? Weren't we supposed to exchange information? Lord Istrone?"—Tales), and shot toward the stone stairs!

The next second, before the dizziness had even passed, Tales landed headfirst on the damp stone floor!

Thud!

The pain made him wince.

"Little brat! Stay put! Whatever you do, we'll hear it!" A sharp click of a lock and Istrone's anxious parting words echoed, and then everything went quiet!

Tales scrambled up, torn between chagrin and relief.

Istrone was already gone.

So he silently reached down to his leg, pretending to scratch an itch, and casually brushed the bound JC Dagger—just a quick graze.

Pain shot through him.

His blood hit the ground.

Here it comes.

Tales took a deep breath, bracing for the wave of heat surging through his body.

That way, Gilbert and Yordel will know where I am, right?

He let out a soft breath, finally letting his guard down, and exhaustion crashed over him all at once.

The boy trembled as he groped for a wall and slumped down beside it.

Today's ordeal was no less intense than yesterday's trip to the Red Quarter!

Now, for the first time, Tales had a moment to take in his surroundings.

Dim light came from two small torches.

The floor was stone—damp, cold, and hard.

The walls were mottled, covered in countless scratches and carvings.

A narrow metal grate, and a lock as thick as an arm.

His foot kicked a rusty chain, which clinked loudly.

Tales sighed and lay down on the cold ground.

No doubt about it—this was a cell. Damp, foul, and bloody.

Bloody?

He caught the salty, metallic tang in the air.

Just like what he'd smelled last night in the Red Quarter, only thicker.

His heart tightened—and then, from outside the cell, came a sudden, horrifying scream and moan.

"Ahhh—!"

Tales shot up in fright!

He'd never had much tolerance for horror movies in his memories; it was always that nameless chuunibyou friend who dragged him to watch them.

Calling it "toughening up."

Under the prickling of goosebumps, Tales's brain kicked into overdrive again!

A dungeon.

Blood.

The Blood Race.

Screams and moans.

Tales suddenly knew where he was.

The Blood Race's "pantry."

A wave of nausea hit him.

Tales let out another sigh—he'd probably exhaled more in the last two days than he'd drunk water.

But just as he was about to sit down, a low, ragged breathing sound came from beside him!

"Huff—huff—ahhh—!"

He scrambled away in the opposite direction!

Can you stop scaring me?

Tales patted his chest, still shaken, and realized his cell wasn't a luxury single.

He crept slowly toward the sound.

In the dim light, a figure appeared—a person in heavy shackles, lying on the ground, gasping in pain.

"Mmm—!"

In the darkness, the prisoner seemed unable to speak, only breathing raggedly, every sound filled with agony and torment.

His wrist, locked tight in the shackles, had a tube inserted into it, leading out of the cell.

Tales knew what that was.

"If you ask me, just hook up a blood extractor and nutrient tube, and lock them in a coffin"—that was what Istrone had said.

So this was the blood extractor.

Tales sighed again, lowering his head in helpless resignation.

He was probably a poor soul, abducted by the Blood Race and brought here to serve as their food source.

"Ugh-ugh--" Sensing someone's approach, the prisoner struggled and groaned.

Tales felt another wave of nausea.

That nausea also made up his mind: he had to do something.

"Sorry, this might hurt a bit."

"Please bear with it."

He whispered to the pitiful prisoner.

The boy reached out, felt for the man's wrist, found the crude blood-drawing device, and with a hard yank, pulled out the needle embedded several inches into the vein!

"Ah--ugh-ugh--" The prisoner struggled and groaned even more violently, still making only meaningless sounds, like a mute.

Tales pressed down on the wound on his wrist. Fortunately, not much blood came out.

Of course, it might also be that there wasn't much blood left in him. Tales thought grimly.

His earlier clash with the three Blood Race members had been tense and terrifying, but never heavy.

Now, however, watching this "blood source" chained up for extraction, he inexplicably began to feel a weight settle in his chest.

Maybe it was pity, he mocked himself.

Tales touched the shackles and noticed they were a dark, stone-like mechanical lock, covered in intricate patterns and inscriptions. Heavy and cleverly designed, it locked the prisoner's hands crossed in front of his chest, with two additional clamps extending upward to grip both sides of his jaw so tightly that he couldn't even shake his head left or right. Tales pushed hard and found the thick mechanical stone lock seemed firmly fixed to the ground—or was simply so heavy it might as well have been.

It looked like a heavy-duty lock meant for experts.

Tales felt for the lock's clasp, which was made of a special metal.

Just then, the metal suddenly heated up, and a searing, burning heat shot out from the clasp!

"Ah!" Tales cried out in pain and let go of the clasp.

Frowning, he tried the clasp again... It erupted with intense heat whenever touched.

It seemed he was helpless to unlock it.

The prisoner's struggles gradually subsided.

Watching his painful writhing and suffering, Tales felt an unbearable ache in his heart, but could only silently step back and sit against the wall.

As he moved, the torchlight from outside the cell, no longer blocked by his body, shone directly onto the prisoner's face.

Tales got a clear look at the poor man.

He was covered in scars, his gray clothes torn and filthy.

And he was disabled.

Both his legs were missing below the knees.

Even more horrifying was his neck—the flesh there was twisted into a grotesque, purplish-black mass, as if his throat had been severely injured.

That was probably why he couldn't speak.

Tales touched his own throat, recalling the two times he had been choked, remembering that pain, and couldn't help but shiver.

Looking at this prisoner, he thought silently: Poor man, so broken and crippled, yet still alive—it's a miracle.

The prisoner's expression was exaggerated, his features twisted as he gasped, as if enduring immense pain.

He could only let out rough, "ugh-ugh" groans.

Short blue hair covered half his face.

On the other half was a strange tattoo.

"Ugh-ugh--" He continued groaning in agony.

Wait.

Tales suddenly froze.

He recognized that tattoo on the other man's face.

Tales suddenly realized that the person sharing his cell, this gasping, mute man, was actually an "Old Friend."

An "Old Friend" he had met just last night in the Red Quarter, with Yala.

Midira Rolf.

One of the top figures among the Blood Bottle Gang's Twelve Supremes.

A wind-controlling ability user.

A Transcendent Rank expert.

"Rolf the Wind Ghost."