Early morning, Brooklyn, New York.
Damian squinted through sleepy eyes and pedaled his bicycle mechanically.
The April weather in New York was already growing hot, and the back of his school uniform shirt was soaked with sweat.
Still, Damian would rather ride his bike to school than take the school bus.
As the temperature rose, the boys and girls wore increasingly lighter clothing. The school bus reeked of cheap deodorant mixed with the sweat and body odor of adolescents—a combination so pungent it made one question whether humans and sheep were perhaps a little too closely related.
People shouldn't—couldn't—tolerate such things.
Well… except for Brother San! He possessed an unusually keen spirit of exploration when it came to anything with holes.
"Ya Di! Lu Yuan! Emma! Oh, I miss you!!"
Damian muttered as he turned at an intersection.
Suddenly, a loud noise erupted ahead, and flashing police lights bathed the street in red and blue. Damian slammed on his brakes.
Less than two hundred meters away, at least a dozen police cars were haphazardly parked along the roadside, and a yellow cordon surrounded a dilapidated motorcycle bar.
Reporters jostled one another, microphones in hand; onlookers filmed with their phones; and several uniformed female officers struggled to maintain order.
Damian glanced at his watch—fewer than ten minutes remained until first period.
He stared at the chaotic scene just steps away and the rapidly approaching start of class.
Study time is precious, he reminded himself. Learning brings me joy!
But then again… was he really the kind of person who craved wealth and pleasure?
…No.
Without hesitation, he locked his bike to the lamppost and jogged toward the crowd.
"Bakayaro! Make way! Make way! Wadasi waliben smita! You heartless wretches—clear a path for Watashii!"
Damian shoved nimbly through the throng and quickly reached the front row of the cordon.
Only then did he get a clear view of the scene.
The bar's exterior wall was webbed with cracks, and every windowpane was shattered.
"Don't crowd around! Stay back!"
Several officers inside the cordon shouted repeatedly at the surging onlookers.
Behind them stood a team of personnel in white chemical protective suits. Working in pairs, they carried out a stretcher draped in a white sheet.
Hula…
As the stretcher passed before him, a sudden gust of wind lifted a corner of the cloth.
Beneath it lay a blue-black, shriveled arm—skin stretched taut over bone, like that of a mummy sealed away for millennia.
Even more bizarre: the corpse's surface was veined with spiderweb-like dark blue lines that glowed faintly in the sunlight.
Not far off, a group of forensic experts huddled in discussion.
Damian pricked up his ears, straining to catch their words.
"All the bodies show identical dehydration—muscle tissue and internal organs completely desiccated. No signs of trauma or injection," said a female forensic doctor, flipping through her clipboard.
"What about the blood tests?" another asked.
She shook her head, voice tight with distress.
"Nearly all of it evaporated. But the trace samples we recovered had extremely high sulfur content—which explains that sulfur smell we noticed earlier."
Hearing this, the senior forensic doctor removed his glasses, rubbed his temples, and said, perplexed:
"Alas… the strangest thing is the time of death.
Judging from the degree of rigor mortis and the ambient temperature, these people have been dead for no more than six hours—but their bodies appear desiccated as if they'd been dried out for months, even years.
"In addition, we found trace amounts of unknown crystalline residue in the oral and nasal cavities of each corpse. Samples have been sent to the lab for analysis."
...
After hearing the forensic team's discussion, Damian's mind leapt to a troubling connection.
The overpowering stench of sulfur—coupled with the fact that Johnny Blaze was coming to New York to perform…
Aside from the demon prince whose name sounded like Blackheart but was written as Demon prince, Damian couldn't think of any other explanation—at least not for now.
His brows furrowed into a deep "川" shape, and his fingers tightened unconsciously around the police cordon.
"Hey! Kid! Get to school! Don't loiter here!"
A burly officer suddenly waved at him, scowling sternly.
Damian gave an obedient nod and stepped back—but as he turned, he cast one last glance into the bar before walking away.
A moment later, a green-clad figure—rumored to stand 1.7 meters tall but actually closer to 1.6—appeared silently on the rooftop of a residential building three hundred meters from the bar.
Xiao stood motionless at the edge, a dark blue Yaksha mask slanted across the side of his face, revealing half of his stern features. His golden pupils glinted coldly in the morning light, and a few strands of dark green hair escaped from beneath his hood, fluttering in the breeze.
In one hand, he held a long spear, its tip pointed toward the ground. Wisps of black mist coiled faintly around him.
A green light flickered in his eyes. Through his elemental vision, the police-blocked bar revealed several sinister trails.
Three dark red auras—like dried blood—fled in different directions, their power relatively weak.
One deep purple aura, nearly black, had vanished without a trace—not even his elemental sight could track it.
And then there was the last one… Xiao's brow twitched slightly.
It was an extremely faint golden aura—so weak it was almost dissipated—but it made his muscles tense instinctively.
He'd only felt this kind of oppressive presence when facing certain ancient demons… or the Rock King.
Fortunately, the source of that aura no longer seemed to be in this world.
Otherwise…
After memorizing the escape routes of the three traceable spirits, Xiao's form dissolved into a streak of green light.
Only a few slowly drifting sycamore leaves remained on the rooftop.
————————
Ding-ling-ling——!
At Midtown High, the first-period bell had just rung.
Peter Parker was sneaking glances at Gwen Stacy, Flash was waving a black umbrella around like a sword, and the rest of the class chattered and laughed.
BANG—!
Suddenly, the classroom door flew open with a violent kick. Damian strode in, clutching a mangled bicycle wheel, his expression so stormy it looked ready to pour.
Seeing him like that, Peter Parker immediately sprang up, eyes gleaming with hope:
"Hey, Z! Were you robbed?! What's the situation at the grave of that poor unfortunate thief? Is there still a chance of recovery?!"
Damian shot him a murderous glare, slammed the twisted wheel onto his desk with a clang, and growled:
"Damn it! I almost wish I had been robbed—at least then I could claim some compensation!
But those bastards didn't play fair! They snatched my bike while I wasn't looking! I spent a whopping twenty bucks on it—it was 98% new, and it had only ever been ridden by an eighty-year-old woman!"
The classroom fell silent for a beat. A few students snickered—then quickly ducked their heads under Damian's withering stare.
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