When Hendrick burst into the police station, Anger Hastings was reading the Viscountess's notes.

  The notes clearly mentioned seeing colors. Anger knew it must be true, because he too had begun experiencing similar things.

  The young man leaned against the door frame, gasping for breath, and thrust a note at Anger before he could even steady himself.

  " 'Viper's ..." Hendrick panted.

  Anger tucked the notes into his pocket. "Get your breath back first. Then talk."

  "'Viper's... Viper's Breath'..."

  Anger took the note and scanned it.

  Seeing how worn out Hendrick looked from his recent running around, he said softly, "Go get some rest. Don't come in so early tomorrow."

  He drew his revolver, glanced at it, spun the cylinder, then snapped it shut with a decisive click.

  "You're going alone, Inspector?" Hendrick asked.

  "You stay put. If I'm not back by morning, go find Miller. Tell him the location, then don't get involved any further. Understand?"

  "But I—"

  "That's an order." Anger moved toward the door. "A place like that black market den is no place for a teenager to handle."

  With that, he stepped into the dimly lit corridor outside and locked the door behind him.

  The nights of Fog City were never ideal for travel. Anger, his badge pinned to his coat, made his way alone toward the iron works, looking for a door marked with red.

  The police weren't unaware of the black market's existence. Unless a murder was involved, officers rarely had time for such places. Even if something did happen, this district was Miller's responsibility.

  According to Hendrick's note, the location was near the abandoned Western District Interlink Railway construction site. Years ago, ambitious plans had sought to connect the docks with the emerging industrial zone.

  But later, funding dried up, land disputes ensued, and a series of 'accidents' occurred. The project was ultimately abandoned, leaving behind half finished tunnels and platforms that became shelter for the homeless and a haven for black market deals.

  No wonder the place never got built, Anger thought grimly. The vultures at the top never stopped feeding on the people here. It's a miracle anything gets started at all.

  Entering the periphery of the construction site, he saw no one. He ventured further inside, where it grew increasingly dark and damp.

  Anger stepped carefully in his leather boots, constantly on alert.

  "Look for whatever you want yourself." A voice suddenly came from the side.

  Anger spun around, his hand already on his gun grip. In the shadows crouched a skinny man wrapped in a ragged blanket.

  The watchman for this place?

  "Where's old Meb?" Anger tried asking.

  "Dead." The man spat. The spittle landed on a railway sleeper. "Few hours ago. The old fool crossed the wrong people. Got himself killed. Bad luck for you. The goods are over there."

  He jerked his chin toward a pile of wooden crates. "I came to buy from him too. Anything valuable was cleared out ages ago. What's left... have a look if you want."

  Having said that, the man scuttled back like a crab, perhaps having noticed Anger's hand on his gun. He threw the ragged blanket aside and hurried away.

  Anger didn't move immediately. He waited a good while before approaching the pile of crates.

  Behind them, a tarpaulin had been hastily thrown back, revealing a jumble of items: shattered glass bottles, scattered dried herbs, a half burned ledger, and several stained white coats.

  Then Anger saw the blood.

  A long, smeared trail of it led toward a corner at the edge of the platform. He followed it. In the corner, curled up, was a body.

  Male. Wearing a shabby coat stained with chemicals.

  Face down, but the back of his head was visibly caved in by a blunt instrument. A large pool of not yet fully congealed blood spread on the floor around him.

  This must be old Meb. He picked up the ledger, dusted it off, and flipped through a few pages at random. Basic information was incomplete; it was impossible to make out any specifics now.

  Some residue of a black ointment remained on a table, emitting a strong, bitter odor. Quinine bark preparation, no doubt about it.

  Anger knelt down. A sharp pain shot through his eyes. A faint, pervasive red haze hung around the body, especially dense over the chest and eye sockets. Mixed within it were some sickly green flecks. And around the corpse's throat, a ring of blue phantom light.

  He shook his head, trying to dispel the vision. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. This is dreadful. Is this what the Viscountess meant by 'colors'? How can I suddenly see such bizarre scenes? Why does a person's body have so many... misty hues? But now was not the time to probe the source.

  Just as he was about to search the corpse's pockets, footsteps echoed from deep within the stone cavern.

  Encountering a cleanup crew and a BoneBird assassin.

  ******

  Anger quickly extinguished his hand lantern and hid in the shadows behind a cargo crate, his hand steady on his gun grip.

  "Move fast! Clean the bloodstains. Everything must be taken away or destroyed. Not a single scrap pointing to Project Serenity can be left behind!" A harried voice rang out, followed by the sound of disorderly footsteps and crates being shifted.

  Several dim kerosene lamps swung into view, illuminating three newcomers. They moved briskly but also seemed somewhat flustered. They were definitely not here for voluntary community service.

  Project Serenity? Anger seemed to have overheard something rather significant.

  "Boss, the old man's ledger is burned. But there's still some prepared opium paste and raw materials," one underling reported.

  "Bag it all! Not a single grain of powder left! And search carefully! See if he had any samples he hadn't sent out yet!" The leader urged, then glanced at the corpse with a snort.

  "Hmph. Embezzling the improved catalyst, substituting lowgrade bark for highpurity quinine... it caused the stabilizer effect in the last few batches of paste to plummet. Produced a lot of side effects.It already disrupted Project Serenity. The higherups are very dissatisfied. And the risk is enormous."

  At that moment, a faint click came from another direction.

  The three ‘cleaners’ immediately fell silent, peering warily into the darkness where the sound had come from.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  A figure slowly strolled out from the shadows. The man wore a black trench coat and a widebrimmed hat, his face obscured. He was toying with a bone dice. The click had been the dice striking a ring on his finger.

  Anger peeked out from his dark hiding place. This man wore a distinct BoneBird emblem at his waist. Most peculiar was the very strange short knife in his right hand—if you could even call it a knife; it looked more like a dinner knife.

  The three cleaners saw him and their expressions changed. A BoneBird assassin? What's he doing here?

  "Good evening, gentlemen," the assassin spoke. "It seems my timing is impeccable. The cleaning proceeding smoothly?"

  The leader put on a show of composure. “This area is under the jurisdiction of the Municipal Sanitation Department. Unauthorized personnel are to leave. We wish to avoid any… unpleasantness.”

  "Conflict?" The assassin gave a light chuckle. “No. I’m here to fulfill a contract. My employer has tasked me with two verifications: first, whether the source of the trouble is still… kicking. And second, whether all potentially leaked materials and records pertaining to the improved formulation have been fully recovered.”

  “Hmm. Clearly, the first item is taken care of. As for the second… my employer suspects Old Meb might have held onto some private notes or backup samples. Should such items fall into the wrong hands, it would be… most inconvenient. Therefore, I must see with my own eyes that they are destroyed. Or… handle them personally.”

  The leader's face darkened. They were under orders to recover and destroy, but indeed hadn't found any other useful materials.

  The assassin's appearance indicated that the employer who hired him didn't fully trust their cleanup.

  Just as Anger was wondering what would happen between these two groups, he felt a chill draft from his side.

  Beside a wooden cabinet, a pale, slender hand reached out. From Anger's angle, he couldn't see the person's full form, only the female arm illuminated by the oil lamps.

  Her pale fingers fiddled with a small medicine vial. The label on the vial clearly read "Southern Border Sand Mine," and the bottle also bore a trademark resembling a spreading moth.

  The figure seemed to grow bored. She stopped fiddling, slowly turned the bottle upside down... then gently released three fingers.

  CRACK.The sound of shattering glass exploded directly in everyone's ears.

  "Who's there?!" The lead cleaner spoke first, his hand going to the weapon at his waist.

  The BoneBird assassin, in stark contrast, remained perfectly still. Instead of moving, he merely tightened his grip on the strange dinner knife and ceased toying with the dice in his other hand.

  He tilted his head slightly. "Ah. It seems we have another... uninvited guest." His tone was amused.

  The three cleaners exchanged quick glances. The leader made a snap decision, took half a step back, and signaled to the assassin. "It seems you now have... other matters requiring your prior attention. We'll leave this to the professionals. Old Meb is dead. The rest of the... tidying up, the BoneBirds have full authority."

  The assassin's mouth curled into a smirk. "A wise choice. Please, carry on."

  The three cleaners hesitated no longer. They swiftly stowed their gear hastily on their backs and, without so much as a backward glance, hurried away down the entrance tunnel.

  As for the assassin, he seemed utterly unconcerned about their departure. His full attention was locked on the direction where the vial had shattered.

  Anger's heart sank. An intuition told him this assassin was far more than he appeared.

  ******

  Sure enough, the assassin’s head turned slowly, looking directly at the pile of crates where Anger was hiding. “Well hidden. A pity. Before me, you are nothing but a flightless insect.”

  He took a step toward Anger’s location. “Let me guess… a vagrant? Or a private detective?”

  Anger knew he was exposed. As the man moved to take another step, Anger rolled sharply out from his hiding place, landing in a half?crouch with his already?drawn revolver aimed straight at the assassin.

  “Don’t move!” he barked, trying to seize the initiative with the muzzle.

  The assassin halted, eyeing the gun in Anger’s hand. “Well now—a standard?issue piece. An official rat, then?” But his tone held no trace of fear. “You know, sometimes the ‘truth’ in your hand becomes the reason for your demise.”

  Before the words had fully landed, Anger pulled the trigger.The gunshot cracked through the warehouse, a flash of fire.

  The three departing cleaners heard the gunshot from afar. In these long tunnels the report was deafening; not hearing it would have been abnormal. They instantly understood their adversary was no small fry and hurried their pace even more.

  As for the assassin… his body shifted sideways with an impossible, unnatural grace. The bullet grazed his trench coat and struck an iron barrel behind him.

  A miss.

  That movement… it was too uncanny.

  Anger’s pupils contracted. The burning pain in his eyes surged again, but he forced himself to stay calm.

  Before his eyes, the assassin was instantly overlaid with a layer of bizarre colour. On him Anger saw traces unlike any he had seen before: several blue threads connected the strange dinner knife in the assassin’s right hand to his wrist. Even more glaring was the unstable, intertwined glow emanating from the die in his left hand, from which countless fine strands of light extended, coiling around the assassin’s entire body, especially his legs and torso.

  So that was it.

  Anger understood in an instant. The pistol’s difficulty in hitting wasn’t because the assassin was truly faster than a bullet. It was due to the ability triggered by that die and dinner knife.

  “See it? My little parlor trick,” the assassin said, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. “But you, I’m afraid, are not so fortunate. Let’s end this here.”

  His figure blurred, again closing the distance with that unnatural speed, the dinner knife in his hand slashing out in a straight thrust toward Anger’s throat.Anger had no time to think. He threw himself backward, simultaneously firing again.

  Bang! Bang!

  Two shots in quick succession. One aimed for the assassin’s chest. The other, guided by pure instinct, Anger deliberately deflected toward the quivering blue threads between the assassin’s right arm and the dinner knife.

  The shot aimed at the chest missed again, bizarrely. But the shot aimed at the connecting threads… Anger was sure it severed a blue strand.

  “Gah—!” The assassin let out a short cry of pain. His forward momentum faltered.

  The line between his arm and the dinner knife was severed. But the broken ends of the thread in the air didn’t fall like ordinary string. They hung in a snapped state, then slowly, in mid?air, began to… re?knit themselves.

  Anger seized the opportunity, steadied his stance, and pulled the trigger a third time.

  This time, he aimed for the assassin’s left arm, which was twitching from the agony. Another shot.

  Bang!

  Thwack. Blood blossomed.

  The bullet punched cleanly through the upper left arm. It didn’t shatter bone, but it was enough to inflict a serious wound.

  “Impossible!” the assassin roared with disbelief. The intense pain made his left?hand fingers slacken.

  Anger watched as the die flew from his grasp and clattered onto the ground.

  The moment the die left the assassin’s hand—

  Hummm…

  A wave of distortion erupted from its centre.

  The world in Anger’s eyes warped. The ground near where the die landed began to crack like shattered glass, several dark fissures rapidly spreading outward.

  The fissures were pitch?black and seemingly bottomless—as if a doorway to another dimension had been opened.

  The air screamed, its density becoming grotesquely uneven. Light refracted wildly, making everything appear to be melting.

  And the nearest wooden cabinet simply… exploded.

  Anger was some distance from the epicentre, but the blast still hurled him back. His back slammed against a wall with a pained grunt.

  He instantly felt intense nausea and vertigo. Everything before his eyes shook madly. Noise filled his ears.

  Simultaneously, a new line of text sprang forth on the title page of the diary in his breast pocket:

  Edict?3: When the scales shatter, the shards burn the hand that held them.

  Anger could feel the strangeness emanating from the diary, but right now even standing was a struggle. Fighting the discomfort, he glimpsed that the Bone?Bird assassin wasn’t faring well either.

  The assassin’s right arm was injured, and his most relied?upon die was out of control, triggering backlash. Around him, an area of disordered reality was beginning to spread chaotically.

  For the first time, panic appeared on his face. He glanced at the chaos?inducing die on the ground, then shot a venomous glare at Anger. Seeing the gun still firmly in Anger’s hand, he knew recovery of the die—let alone mission completion—was impossible now.

  “Damn it all!” He spat a bloody mouthful, made a snap decision, clutched his bleeding left arm, and stumbled—but swiftly—toward the exit he had come from.

  In the centre of the warehouse, the area around the die remained, the eerie black fissures still slowly creeping, but the concussive energy had dissipated. Anger, forcing himself not to collapse, watched as the black cracks gradually faded.

  Finally, calm returned around the die. Anger quickly snatched it up, didn’t bother checking old Meb’s body further, and made his escape.

  ******

  The commotion hadn’t been small. Even though he was an inspector, encountering an assassin this time meant staying at the scene could easily lead to recognition. He had to leave immediately.

  When Anger pushed open the police station’s back door, a light was still on in the second?floor records room. He quickened his pace upstairs.

  Hendrick was slumped asleep on the desk. The door opening jolted him awake. “Inspector! You’re back!”

  “I told you to rest,” Anger said, walking in and draping his coat over a chair?back.

  “I… I couldn’t sleep.” Hendrick rubbed his eyes, then noticed the inspector’s shirt was filthy and even had traces of blood. “You’re hurt!”

  “It’s a graze. Go downstairs to the storage room and fetch some bandages and disinfectant. Don’t disturb the night watch.”

  At three in the morning, while Hendrick was downstairs fetching supplies, Anger opened the diary. On it was clearly inscribed the Third Edict. And on another new page, an image had appeared: a Bone?Bird.

  Hendrick returned alone with the first?aid kit. Anger tended to his own wound, then instructed, “Don’t speak of tonight’s events to anyone.”

  First the Veil of Silence, now this die… That assassin’s dinner knife must be a special item too. Anger was now convinced the Viscountess’s death was undoubtedly tied to a dangerous enigma.

  One that even concerned himself. As for that uncanny woman’s hand, whether or not she was the killer wasn’t important now. But Anger could clearly sense that the medicine vial labelled “Southern Border Sand Mine” had been deliberately dropped to create a distraction.