Meanwhile, Douglie had already led Harmoine to the place where the giant insect had perished.

  The moment Harmoine beheld that motionless mountain of flesh, a faint gravity entered his eyes.

  So this is the descendant of an ancient demon god—Balgalon. What a pity… the last of its kind, dead at last.

  He stood there for a brief moment, lost in thought.

  When the sheriff and his men turned back to glance at him, Douglie asked respectfully, “Is there something wrong, Chief?”

  Harmoine resumed walking, as though nothing had occurred. “Nothing. I’m merely… intrigued.”

  He always walked with one hand clasped behind his back, his spine straight, his gait steady and elegant—an air that made others feel inexplicably at ease.

  The site was under constant guard, shifts of officers ensuring that no outsiders wandered in or accidents occurred.

  Douglie presented his credentials, and the guards allowed the group to pass. It was a formality—one of those improvised gestures made only when higher authority was watching.

  They had barely drawn near when a stench, thick and corrosive, surged up to assault their senses. Everyone instinctively covered their mouths and noses.

  Douglie was about to step closer, but Harmoine lifted a hand to stop him, frowning. “Is this how you usually approach it?”

  The sheriff blinked, perplexed. “Of course. Why, is there something wrong?”

  Harmoine closed his eyes briefly and shook his head, then said gravely, “With unknown and dangerous creatures like this, one must take full precautions—even if they’re dead. You aren’t afraid that this stench might be toxic… or cursed?”

  At those words, the officers ahead of him jumped as though burned, stumbling backward to put distance between themselves and the carcass.

  Douglie’s face darkened; unease crept into his thoughts. He began worrying about himself and the men who had been stationed here for days.

  But they couldn’t be blamed. In such a small rural town, most of the officers were locals with little proper training—men Douglie himself had molded bit by bit. Even then, they had encountered only a handful of unusual cases, and knew little of proper safety measures.

  “Chief,” Douglie asked anxiously, “what should we do now?”

  Harmoine raised his hand, brushed it lightly through the air, then touched his tongue to the fingertip that had traced it.

  He closed his eyes, as though savoring a taste.

  “Relax,” he murmured at last. “It’s nothing but the common stench of decay—unpleasant, but not deadly. Still, avoid breathing it in too deeply.”

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Relieved by his words, the men exhaled collectively.

  “You’re still far too unprotected,” Harmoine added softly. “Let me assist you.”

  He snapped his fingers.

  A faint click echoed, and suddenly each of them—including Harmoine himself—was sheathed in a thin, transparent film, clinging to their clothing like a second skin yet light enough to move freely.

  “You’re a magician, sir?” Douglie exclaimed, examining his now-smooth hands.

  “Something like that,” Harmoine replied calmly. “Though I am… a little more than that.”

  He advanced toward the corpse. The skin of the flesh mountain oozed with thick black pus, while flies swarmed in a maddening drone.

  “This black secretion wasn’t here last time,” Douglie muttered.

  Harmoine narrowed his eyes slightly.

  The taint of a werewolf’s curse…

  He kept the thought to himself, circling the carcass in silence.

  At last he spoke. “As I suspected—it truly is what I thought.”

  He wanted them to hear this.

  “What do you mean?” Douglie asked, as expected.

  Harmoine turned to him. “Have you ever heard of the descendants of demon gods?”

  “Descendants of demon gods?” The sheriff’s expression was blank.

  Harmoine’s gaze lingered upon the monstrous corpse as he explained slowly, “The so-called ‘demon gods’—perhaps that’s merely their own name for themselves. We adopted it as well. Beings powerful enough to bring calamity wherever they walk. I can’t describe them precisely, but suffice to say—they are terrifying. This colossal worm, they say, was the last surviving offspring of one such creature. That is why the higher authorities value this matter so greatly.”

  Douglie listened, though skepticism flickered beneath his composure. Information of this level should not have been so freely given—unless Harmoine was withholding something.

  Then Harmoine turned sharply. “So tell me, Sheriff—who was it that killed this thing? A creature like this doesn’t die easily. It survived the chaos of the last century. It shouldn’t have fallen… not like this.”

  He’s probing me, Douglie realized, heart tightening. Keeping his face neutral, he said calmly, “As I’ve already reported, we truly don’t know. When we arrived, it was already over.”

  But Harmoine was not fooled. His eyes narrowed, the faint wrinkles at their corners deepening. “Sheriff, your pupils flickered just before you spoke, and your reply came too swiftly. Experience tells me you know something. Lying, Sheriff, is not a wise habit.”

  Douglie’s heart hammered against his ribs, yet long years of service lent him strength. His tone remained steady. “Chief, please don’t use such baseless accusations to interrogate me. I’ve told you everything I know.”

  Harmoine tilted his head, smirking faintly, his gaze sharp as a blade. “Don’t mistake me for one of those useless bureaucrats obsessed with titles and petty power. I’m a man of reason—and leniency, when it’s deserved. Tell me what I need to know, and I’ll forget this little deception. What do you say?”

  A sheen of sweat broke across Douglie’s forehead. He was about to reply—firmly this time—when a voice called from the distance:

  “Sheriff! A man named Glenn is here to see you—says he’s a friend of yours.”

  Damn it! Douglie’s eyes widened; instinctively he turned toward the sound—too quickly.

  Harmoine caught the reaction at once. His lips curled in satisfaction as he said to the approaching officer, “Bring him here.”

  The officer hesitated, glancing toward Douglie.

  Seeing this, Harmoine drew a golden-griffin–emblazoned badge from the inner pocket of his coat. “I am the highest authority here. You’ll follow my orders.”

  The officer swallowed hard, still rooted in place.

  Harmoine’s eyes hardened, the air around him chilling. The man trembled as though staring into an abyss.

  “Do as the Chief commands,” Douglie interjected quickly. The officer nearly stumbled over himself retreating to carry out the order.

  Moments later, inside the police station—

  Glenn sat on a bench in the waiting area, idly sketching something with his finger.

  He had just returned from the western housing district, where the foreman—John, they called him—had readily agreed to his request.

  John had told him to prepare the bricks, stone, and cement himself, and the crew would begin whenever he was ready.

  Business concluded, Glenn remembered that Ravel had mentioned the sheriff looking for him the previous day. So he had come by the station, only to find the man out. After an officer went to fetch him, Glenn decided simply to wait.