Having gotten a promise from the person inside the prison transport, he finally felt at ease and quickly turned to leave.
He walked to the waist-high weeds beside the Temporary Containment Center, raised his hand slightly, and murmured:
[In the name of the Midnight Banshee!]
A low, hoarse, mysterious voice emerged from his mouth, instantly swept up in the gale rushing in from every direction.
A dense shadow seemed to unfurl before him, swallowing a vast patch of weeds.
Countless strange, lively things seemed to leap and collide within the darkness, letting out excited, eerie shrieks. The Drunkard stepped into the darkness, and in an instant, his entire figure vanished.
It was as if he were traveling through an unreal world—or perhaps a lake.
Only this lake ran parallel to the real world.
He moved through its black waters, following a trace of blood. As that trace grew stronger and clearer, he emerged from the lake and appeared at a three-way junction on a highway.
The area was pitch-black, lit only by a few smoldering flames that illuminated the bloodshed covering the ground.
What he saw was the stuff of nightmares.
Corpses, vehicles, machinery.
Everything was twisted and ruined, scattered here and there. He could even see crushed flesh pasted across the asphalt. The faces, gone cold and stiff, still bore the terror and despair of their final moments.
They were dead. Every last one of them!
For a moment, even the Drunkard felt his body tremble uncontrollably.
When he had received the news, he'd felt a foreboding, but he'd never imagined it would be this bad...
They were all dead!
Forty or fifty people had come just to intercept one insignificant investigator, and now they were all dead here?
[The dead shall return!]
He clenched his teeth, murmured the