Caesar, Finn, and Nono stood beside the battered Maybach. The torrential rain washed over everything, but it could not wash away the bone-deep eeriness.
The car was empty.
Yet it was covered in black mud—on the seats, the steering wheel, the dashboard, the inside of the doors, even splashed across the ceiling. Thick, pitch-black sludge, as though the car had once sunk into some unspeakable place.
The body was covered in scrapes. Countless scratches of varying depths ran from the front to the rear, as though something sharp had clawed it. The leather seats had been slashed open in countless places, white stuffing spilling out in curls that resembled the entrails of some animal in the gloom.
But the radiator cap was still hot.
Caesar reached out and tested it. The heat nearly burned his hand—the car had only just been turned off. Before they arrived, someone had been driving it, listening to music, speeding through this stormy night.
Music was still playing in the car.
A man and woman sang in duet, accompanied by bagpipes. The melody was long and mournful, somewhat like a folk song from the Scottish Highlands. The lyrics could not be made out, shattered into blurred syllables by the rain. Yet there was an indescribable sorrow in the tune, like a farewell—or a final parting.
Caesar withdrew his hand and felt something inside a hidden compartment in the door.
A long, narrow, hard object wrapped in velvet.
He pulled it out—a Japanese sword.
The blade was long, its curve graceful yet murderous. Its edge gleamed like silver, dazzling even in the darkness. The blade pattern twisted like lightning; such patterns were called "Inazuma" in ancient times—the ultimate pursuit of a swordsmith's lifetime.
He looked at the inscription on the tang.
"Murasame."
Caesar's gaze froze.
This