No Way Out

Great detectives made mistakes, too. They were only human, and humans were bound to make mistakes.

The stained glass wasn't meant to light the hall. Lamplight passed through it, scattering into a kaleidoscope of colors across the sealed room. The merry music sounded impossibly distant here. A faint white mist rose, carrying the soothing scent of incense.

The man on the sofa bowed his head toward the wall, seemingly in prayer. On the wall, a black cross writhed strangely, as if it were alive—a trick of the eye, perhaps.

"That's a nice room. It's almost like a church."

The visitor had come from far away. He wore black, with a top hat and a beaked mask.

The outfit dated back hundreds of years, to when the Black Death ravaged Inverwig and the surrounding kingdoms. Doctors dressed like this back then. The beaked mask was really a gas mask; its long, silver beak was stuffed with herbs to filter out the disease.

That dark age had passed long ago, but people still shunned those clothes. Doctors wielded great power then. To contain the plague, all they had to do was declare you sick, and you would be quarantined. Knights would burn your home to the ground, and at last you would be taken with the other patients to a great pit. They would pour in fish oil and firewood, burning you along with the disease itself, then cover it all with earth.

He looked more like the Grim Reaper than a doctor. An aura of ill omen clung to him.

"Yes. I built it to resemble the church in the town I remember. It wasn't very big. A few dozen people could fill it."

Sabo slowly raised his bowed head. Light from the hall filtered through the stained glass behind him. Backlit, he was only a dark silhouette.

"I thought you Vikings all worshipped Odin."

The plague doctor slowly took a seat opposite Sabo. Beneath his dark lenses, it seemed as though his gaze fixed on the man.

"No. When iron ships and cannons entered the northern seas, the so-called gods were already dead. We threw ourselves into battle, one after another, thinking we might earn a place in Valhalla. But in the end, there was nothing. Dead was dead. We floated on the icy sea and died for nothing."

Sabo's voice was calm, as though he were telling a story that had nothing to do with him.

"That should have been my last voyage. I clung to the wreckage of the deck and drifted to Inverwig. A priest from the church saved me. The church where I woke up must have looked something like this."

His gaze wandered through the cramped darkness, as if he refused to forget. Sabo remained here, still caught in that memory.

"He was a truly mad Inverwigger, completely off his rocker. The first thing he asked when I woke up was whether I'd be interested in learning about the Gospel Church."

Sabo laughed as he spoke.

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

He laughed freely, but no matter how loudly he did, the faint music swallowed his laughter. The place was as still as a dead lake.

"So how did the story end?" the doctor asked.

His voice was strangely androgynous, with a metallic ring to it—perhaps because of the plague mask.

"When I was dying, no Valkyrie came. The gates of Valhalla were shut in my face, so I thought I'd try betraying my faith. Maybe then the noble Odin would spare a thought for a lowly bug like me."

"I was baptized, and I've lived to this day without any punishment. I haven't even had nightmares. I've done well for myself—in fact, much better than I ever did as a pirate."

Sabo found it all so absurd. It all meant nothing. The things everyone had clung to for years were like a bubble, ready to burst.

"I think I understand," the plague doctor said after a moment's silence.

"Do you think God... is any use?"

"You mean, in saving people, Doctor?"

"Something like that. Sometimes I'm lost, too. I've dissected so many bodies. The human body is so complex and beautiful. Every organ has its purpose. With each beat of the heart, blood surges through us... Even the brain is a genuine miracle."

The doctor looked at his hands and felt himself breathe. Everyone sought miracles, yet never considered that their own existence might be one.

"Sometimes I wonder: people are so mysterious and complex. Could a so-called god really have created us? But if there is no such god, then how did we come to exist?"

Sabo thought for a moment, then raised one finger.

"One Silver Lion Coin. A so-called god is so cheap he's worth just one Silver Lion Coin. I suppose you've seen the people outside, the ones who are 'sleeping it off.'"

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

"For just one Silver Lion Coin, you can buy a dose of hallucinogen. One dose can send you to heaven for three days. For just one Silver Lion Coin, you can say goodbye to this damned world and lose yourself in a beautiful dream until you need another dose."

"So that's all there is to going to heaven, isn't it?"

The doctor considered this. He liked to think, but sometimes thinking was pointless—dull and useless.

The distant music swelled, and sweet laughter drifted over. The two were separated by only a pane of glass, yet the gulf between them was immense.

"Now it's time for the sacrifice, Sabo," the doctor finally said.

He hadn't come to make small talk. He simply hadn't known how to bring it up. Death was a painful thing.

"I know."

Sabo didn't seem surprised by the so-called sacrifice. His eyes had never been so calm.

"Plague doctor, you came here to announce my death, didn't you? Just like during the Black Death hundreds of years ago. Doctors couldn't cure the disease. All they could do was identify the sick, kill them, and keep the plague contained."

"According to your doctrine, you'll go to heaven when you die."

The doctor tried to comfort him, but Sabo paused, then laughed heartily, as if he'd just heard the funniest joke in the world.

"How absurd Valhalla is. And how absurd heaven is. You know I don't believe in any of it."

He had accepted baptism, but he had never believed.

The doctor hadn't expected Sabo to answer that way. He was a dying man, yet he faced death with an unimaginable calm.

After a pause, the doctor continued.

"The Sacred Coffin has left Old Dunling. It's somewhere safe now, but the Purification Agency is still pursuing it. According to intelligence, the Dawn Voyager took off ten days ago. No one knows where it is now. It could be over the coast—or right above our heads, with the cannons of the Thousand Thunder aimed straight at us."

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

"Draw their attention. We need more time to move the Sacred Coffin."

"So, a disturbance. The bigger, the better?"

The doctor nodded.

"Exactly. If anything goes wrong, the Purification Agency will have to deal with it. They're already short on manpower, so anything that slows them down will help. As long as the Sacred Coffin leaves Inverwig, every sacrifice will be worth it."

As he spoke, the doctor took out his case. When he opened it, rows of syringes lay inside, each filled with boiling blood that churned behind the clear glass.

It was like Pandora's Box. The moment it opened, Sabo's breathing grew tense. His eyes, so rarely unsettled, fixed on it.

It was hard to describe. People lived surrounded by air without ever noticing it, but when the case opened, a restless heat filled the room. It was as if something had escaped from within, spreading everywhere.

"Technology from the Order. Refined Secret Blood. It can lead to hell or open the gates of heaven. The doctrine was never a sharp blade. The Order used it to breed a group of monsters, and that was how they won the war of faith."

The doctor's voice was calm instead. Perhaps he had grown used to the strange sensation after so much exposure.

Sabo stared at it, his voice trembling slightly.

"Are they all for me?"

"Just one."

"Sabo, this is your chance to change your fate. If you're truly strong enough, one chance will suffice. If this is all you've got, giving you more chances would only be a waste."

The doctor's words were uncharacteristically harsh. He rose and walked over to the stained glass. Through it, the splendor of the hall came into view.

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

"That's right. Old Dunling was founded by the Romans, and traditions like that always survive in some forgotten corner. During the Glorious War, the Lower District didn't exist yet. This was just wasteland. Times were hard, so people gathered here to run underground gambling rings."

Sabo still hadn't risen. He had sat on the sofa from the beginning, quietly looking back on the past.

"The rich would bring in worthless prisoners of war. They were slaves. The economy was bad then, and many poor people took up weapons and entered the arena to earn a living. Inverwiggers and Gaulonalos fought in the Roman arena."

"Usually, the Inverwiggers won. Even though the duels were underground, the Gaulonalos were stabbed before they entered the arena to encourage the people. They fought while wounded. The moment the gates opened, their lives were already counting down."

It was a bloody era. The enemy had come from beyond the White Tide Strait. At the start of the war, both sides had ships and swords. But over nearly a century of warfare, their weapons had advanced again and again—from flintlock guns to long-range cannons, from steamships to Zeppelins.

"But there are no duels like that now. It's a civilized society, after all. People prefer balls for socializing."

Sabo grinned.

"An arena or a ball is just a place to socialize. The great families discuss how to divide the spoils, the girls choose their husbands, and the boys choose their wives."

The doctor didn't reply. He simply watched the crowd below. They wore masks and knew no one else's identity. It was a tradition among the nobility, a tacit understanding that preserved their last, hollow lie.

"Looks like you've made preparations ahead of time."

"Those noble aristocrats shouldn't have come to this filthy Lower District in the first place, much less worn masks. No matter who they are, the authorities and their families will deny that they died here. It would be a disgrace."

Tonight's ball had been a trap from the very beginning. They would be Sabo's funeral offerings, sacrificed for his grand ambition.

"I won't disappoint you, Doctor. Ever since I was born, this is what I was meant to do."

Sabo took a syringe from the case. It was the first time he had stood up. His figure was hunched and slight, but the shadow he cast was monstrously large.