[Morning, the same day as the Sinclair family's arrival in Pipra Town]

  The market near the Department of Law Enforcement bustled like any other day. The air was thick with the smells of produce, cooked food, and the unceasing murmur of commerce.

  “Good morning, Officer Liam,” a fruit vendor called out, his voice a practiced note of deference.

  The man in question, Liam, ambled past the stall. He wore the uniform of his station: a tan shirt and pants under an olive-colored coat, topped with a black peaked cap bearing the empire's symbol.

  His build was solid but lean, betrayed by a slouching posture that suggested either deep fatigue or profound laziness. His hair was the color of pale obsidian, and a grim smile played on his lips.

  “Oh, Bowhly, I didn’t see you there,” Liam said, deliberately twisting the man’s name., his eyes scanning the fruits. “How is the business booming for you?”

  “Very good, sir. It is all because of your goodwill. Please, take this.” The vendor offered a few apples with a forced smile.

  Liam tutted. “ Dear, you know I am more into grapes.” He plucked a large bunch from the stall. “I must say, you are the best fruit vendor in all of Pipra. I haven’t seen the rest, of course, but you would definitely win if there was a competition.”

  The vendor smiled nervously as Liam began eating the grapes. “You are too generous, sir.” He moved to put the apples back.

  Liam snatched them, along with a few pears. “Now that you were giving me these apples with so much care and love, how can I refuse? Dear me, they are so red.” He grabbed another bunch of grapes and moved on, laughing. “Thank you, little buddy!”

  The vendor watched him go, his smile vanishing. A neighboring vendor leaned over. “Why did you call him? You know what a cheap man he is. He always takes things for free as he likes.”

  “What can I do?” the first vendor sighed. “We have to maintain a good relationship with his kind. It is beneficial in many ways.”

  “Only if someone like him actually helped us,” the other grumbled. “He is a coward who rarely does anything. It has been seven days since his transfer, and he has done nothing but sit in his nice office. I thought the same way—since he is a high-ranking officer, I should maintain a good relationship and feed him. That bullock hates paying. He has been visiting me every day for eight people's worth of food.”

  Both men sighed in shared resignation. Liam, far away, was little bothered by any of it. He did not care. He simply entered the Department building, still eating his free fruit.

  A few junior officers saluted him as he passed. He offered them a vague wave before reaching his office and depositing the fruit on his desk.

  He raised his voice. “Tiger! Bring me some good old tea, along with a muffin and some hot, sizzling jacket potato. Quick!”

  He reclined in his chair. A moment later, two junior officers entered to greet him personally. “Good morning, sir.”

  “Good morning, good morning, you two,” Liam said, popping a grape into his mouth. “How is the morning? Nice, huh?”

  One officer replied instantly. “Yes, it is.”

  “I was patrolling last night because of it,” Liam said, rolling his shoulder with a wince. “My shoulder feels a little heavy.”

  The junior officer immediately moved behind him and began massaging it. “What are we here for, my lord? We exist to make things easier for you. You should have asked us to do it for you.”

  Liam laughed. “Hahaha, such a kind spirit.” He put his feet up on another chair. “My leg—” Before he could finish, the other officer knelt and started massaging his calves.

  “How dare this leg pain reach our good sir!” the officer declared.

  Liam laughed again, eating his grapes while enjoying the service.

  A few moments later, Tiger, a young junior officer, arrived bearing tea, a muffin, and a newspaper. "Your order, sir! Junior Officer Maestu, at your service!"

  Liam didn't look up. "Good morning, Tiger. Just keep the tea and muffin there."

  Tiger did so, then carefully placed the newspaper on the desk.

  Liam glanced at it and sighed dramatically. "Oh, you even brought me the newspaper, huh? Why did you bother? What is there to see in the news? It's all negativity here and there. It ruins my entire day, I tell you." He then looked around with a frown. "Hey, Tiger! Where is my jacket potato?"

  "I will get it immediately, sir!" Tiger said, already sprinting from the office.

  Liam shouted after him, "Make sure it is hot! Sizzling hot, you hear?"

  A distant "Yes, sir!" echoed back.

  "Such a busybody," Liam muttered, finally picking up the newspaper. After a minute of silent reading, he let out a loud, exasperated groan and slapped the paper down.

  "Look! I told you! Newspapers are all negativity! The very headline is about a killer! Can you believe it? He killed some poor girl! What were the town guards doing? I am telling you, this town chief has hired the most incompetent bastards as guards! If they cannot handle such cases on their own..." He took a large bite of his muffin, shaking his head at the man massaging his leg. "... They should just hand it over to us! But no! They will wait for orders from above, sitting on their hands until the paperwork is perfect!"

  The junior officer nodded vigorously. "Obviously, sir!"

  Liam leaned back, striking a pose as if addressing a crowd. He pointed a finger to the ceiling. "Such work belongs to a guy like me, boy! In my life, I have solved many cases, and perfectly! From street thugs to big cartel hotshots! All of them became little mice in front of the lion! 'Forgive me! Forgive me!' they start to beg!" He swept his hand through the air as if clearing a table. "But I clean them all! Just as one cleans the dust from a pristine mirror! Not a single speck remains!"

  The officer massaging his legs looked up in feigned awe. "It is no wonder, What do you say, sir? Shall we patrol the area? Find the culprit and catch the criminal before those guards who can't do anything?"

  Liam placed a hand over his heart, his expression one of pained virtue. "A good idea! A very good idea! But, boy... I am a man of code! I do not intrude on others' business! It is against my policy to do something until I am formally asked!" He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But am I wrong? If I, by chance, happen to see the killer myself... on my own patrol... that would be a different story, wouldn't it?" He winked broadly. "For now, you should just spread tales of my bravado in the town! Whisper of what I do to the likes of him! Let the fear reach him! I guarantee, that killer will lose all his nerve and submit on his own!"

  As the three of them broke into laughter, Liam leaned back.

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  Suddenly, the office door swung open. A massive man filled the frame, a huge, menacing cut carving its way down his face.

  "Can I come in, Officer?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.

  Liam flinched, then quickly straightened up in his chair. His two junior officers also snapped to a more formal posture.

  "Sure, sure! Come in, consider it your abode!" Liam said, his voice a notch too high. He gestured to his underlings. "Hey, you two, bring something for our distinguished guest!"

  The man laughed, a short, grating sound. "I do not need anything. I only want a small, personal talk with you."

  Liam waved a hand, dismissing the two junior officers. They scurried out, leaving him alone with the giant. "How can I help you, my lord?" Liam asked, his earlier bravado entirely gone.

  "The name is Bolo. I run a small gambling house and a little shop of... drugs and illegal alcohol. In your designated area."

  Liam blinked. "Really? Good. That is quite a flourishing business, sir. But I am not really into either of them."

  Bolo laughed again, sliding a small box across the desk. "These are some donuts. You will like them. Eat this, and stay away from that area during your patrol. I heard you are quite the donut lover."

  Liam peeked inside the box. A massive, greedy smile spread across his face. "You get me the best, Donuts are my favorite. Especially this flavor."

  He closed the box and looked up, his expression turning smug. "Consider it done. Do your business as you like. I will see to it myself who dares to disturb you."

  With a final, knowing look, Bolo turned and left, leaving Liam alone with his prize.

  Just as Liam closed the door and was about to unbox his prize, his transmitter orb flared to life on his desk.

  A voice, tinny and authoritative, echoed in the room. "Liam. Are you there?" Even though no one was physically present, Liam jumped and subconsciously hid the box in a drawer.

  "Yes, yes, I am here! What is it? What problem do you have?" Liam said, his voice slightly strained.

  The voice was flat. "I am the Chief of your department, you fool."

  "Apology! Apology, Big Boss—I mean, Chief! What work do you have for me?"

  "What are you doing right now?" the Chief asked.

  "Currently, I am in my office reading some important cases," Liam lied without hesitation.

  "Reading is all you do. I am not hearing good things about you, Liam. You haven't solved a single case. You haven't even captured a common thief. Any reason?"

  "Chief, I am trying to get accustomed to this place! Once I do, you will see how good I perform. I will fill all the prisons!" Liam proclaimed, striking a confident pose for an audience that could not see him.

  A sigh crackled through the orb. "Huh. Anyway, I am calling for a different matter. You know about the serial killings going on in Pipra Town?"

  "Who doesn't? Terrible business—"

  "It is going too far to hide," the Chief interrupted. "The killer has murdered twenty-seven people. Hiding the real statistics is getting harder. I want you to capture him. Whoever he is."

  Liam leaned closer to the orb, his voice dropping. "Chief... from what rumors I have heard, isn't the way he kills his victims similar to a certain... famous serial killer already?"

  "Do not believe stupid rumors," the Chief snapped. "It's a copycat. Nothing more. It has nothing to do with Frode the Green Weaver. Someone here is just trying to imitate him, and many other amateurs have also begun to join this trend.

  A single person cannot kill twenty-seven people that fast. Real serial killers savor the moment, they don't go mass murdering at this speed. Just catch the perpetrator by the third week.

  If you don't, I will demote you. I have been lenient only because of your father. Got it? There are others on the same mission—a few from Pipra itself and some from other departments. Assist them if you can't do anything else. Over and out."

  The orb's light died.

  Liam slumped back into his chair. "Oh dear, Chief. Frode the Green Weaver. One of the Empire's five most wanted criminals, we haven't caught. A serial killer who likes to make showpieces of his victims and torture them in ways one cannot imagine. From all the information we have, he is someone who takes pride and joy in what he does. He has a specific way of doing things." He mused, tapping his fingers on the desk. "But suddenly, the market is flooded with news that he is killing women in a small town. And if he isn't... I bet he is unhappy. How unhappy, I wonder? Would it be enough to make him visit? Well, whatever. I will do as asked... and what I desire to do. Guess it is finally my debut time."

  He suddenly shouted, "Tiger! Where is my jacket potato?!"

  Tiger came running. "Yes, sir! What can I do for you? Oh, here is your jacket potato"

  Liam took it and frowned. "It is not hot. Get another."

  Tiger shifted nervously. "It was, sir, but you were busy... Also, the shop is closed now."

  Liam looked genuinely saddened. "Fine. I will eat it." He took a resigned bite of the cold, stiff potato. "Hey, Tiger. Send my words to everyone. Get me a list of everyone who has entered the town within this month. Tell a few junior officers to roam around and watch for anyone suspicious, new, or out of place. Make a report and then show it to me."

  "Yes, sir!" Tiger said, and ran off to execute the orders.

  Left alone, Liam slowly ate his cold meal. “I should get some sleep after this — there’s nothing else to do,” he murmured with a yawn.

  [Later That Night]

  Bolo’s hideout was a cacophony of lawless laughter and vice. Nestled in the maze of alleyways within a repurposed dairy, the air, once thick with the smell of animals and hay, was now choked with smoke, cheap liquor, and sweat.

  Nearly thirty men filled the space, drinking, gambling, and brawling in equal measure.

  The revelry came to a sudden, jarring halt.

  With a splintering crash, the main doors exploded inward. A figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, the midnight sky at his back.

  He was clad head to toe in black, a stark red cape draped from his shoulders. A sword hung at his waist, a spear was gripped in one hand, and his face was hidden behind a knight's helmet.

  Bolo shoved his way through the stunned crowd, his face a mask of fury. "Who the fuck are you, fucker? Wandering around with that stupid outfit?" Around him, his men scrambled, drawing cleavers, pipes, and rusty swords.

  The figure took a heavy step forward, his voice a distorted boom from within the helmet. "I am your daddy, who is saddened by your activities, and has come to punish you, naughty kids."

  A roar went up from the crowd. The fight began not with strategy, but with a chaotic surge of bodies.

  The first two thugs charged. The man in black didn’t draw his sword. He sidestepped the first man’s wild swing, caught the arm, and twisted.

  The crack of the shoulder joint was audible over the noise. He shoved the screaming man into the path of the second, sending both tumbling.

  A bottle flew toward his head. He swatted it aside with the haft of his spear, the glass shattering against the wall. He moved into the crowd, a whirlwind of controlled, brutal violence.

  He used the spear not to stab but to strike, landing a sharp jab to a knee that buckled a leg and a sweeping blow to the ribs that sent a man gasping to the floor.

  He moved through their clumsy attacks like a wolf among sheep. A punch aimed at his head was caught, he twisted the wrist until it snapped. A kick followed, and he sidestepped, driving his heel down on the outstretched leg, feeling the bone crack. There was no more laughter or anything, only the sharp, sickening sounds of breaking bodies.

  He carved a path directly toward Bolo, who stood his ground, hefting a massive butcher’s axe.

  "You're dead!" Bolo roared, bringing the axe down in a powerful, predictable arc.

  The man in black didn't dodge. He stepped inside the swing, his free hand slapping the flat of the axe blade to redirect it harmlessly into the floor. Before Bolo could recover, a gauntleted fist slammed into his jaw. Bolo staggered, and the punishment began.

  It was a systematic dismantling. A punch to the gut drove the air from Bolo's lungs. A kick to the back of his knee dropped him to the ground.

  The man in black grabbed him by the hair, dragging him through the spilled liquor and dirt. A sharp, precise stomp broke his leg with a dry snap. Another broke his arm.

  Bolo could only scream, his body a broken, writhing thing. The man in black knelt, placing his helmeted head close to Bolo's ear.

  "By tomorrow," he said, his voice a low, menacing rumble, "this place should not exist. Got it? If it does, I will not be merciful next time."

  To emphasize the point, he grabbed Bolo's remaining good wrist and, with a cold, clinical motion, broke it.

  Then, he stood. The few men still standing could only watch, paralyzed with fear.

  In the space of a blink, the figure was gone, vanished into the night as suddenly as he had appeared, leaving behind a warehouse of moaning, broken men and the heavy scent of blood and terror.

  [ Emily’s mansion, Current time]

  Lucien sat on the floor, eyes closed. He pushed his True Perception to its current limit, stretching the ability far beyond the confines of the room.

  He cast his awareness over the city itself, a sprawling tapestry of life, structure, and energy.

  He sensed every living being, every stone of every building, every fleeting moment. Even in the middle of the night, the city pulsed with movement.

  One such movement snagged his attention—a high-speed presence, leaping from rooftop to rooftop with unnatural agility. The rhythm of its motion was distinct, efficient, and out of place.

  He opened his eyes. A spark of cold, analytical interest flickered to life within him. The urge to understand this variable called “city,” to dissect it and understand it, felt like a logical imperative.

  He decided to intervene personally.

  As he stood, Ultimare's voice came from bed, languid and unconcerned. "You are going for a night stroll, huh? Well, at least make sure to hide your face and your identity."

  Lucien did not reply. He had already concluded the same. The risk of identity exposure was unacceptable, which was precisely why this required his direct involvement.

  In the space of a single heartbeat, he was gone, vanishing through the window into the consuming darkness.