Hello, At, the Immortal

The Fenrir Heavy Motorcycle's engine gave a beastlike, low growl, its scarlet headlights stretching two long beams across the deserted asphalt road. Edward's face looked especially cold beneath the shifting light and shadow.

Without the slightest hesitation, he sped straight toward the fried chicken shop.

The ease and comfort he had felt while surrounded by his friends had long since been replaced by a heavy killing intent.

Art the Clown—At. In another world, that name represented ultimate cruelty, pure evil, and madness beyond all common sense.

He was no mere psychopathic killer. That was only his disguise.

Edward knew very well that beneath that ridiculous outer shell was a true demon, a monster that took pleasure in torment and spreading terror.

Before long, the familiar fried chicken shop came into view.

The neon sign by the entrance that read "Open" had gone dark. The entire shop was shrouded in darkness, like a silent beast with its jaws open wide to devour everything.

Edward parked the motorcycle in the shadows at the street corner. Fenrir's engine instantly fell silent, as though it had merged with the darkness.

He did not enter through the front door.

He circled around to the alley behind the shop. The cloying scent of fried chicken still hung in the air, but it was now mixed with another smell—a thick, nauseating, rusty stench of blood.

The back door stood ajar. Its hinges gave a soft creak as Edward slipped inside.

The kitchen was a complete mess. Fry baskets, trays, and bottles of seasoning had been knocked onto the floor. Across the greasy ground, a glaring trail of blood led from the back kitchen to behind the cash register.

Edward followed the blood trail. After one glance, he expressionlessly looked away.

The cheerful, fat owner of the fried chicken shop lay behind the register in a twisted pose.

His eyes were wide open, and the extreme terror from before his death still lingered on his face.

His body... could no longer be called whole.

At had turned him into an unsettling "work of art" in an exceptionally cruel and humiliating manner.

Not a ripple stirred in Edward's heart. He knew that against a monster like At, any unnecessary emotion was a burden.

He closed his eyes and carefully sensed the pure malice lingering in the air.

The inhuman deathly stillness and evil he had felt in the fried chicken shop were like an invisible thread, drawing his senses onward.

It had not gone far.

That aura was intense and brazen, pointing without concealment toward an abandoned industrial district on the edge of town.

There were many old warehouses there, the perfect place to commit any secret atrocity.

"Found you," Edward murmured, turning to leave the bloody place.

A few minutes later, Edward arrived at the forgotten warehouse district.

Rows of enormous corrugated metal buildings cast grotesque shadows beneath the moonlight, their broken windows like hollow eye sockets.

That malice reached its peak inside the largest warehouse.

The warehouse's rolling shutter was half lowered. Dim, swaying yellow light spilled from within, accompanied by faint, muffled sobs of despair.

Edward swung off the motorcycle, moving as lightly as a cat.

Without making a sound, he slowly approached the gap beneath the door.

He crouched down and peered inside through the gap.

Inside the warehouse, the scene was like hell.

At the center, a solitary industrial hanging lamp cast its light over a horrifying stage.

Tara, the black-haired girl Edward had seen at the fried chicken shop, was tightly bound to a chair. Her mouth was sealed with tape, and she could only make desperate muffled whimpers.

Her face was streaked with tears and snot, and her body shook violently with fear as she was forced to watch the horrifying scene before her.

Across from her, the blonde girl Dewen was completely naked, suspended upside down in midair by chains with her limbs spread wide.

Her pale body was covered in small cuts. Blood dripped from the tips of her hair, drop by drop, into a rusty iron bucket below, making a steady drip, drip sound—the only rhythm in that terrible space.

And the black-and-white clown, At, stood between the two girls.

With his back to the entrance, he held a rusted hand saw.

He did not act at once. Instead, like a stage actor, he performed a ridiculous pantomime.

He first gave an exaggerated bow toward the bound Tara, as if saying, "The show is about to begin."

Then he turned toward the upside-down Dewen and traced his fingers over her trembling body, seemingly searching for the perfect angle to begin sawing.

He even took out a measuring tape and solemnly measured Dewen's waist, then nodded in satisfaction. He raised the hand saw, its teeth gleaming with a chilling light beneath the lamp.

He looked back at Tara. The painted smile on his face split wider, filled with silent mockery and the ecstatic joy of one about to enjoy a feast.

Tara's muffled sobs grew even more shrill. She struggled frantically, but it was futile.

At raised the hand saw and aimed it at Dewen's waist and abdomen. Before Tara's eyes, he intended to saw her friend in half alive.

Just as the sharp saw teeth were about to touch the girl's delicate skin.

Edward moved.

He needed neither a dramatic entrance nor a heroic declaration.

Against scum like this, one bullet was enough.

With a thought, two ornate pistols, one black and one white, instantly appeared in his hands.

They were Ebony and Ivory.

Bang!

A crisp gunshot shattered the frozen terror.

A bullet, moving too fast for the naked eye to follow, struck the hand saw in At's hand with perfect accuracy.

Clang!

The immense impact knocked the saw straight from At's hand. It spun several times through the air before smashing heavily into a distant wall with a piercing metallic crash.

The warehouse instantly fell silent.

Tara and Dewen both stopped crying, staring blankly at the sudden turn of events.

At froze.

Slowly, jerkily, he turned his head, his ridiculous little black top hat tilting to one side with the movement.

His paint-covered face turned toward the entrance. There was no emotion in his eyes, only emptiness.

He saw Edward standing outside the gap in the door.

Edward slowly rose to his feet and stepped out of the shadows, both pistols in his hands steadily aimed at the clown's head.

At looked at him, his head tilting at an eerie angle of nearly ninety degrees.

He was not angry that his plans had been interrupted. On the contrary, his exaggerated smile seemed to spread even wider.

It was as though he had discovered a new toy more interesting than slaughtering girls.

Ignoring the two prey that had already lost their "appeal," he slowly walked toward Edward, one step at a time.

His gait was stiff and strange, every step seeming to land on a human heart.

Edward did not give him another chance to come closer.

Bang!

Another gunshot rang out.

This time, the bullet was not aimed at a weapon.

A muzzle flash burst from Ebony, sending a bullet straight into At's chest.

The tremendous kinetic force exploded in an instant. At's tall body was struck as if by an invisible sledgehammer, flung backward before crashing heavily onto the ground, motionless.

Yet Edward's expression did not relax in the slightest.

He knew this was only the beginning.

Sure enough, barely two seconds later, At's body suddenly twitched on the ground.

Then, in a posture that defied the laws of physics, he "sprang" up from the floor as though his body had no bones.

He lowered his head and looked at the bullet hole in his chest, black blood continuously seeping from it. Then he inserted a white-gloved finger into the wound and pinched out the deformed bullet.

He held the bullet up before his eyes and examined it curiously, then casually tossed it onto the floor.

Then he raised his head again and looked at Edward... his sinister smile utterly unchanged.