No Way Out

Great detectives often make mistakes; they are human, and to be human is to be destined for error.

The stained glass was not meant to illuminate the hall. Light filtered through the glass, scattering into a kaleidoscope of colors that spilled across the sealed room. The joyous music felt incredibly distant here, and a faint white mist rose, carrying the scent of soothing incense.

On the sofa, the man lowered his head toward the wall, seemingly in prayer. On that wall, a pitch-black cross writhed in a grotesque fashion, as if it were a visual hallucination, yet it possessed a life of its own.

"The room is decorated quite well, just like a church."

It was a guest who had traveled from afar, dressed in black, wearing a top hat and a bird-beak mask.

This attire originated from several centuries ago. When the Black Death ravaged Inverwig and the surrounding kingdoms, doctors of that era wore such outfits. The long, slender bird beak was actually a respirator, made of silver and stuffed with medicinal herbs to filter out the plague.

That dark age had long since passed, but people still harbored a taboo against such clothing. Doctors in those days held immense power; to control the epidemic, if he declared you sick, you would be quarantined. Your home would be torched by knights, and in the end, you would be placed in a mass grave with other patients. They would pour fish oil and firewood over you, burning you along with the disease itself, before covering everything with earth.

He looked more like the Grim Reaper than a doctor; an ominous aura radiated from his entire being.

"Yes, this was built according to the church in the town of my memories. That church wasn't very large; a few dozen people could fill it."

Sabo slowly raised his lowered head. The light from the hall fell from the stained glass behind him. He stood against the light, his silhouette a pitch-black shape.

"I thought you Vikings all believed in Odin."

The plague doctor slowly took a seat opposite Sabo, his gaze seemingly fixed from beneath his dark lenses.

"No. When the iron ships and cannons entered the northern seas, the so-called gods were already dead. We threw ourselves into the fray one after another, thinking we could have a place in Valhalla, but in reality, there was nothing. Dead is dead. Floating on the cold sea, dying for nothing."

Sabo's voice was very flat, as if he were recounting a story that had nothing to do with him.

"That must have been my last time at sea. I drifted on the wreckage of the deck until I reached Inverwig. It was a priest from the church who saved me. The church where I woke up looked just about like this."

His gaze drifted back and forth in the narrow darkness, as if unwilling to forget. Sabo had always existed here.

"He was a goddamn Inverwig man, truly a lunatic. The first question he asked when he saw me wake up was whether I was interested in learning about the Gospel Church."

Sabo laughed as he spoke.

"I'm a Viking, and he actually asked if I was interested in the church."

He laughed wantonly, but no matter how loud his laughter was, the faint music eventually buried it. The place was as quiet as stagnant water.

"And the end of the story?"

The doctor's voice was a strange, neutral tone with a metallic edge, likely due to the plague mask.

"When I was near death, the Valkyrie did not descend, and the gates of Valhalla were shut tight against me. So I wanted to try betraying them; perhaps then, the noble Odin would pay a little attention to an ant like me."

"I accepted baptism, and then I lived until now. There was no retribution, not even any nightmares. I've been doing quite well, actually—much better than when I was a pirate."

Sabo felt that everything was so ridiculous. It was nothing; the things everyone had clung to for years were like bubbles.

"I think I understand."

The plague doctor was silent for a moment, then said, "Do you think... God is useful?"

"Are you referring to saving the world? Doctor."

"Perhaps. Actually, sometimes I am very confused. I have dissected many corpses; humans are so complex and beautiful. Every organ has its own function. Under the rhythm of the heart, blood surges... even the brain is a literal miracle."

The doctor looked at his own hands, feeling his own breath. Everyone pursued miracles, yet they never thought that their own existence was a miracle in itself.

"Sometimes I wonder, humans are so mysterious and complex, could the so-called God really have created us? But without that so-called God, how did we come to be?"

Sabo thought for a moment and held up a finger.

"One Silver Lion Coin. That is all the so-called God is worth—a pittance. I think you've seen those people outside, the ones who are 'hungover'."

He spoke with disdain, yet there was sorrow in his voice.

"A single Silver Lion Coin is enough to buy a dose of hallucinogen, and one dose can let them step into heaven for three days. For just one Silver Lion Coin, they can say goodbye to this goddamn world and lose themselves in their own beautiful dreams until they need the next dose."

"So-called entry into heaven is nothing more than that, isn't it?"

The doctor pondered. He liked to think, but sometimes thinking was meaningless—dull and useless.

The distant music continued to rise, and sweet laughter could be heard faintly. Even though only a wall of glass separated the two, the gap between them was vast.

"The time for sacrifice has come, Sabo."

The doctor finally spoke these words. He did not want to make small talk; he just didn't know how to bring it up. After all, death was a sad affair.

"I know."

Sabo did not seem surprised by the so-called sacrifice; his eyes were calmer than ever before.

"Plague doctor, you were here to announce my death date all along, weren't you? Just like the Black Death centuries ago—the doctors had no power to cure it. They could only identify the patients, kill them, and isolate the plague within that circle."

"According to your creed, you will go to heaven after you die."

The doctor tried to comfort him, but as if he had heard a joke, Sabo's voice paused, and then he laughed heartily, as if he had heard the greatest joke in the world.

"How absurd Valhalla is, and how absurd heaven is. You know I don't believe in that."

He had accepted baptism, but he had never believed.

The doctor did not seem to expect Sabo to answer this way. He was clearly a man on the verge of death, yet he possessed an unimaginable calmness toward it.

The voice paused, and the Doctor continued.

"The Sacred Coffin has already been removed from Old Dunling. It is in a safe place now, but the Purification Agency's pursuit has not ended. According to intelligence, the Dawn Voyager took to the skies ten days ago. No one knows its current location; it could be above the coastline, or it could be right above our heads, with the Thousand Thunder's cannons aimed directly at this spot."

"What do you need me to do?" Sabo asked.

"Create a distraction. We need to buy more time to relocate the Sacred Coffin."

"In other words, a riot—the bigger, the better?"

The Doctor nodded in affirmation.

"Yes. As long as chaos erupts, the Purification Agency will be forced to intervene. Their manpower is already stretched thin; if we can delay them, we must. As long as the Sacred Coffin is safely out of Inverwig, every sacrifice will be worth it."

As he spoke, the Doctor brought out his briefcase. Upon opening it, rows of syringes were revealed, with scorching blood churning within the transparent glass.

It was like Pandora's box; from the moment it opened, Sabo's breathing grew strained. A rare flicker of disorder appeared in his eyes as he stared fixedly at the contents.

It was an indescribable sensation. People lived in the air without ever feeling its presence, but when that briefcase opened, a restless, boiling heat filled the room, as if something had escaped from within to permeate every corner.

"Technology derived from The Order. Purified secret blood. It can lead to hell, or it can open the gates of heaven. Doctrine was never a sharp blade; in essence, The Order relied on this to cultivate a batch of monsters, and through them, they won the war of faith."

The Doctor's voice remained calm, as if he had grown accustomed to this eerie sensation after long exposure.

Staring at the syringes, Sabo's voice trembled slightly.

"Are these all prepared for me?"

"Only one."

"Sabo, this is a chance to change your fate. If you are truly powerful enough, one chance is all you need. If this is all you amount to, giving you more chances would merely be a waste."

The Doctor's words were uncharacteristically cruel. He stood up and walked beneath the stained-glass window, the opulence of the hall below reflected in his eyes through the glass.

"I heard this place used to be a dueling arena."

"Yes. Old Dunling was built by the Romans, and such traditions always manage to survive in the cracks. During the Glorious War, the Lower District did not exist, and this place was merely a wasteland. When times were hard, people gathered here to hold underground gambling matches."

Sabo remained seated. From the beginning, he had stayed on the sofa, quietly reflecting on the past.

"Back then, the wealthy would drag in useless prisoners of war; they were slaves. The economy was poor, and many poor people would take up weapons and step into the arena to make a living. Inverwig men and Gaulonalo would slaughter each other in the Roman arena."

"Usually, the Inverwig men won. Although it was an underground duel, to encourage the public, the Gaulonalo would be stabbed before entering the arena. They fought while wounded; from the moment the gate opened, their lives entered a countdown."

Those were bloody years. The enemy came from beyond the White Tide Strait. When the war began, both sides used large ships and blades, but in this nearly century-long history of war, weapons had constantly evolved—from flintlocks to long-range cannons, from steamships to the Zeppelin.

"But such duels don't exist anymore. After all, in a civilized society, everyone prefers balls for socializing."

Sabo chuckled.

"Whether it's a dueling arena or a ball, they both just provide a venue for socialization. Great families discuss the distribution of interests from their seats; girls choose their husbands, and boys choose their wives."

The Doctor did not reply, merely watching the crowd below in silence. They wore masks, and no one knew who anyone else was. This was a tradition among the nobility, a tacit understanding that maintained the final, hypocritical lie.

"It seems you have made preparations in advance."

"Those noble aristocrats should never have come to this filthy Lower District, let alone wearing masks. Regardless of their identities, the authorities and their families will deny they died here. It is a disgrace."

From the start, tonight's ball was a trap. They would be Sabo's funeral offerings for that grand, long-cherished wish.

"I will make you satisfied, Doctor. From the moment I was born, this is what I was meant to do."

Sabo took one of the syringes from the briefcase. This was the first time he stood up; his figure was hunched and small, but the shadow he cast was incomparably ferocious.