Vol·13 [Bury the Light]

The United Kingdom tabloid, The Sun, is infamous for its RED TOPS (highlighted, eye-catching headlines) – to make it easier to understand, you can think of it as the ultimate, enhanced version of UC Browser.

Thirty-one-year-old Mr. Wilson is an independent writer, but he prefers to call himself a "writer" or a "literary giant" rather than a writer. To be even more extravagant, he would call himself a "darling of the times" or a "jabble-wielding pen." With a change of costume, he could become an announcer on the grand stage of the Royal Theatre next door.

He wrote articles for The Sun, and what he wrote, while not entirely baseless, was at least based on hearsay.

He idolized Conan Doyle and regarded Shakespeare as his life goal.

Besides these lofty artistic pursuits, there was another author who never forgot, who kept it in his heart at all times, and who spoke of it constantly—

" --David Victor."

Under the dim light, Wilson stroked his black hair, from which specks of scarlet emerged.

He had a pair of very beautiful eyes, dark red like Stubborn Fire Stone, with golden flames shining through the pupils. These eyes cost 600,000 euros; it was the world's top cosmetic surgery to create such beautiful artificial eyes.

David Victor Wilson fiddled with his pen like a fervent fan, murmuring to himself at his workbench, "If it were you, how would you write it?"

Many years ago, Mr. Wilson met David once. He fell in love at first sight and could never forget this charming and flamboyant writer.

At this moment, Wilson encountered a problem.

He was the star of The Sun, and the newspaper's owner gave him a new job, asking him to publish a new story on the main pages of two newspapers about the St. James's Park murder case.

There were more than two hundred dead, all of them vampires.

This story should be written as a short story.

--I can't write in too much detail because this is a true story.

--I can't write it too clearly, because it's for the children of the Rose Sect to see.

--We must not write anything bad about Mary; instead, we must praise Mary wisdom and clearly describe her composure after breaking her promise and her good fortune in saving her life.

One thing is particularly important.

That is to clearly state that the real culprit is a 46-year-old former pigeon keeper at James Park.

What should we do?

What should we do?

Wilson pondered; after his lip augmentation surgery, his face resembled a marble sculpture.

"David Victor, what will you do?"

"You're a realist writer. If you were to write this story, you'd probably find the culprit yourself, interrogate him thoroughly, extract material from his mind, and then send the murderer to hell, wouldn't you?"

The pen is moved from the little finger to the Thumb and held tightly.

"I'm different. I make a living with words. I'll write whatever money and status tells me to write—even if it's baseless or fake news. As long as it sells well and is entertaining, it's time for me to use my best skills."

With two implants in his straight nose, this artificially sculpted face looks remarkably like Professor Victor.

I miss you, I think about you all the time, I love you! More than I love myself.

"Victor, Victor."

"Give me your Inspiration."

"Give me all your essence."

A title was placed on the page.

The title is [Bury the Light] -- a bizarre story telling ancient myths and legends.

It's not real at all; it's incredibly magical.

It's incredibly difficult to pin the deaths of over two hundred people in the cemetery on a single pigeon keeper. Mr. Wilson changed his perspective and writing style—transforming the established culprit into Jack the Ripper from the legends of gods and monsters.

As for why Winston Spencer turned into Jack?

Why Jack wanted to kill these nobles required careful consideration.

Damn it.

Wilson grumbled and cursed, his eyes growing colder as he took the coffee cup from the table and filled the meat juicer with a fresh, hot drink.

Even a beverage containing caffeine and human blood couldn't dispel the turmoil in his heart.

Before he could even pick up his pen, he would feel a profound desolation in his soul, as if it had been hollowed out and there were no more fresh ideas left.

Those who work in this field absolutely cannot rely on Inspiration. Even someone like David Victor needs to travel to various places, communicate with countless people, and gather material on-site.

Unfortunately, Wilson didn't have that opportunity.

He produces 12,000 words a day and has to personally go to the printing press and newspaper office to proofread repeatedly. Morphine and methamphetamine are his Universal Elixir for stimulating his mental energy to create.

But at this moment, he must remain clear-headed.

Because this job is of paramount importance.

--It concerns the innocence of Mary, and the future of the entire vampire clan.

He had to use highly targeted and purposeful word order, harsh words, and vicious sentences to organize and bring together all the contradictions and pin them on Winston Spencer.

Then, by tracing Winston's background as the real culprit, the blame is shifted to other places, pinning it on some unfortunate cult, or directly pinning it on the boss of the Abyssal Railway.

This is extremely difficult, much more difficult than writing a short essay on Weibo or making a witty remark on Zhihu.

Therefore, Wilson thought of the person he had long admired and yearned for—

"--If it were you, David Victor, this wouldn't be a problem for you, would it?"

He greatly admired Professor Victor's creative method, which was like printing or engraving, creating vivid characters, but simply by picking flowers and grass by the roadside, presenting these characters and events completely to the reader.

But what about Wilson?

He needs to start from scratch, exhausting all his efforts to cover up one lie after another from an empty facade.

Just like the new question the boss sent me today--

He could hardly comprehend how this had happened.

In London!

Right under the nose of that Queen of England.

It's located less than a kilometer outside Downing Street.

Before the spirits of the British monarchs throughout history.

There were over two hundred inhuman monsters killed by a forty-six-year-old ugly man who looked like a decrepit old man.

No one escaped.

According to the police officer's description, the scene was very clean, with no bullet casings visible. Only metal fragments remained inside the humanoid creature, indicating that someone had fired shots there.

All traces left by the murderer at the scene were erased.

The original footprints were dug up by an entrenching tool, making it impossible to determine even the size of the shoes or the person's height.

When the drug-sniffing dog smelled the strong gunpowder smoke and the nicotine solvent used to repel wild animals, it tucked its tail between its legs and ran away, and the police officer couldn't stop it.

After a heavy rain, nothing is left.

Wilson was just a writer, not a detective.

It's impossible for him to deduce the real culprit from these clues.

--But to pin this murder on Winston Spencer.

He could only offer an explanation to the public and the vampires by combining supernatural legends with pseudoscience.

First, following David Victor's word order, write down the most crucial subheading.

It's called [gene mutation: 314.1C] -- this gene mutation is very common in Europeans and was also reported in The Independent in 2014 as the result of DNA testing of Jack the Ripper's sample from 160 years ago.

According to rumors, Wilson learned that Winston Spencer had a fondness for widows.

How about I tell you a tragic story?

The story tells of this twisted and ugly serial killer who had an affair with Barbara, the Red Queen's godmother.

This serial killer lurked in St. James's Park, London, for years, secretly committing murder and robbery to eliminate rivals for Downing Street's political figures.

He committed countless bloody crimes, and the blood on his hands could have dyed the entire Thames River red.

Because of his perverse and morbid sense of humor, he would turn any beautiful woman he encountered into a widow.

This time, however, Jack demanded that all the guests at the funeral be buried with him simply because his godmother Barbara refused his request to murder her husband.

"Hmm—the outline is finished." Wilson's expression turned cold as he refined the main structure of the article and added some details.

"Barbara is a slut. She covets Leon's wealth and status, and she also covets Jack the Ripper's strong and healthy body. I know that's what women love to see. They like polite, strong men as husbands, and they also like wild, unrestrained, and exceptionally capable wolves as lovers."

"Jack repeatedly plotted with Barbara to assassinate Father Leon. Barbara verbally agreed, but secretly used underhanded tactics to help the Godfather evade assassination attempts on several occasions. She was both loyal and passionate, a modern woman. Aha!~"

"When she was feeling lost and confused, she met Dr. Wang Chenggui from the East, and during Barbara's psychotherapy class, the two became passionately attracted to each other and ended up having sex that very night."

"They went to Cafe Royal and partied drunkenly at the top of the rooftop. Barbara felt a strange sense of regret because she could see her husband's workplace from hundreds of meters away. This fiery and exciting experience will grab the reader's attention and choke them— Victor! That's exactly what you did! Didn't you? Choke them but don't kill them!"

"But Barbara couldn't hide it from Jack, nor from the eyes of the Ripper."

"After learning all this, Jack, that ungrateful wretch, became insanely jealous, leading to the tragedy at the Royal Free Hospital and the tragedy at St. James's Park."

"In the end, this delicate flower withered in the cemetery, dying alongside the doctor who saved her from dire straits, and alongside her husband who loved her all his life, who, even after learning of her infidelity, still willingly played a supporting role. The other two hundred-plus burial items were all considered Jack's morbid love for her."

"From a woman's perspective, this article is both romantic and thrilling, filled with elements of illicit love and horror/fantasy. The self-pity that follows immorality should be able to open their hearts—with over two hundred living sacrifices as witnesses to their love, it's top-notch material."

"Um"

Wilson chewed on his pen, his expression complex.

"Now that the story is over, let's talk about the purpose and direction of this article."

He put on his overcoat, took the draft, and prepared to leave.

"David Victor, I'm going to test your creative thinking this time, because I really can't think of anyone to throw this mud at, or how to do it reasonably and convincingly."

He got in the car and headed to the site of the old park on the Thames River, vaguely remembering several places Winston frequented. Adding a touch of truth to a lie would make it even more effective.

Half an hour later--

--The doorman at the Greenwich Hotel looked terrified.

He was kidnapped by Wilson and imprisoned in the hotel's dark basement.

Mr. Wilson was beaming; at that moment, he could feel the beauty of David Victor's aesthetics.

When faced with fresh material, he must savor the feeling of dominating others' lives, overriding the lives of the weak, and wantonly seizing their essence.

With just a gentle touch, Wilson's pen, like a sharp knife, sliced open the doorman's leg artery.

He crouched beside the doorman's legs, his long, scarlet tongue licking the blood from his thigh.

"I have some questions for you, and you must answer them truthfully, or you will die."

Faced with such a direct threat of death, the doorman nodded vigorously. The wound on the major blood vessel in his thigh didn't hurt as much as he had imagined, but he could clearly feel his life force continuously draining from his body.

Wilson said coldly, "You only have twenty minutes, kid. After twenty minutes you'll bleed to death, and the only one who can save you is yourself."

The doorman was both surprised and frantic, making muffled noises through the burlap sack in his mouth.

Wilson stuck out his tongue and roared out a strange, trembling sound.

"I can sense your emotions through your blood. Are you aggrieved? Confused? Angry? But in the struggle for survival, only the fittest survive. In my eyes, you're like a piece of meat on a table, ready to be grabbed by anyone. Killing you is perfectly justified—unless you bring me immense spiritual value, in which case I'll spare your life. Now you need to think it over carefully, kid. You need to work on your thinking and stop looking at me with that arrogant, resentful expression!"

The doorman immediately composed himself, his strong survival instinct forcing him to compromise.

Wilson pulled the rag out of the child's mouth and asked in a gloomy tone.

"You know Winston Spencer, don't you?"

"Yes! Yes, I know him!"

What kind of person is he?

"He loves to brag! He always says he knows a lot of important people!"

Who does he know?

"Commander-in-Chief of the Royal Air Force, his staff and his wife."

"Anything else?"

"Prince Charles had tea with him."

"Wow, that's outrageous. What else?"

"Both Chancellors of the Exchequer fought him in sword fights, and ultimately lost."

"Hmm, besides these people, who else does he know? Isn't there anyone dirty or despicable? Like murderers, kidnappers, or terrorists?"

The doorman thought for a moment.

"No. He never talks about these people, and I'm curious about them too."

Wilson frowned and continued, "So where does he like to hang out?"

"Besides parks, he enjoys looking at warships, visiting the London Tower Museum, walking along the Thames River, and cycling around Greenwich every day to exercise."

"Boring." Wilson curled his lip, as if he had heard a very uninteresting story. "It's worthless material."

The doorman's eyes grew increasingly terrified as he desperately searched his memory for something useful.

"No, no, no! No, no, no! Sir! Let me think! Let me think carefully!"

Wilson glared at him, took out his coffee cup, and continued sipping his blood. "You'd better hurry up. I don't have much patience. In this day and age, many readers only read the first three paragraphs of a book. They're like johns; if they see a girl they don't like, they leave immediately—like high and mighty gods, as if they hold the author's lifeblood in their hands, wielding the power of life and death. I wouldn't even give trash like you a second glance."

"You want to kill me? Just because my life is worthless to you? Is this some old, unoriginal story?" The doorman found it utterly incomprehensible.

Wilson's face was full of disgust. "Get your act together! If it weren't for your connection to Winston Spencer —I wouldn't even drink a second drop of your stinking blood. It's full of the taste of wind and rain, bitter and cold! To have to repeatedly taste such bitter pheromones is pure mental torture! And you dare to yell at me? I'll crush you like a worm! Understand? You! You are a worm!"

The doorman was breathing heavily; his lips twitched, but he couldn't even shed a tear.

Wilson stood up, letting the prey's blood seep into the basement bricks.

"Have you thought of anything? Even if you have to make it up, you have to come up with a compelling story! Who exactly is Spencer Winston —is he really completely above drugs, gambling, and prostitution? Does he have absolutely no connection to any criminal gangs? You're confusing me! How am I supposed to fit him into any other vampire faction now?"

"He... he... he... he..." The doorman trembled all over. As time passed, the blood in his body decreased. Normally, a loss of about 500 milliliters of blood would cause dizziness, hemorrhagic shock, and other complications that would take his life.

He felt his body temperature dropping, and overwhelming fear overwhelmed all reason.

He would just nod and say yes, and he became erratic.

The rope tightened around my arm, initially causing a burning pain, then a tingling, numb sensation, and finally swelling and coldness.

He was pale and begged for mercy incoherently.

"Please, please spare this worm, please... please!"

Wilson wanted to pull out the draft from his clothes and talk to this vague "material" about how to write the story. Perhaps these fictional things could give this poor, pathetic young man some new ideas.

Just as his right hand, his steady right arm, the arm he used to grip weapons and pull triggers, and also the arm he used to write words, to make money, and to kill, slipped inside his clothes.

A flash of silver light pierced the darkness.

A huge shadow fell on the beams of the underground wine cellar.

Wilson's eyes glazed over, and the cold blood gushing from his arm splattered onto the incandescent light bulb, turning the entire basement crimson.

He had almost no chance to resist; the weapon was in his right leg, and he couldn't even draw the gun with his right hand.

Paper scraps scattered everywhere, and before them stood a massive shadow, towering like an iron tower.

Beneath the enormous, wide-brimmed hood, a pair of blood-red eyes gleamed, revealing two rows of white teeth—a confident, yet powerfully sinister grin.

"I am the imminent storm of thunder and lightning."

The neatly arranged bird feathers on the coat formed the cloak of this unwelcome guest.

"I want to break free from this cage and reclaim my true name."

The gleaming silver saw, dripping with blood and sparks, repeatedly sizzled against the vampire's bones.

"You are the sacrifice for my rebirth."

Jack Martin grabbed his prey by the collar--

Wilson launched a sudden and unexpected attack! His skull deformed instantly!

Like a sacred cross, its four-lobed mouth bared its fangs, biting down hard on Jack's shoulder.

"Hahahaha! Hahahahaha!--"

Wilson heard laughter—the ecstasy of rebirth, a strange and inexplicable mystery.

Soon, all he had left was his mouth.

The pieces of flesh on the carpet presented the coroner with a difficult problem.

--Jack pulled out his long teeth one by one from his shoulder.

He bent down to cut the rope for the doorman, and as he peered down, he could see, in the blood-red light, a blond man in his early thirties laughing heartily, as if he had lost his mind and was laughing incessantly.

Within seconds, the doorman awoke from his mild blindness due to blood loss. He then discovered that his thigh had been bandaged, with a blood transfusion syringe still inserted, half of the needle sticking out and wobbling precariously.

Looking towards the main gate--

Jack held the manuscript, reading Wilson's terrible work with great care.

Beneath his large hood, the man merely grinned maliciously, glancing at the doorman as if to confirm that the unfortunate boy was alright and had regained his senses.

He vanished like a wisp of smoke, his black raven feather cloak tightly wrapped around his body, disappearing like an arrow into the basement corridor.

--Disappeared into the darkness.