Chapter Ten: The Dead Have No Right to Rest in Peace

Yes, the night was still long.

When Simon discovered the corpse of the giant Paul, he knew the footsteps of Death were drawing near. Yet he never imagined that the shadow of mortality could come so close—close enough to be separated by nothing but a strand of hair. If the sword resting on his neck pressed forward even a fraction, its gleaming blade would slice through his soft throat, and crimson blood would gush forth like a fountain, staining the world a shocking, vivid red.

“Simon.”

The demon who held his fate gazed at him, the bronze mask twisted into a grotesque visage beneath the night’s veil.

“Yes... Yes, sir...” Simon stammered, unsure who this deathly figure was, but certain he must be an agent of Emperor Michelangelo, come in pursuit of Paul’s killer. The only reason he might be spared was his proximity to the giant Paul—he was the first to discover the body. Thus, even as fear tied his tongue, he forced himself to speak.

“Good,” said Death, his voice as cold as the bronze mask he wore. In his deep blue eyes, not a trace of human warmth existed—only an indifferent, chilling apathy toward all things. Even a fleeting glance conjured the illusion of being cast into a frozen inferno. “Follow me.”

Though midsummer reigned, Simon curled into himself, trembling on the ground.

“Do not make me repeat myself,” the masked death said, his tone devoid of anger, absent even the smallest ripple of emotion. Yet Simon’s instincts screamed at him—this insignificant man struggling for survival in the Lower District—that he would die, certainly die, if he did not obey. He would be slaughtered as ruthlessly as a chicken, without hesitation.

From somewhere within, Simon dredged up a sliver of strength, momentarily shaking off his terror to follow the nameless death, cloaked in black feathers and crowned with a bronze mask.

Thump, thump, thump—

The road stretched endlessly into the darkness, shrouded in mist. Perhaps it was only his nerves, but Simon felt as though pairs of crimson eyes watched him from the shadows. Mustering his courage amid his fear, he refocused his gaze on the man who had nearly taken his life. After a long hesitation, he managed to ask, “Where... are we going?”

The black-clad death gave no answer. The street lay silent, save for the pounding of Simon’s heartbeat. Only after he had nearly abandoned hope of a reply did the masked figure finally speak, his tone as indifferent as ever: “To where you ought to go.”

The words meant nothing yet somehow eased Simon’s tension, lending him a measure of courage. After surveying the deep darkness around him, he timidly addressed the masked figure again: “May I ask who you are...?”

“Mask,” the man replied, his voice chilling as Death itself.

Simon shrank involuntarily at the name. He had suspected a connection to Michelangelo, but had not expected Mask himself—the Shadow King, who lurked beneath the Emperor’s dazzling radiance, and was, in the Lower District, the undisputed second-in-command.

Though the giant Paul held great authority as the chief of the Eastern District under Emperor Michelangelo, he was nothing compared to the Shadow King, who inspired terror throughout the Lower District. Even in Simon’s presence, Paul often betrayed a deep-rooted fear.

Simon never imagined Mask would take action personally.

He was left speechless.

“We’re here.” The Shadow King of the Lower District halted abruptly, his head twisting at an unnatural angle, blue eyes cold upon Simon. His lips moved behind the mask, and his almost mechanical voice carried an unmistakable command: “Enter—go to where you ought to go.”

Where was that? If Simon had not realized it by now, his mind was wasted. This was Paul’s manor, the place of his demise. All he had to do was lead this man—second only to the Emperor—to the scene of Paul’s death and await the judgment of fate.

Yes... judgment.

Unseen, he clenched his fist, then released it.

It was not yet time.

With this thought, he guided the Shadow King to the room thick with the scent of blood.

“This is it,” Simon said, stepping aside respectfully. “I discovered Lord Paul in a pool of blood early the next morning. I was so panicked that I failed to contain the situation at once. By the time I regained my composure, word had already leaked.”

“Where are the others?” Mask asked.

“I’ve dealt with them,” Simon replied, bowing deeply to avoid those terrifying eyes. “Those few who knew nothing have been kept under my control.”

“Excellent.” The black-clad death praised him, crouching by the blood, dipping a finger into the crimson pool and bringing it to the blue-purple lips beneath the mask. He chewed slowly, and after a long pause, pronounced, “Time of death was about this hour yesterday, perhaps even earlier.”

“Lord Paul’s guests arrived around nine in the evening,” Simon stated dutifully. “They were called guests, but Lord Paul never gave them proper hospitality. Thus, whatever happened during their visit, only he knew about.”

“Fool,” the Shadow King criticized the dead man mercilessly, though his hands never paused. He remained crouched, examining every inch of Paul’s body, his brow furrowing behind the mask. “The killer was highly skilled. Only one fatal wound—life and death decided in an instant. Remarkable.”

Paul was not the most prominent figure in the Lower District, but his formidable physique and battle-hardened will made him a force none could underestimate. For a killer to dispatch him with a single blow, catching him unguarded, required extraordinary skill—enough to command the attention of the entire Lower District. Few factions dared challenge Michelangelo and could employ such talent.

“The House of the Lost, or—the Dark Guild.”

Murderous intent seeped into the air. Yet Mask did not allow anger to cloud his judgment. Whether it was the House of the Lost or the Dark Guild, neither could be taken lightly. The former was a mysterious group formed by travelers lost in the nameless fog; the latter was a haven for all fugitives in the Lower District, rumored to be backed by the Glorified. Without concrete evidence, rash action was unwise.

Still...

He narrowed his eyes. Perhaps it was best to stir the waters further.

From rumors of demons to the giant Paul’s death, a hidden hand seemed to orchestrate everything. Whether its master belonged to the House of the Lost, the Dark Guild, or the powerful figures of the Upper District, Mask’s task was to find them and sever their influence, to remind all those plotting fools that the Lower District had only one master—Michelangelo.

Now... only by muddying the waters could he see more clearly.

With this resolve, Mask made his decision.

“Simon,” he rose from the blood, his icy gaze fixed on the deferential attendant, “Who visited Paul yesterday?”

“Hoofer from the Talin Chamber of Commerce, Virginia and Amy Ulysses from the House of Elves.”

“Ulysses...” The Shadow King repeated the ancient surname from the era of Kings, sneering. “Paul truly was a fool. Didn’t he ever think? Anyone who could survive after offending Galsworthy isn’t someone to be trifled with. He deserved his fate.”

Simon bowed in silence.

Galsworthy—a name known even in the Lower District, not merely because Duke, the current Lord of Hemtica, hailed from this ancient family of Glorified, but because the family had held the lordship for over one hundred fifty years. Setting aside the Church and the Swordbearers, the entire city council and Upper District were ruled by this family’s word. Even someone as bold as Michelangelo, who dared challenge the Glorified, regarded Hemtica’s first family more with awe than respect.

To offend Duke Galsworthy and still live, the Ulysses name must possess its own unique power—especially now, when only two children remained, and the Lord, known for his lack of mercy, still left them unmolested. The implications were intriguing, and only someone as muscle-bound as Paul would get involved. But this was not Simon’s place to comment, not for an attendant, so he wisely remained silent.

Yet, he broke that silence the next moment.

“—!” A meaningless syllable spilled from his lips. Though he instinctively clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the cry, his shock was written all over his face, frozen as if time itself had stopped.

“No need for panic,” the Shadow King glanced at him, his tone as cold as ever. “You must learn to coexist with it, and then accompany it to visit last night’s three guests. If you cannot, I won’t hesitate to turn you into the same thing.”

He paused, then uttered words that chilled to the bone.

“In my presence, the dead have no right to rest.”