Many times, even a great detective stumbles. He is human after all, and where there are humans, errors are destined to be born.
The stained glass was never meant to illuminate the hall. Light passed through it and scattered into a kaleidoscope of colors, spilling across the sealed room. Faraway music drifted faintly, its joy impossibly distant. A thin white mist rose, carrying the scent of incense meant to calm the spirit.
On the sofa, a man bowed his head toward the wall, as though in prayer. Upon that wall, a pitch-black cross writhed ever so subtly—an illusion of sight, perhaps, yet disturbingly alive.
"The arrangement here is quite something. Almost like a chapel."
The voice belonged to the guest from afar—dressed in black, with a top hat and a beaked mask.
His attire came from centuries past, from the era when the Black Death ravaged all of Inlveig and the neighboring kingdoms. The physicians of that time wore exactly this: the bird-beaked mask was in truth a gas respirator, its long silver beak stuffed with herbs meant to filter contagion.
The darkness of that age had long since passed, yet such clothing remained taboo. At the height of the plague, the plague doctors held immense authority. If they declared you ill, you would be quarantined; your home burned to ash by knights. At the end, you would be buried with the other sick in a great pit. Fish oil and fire would be poured upon it, reducing you—and the disease itself—to cinders, before the earth swallowed everything whole.
More than a physician, he embodied death itself, an omen walking on two legs.
"Yes," Sabbo murmured, slowly lifting his lowered head. Light from the stained glass behind him cast his form into a silhouette of pure darkness. "I built it from memory… from the church of my old town. It wasn't large. A few dozen people could fill it."
"I thought you Vikings worshipped Odin," the plague doctor said as he sat opposite him, the dark lenses of the mask hiding eyes that nonetheless seemed to watch.
"No. The day ironclad ships and cannons entered the northern seas, the so-called gods already died. We went one after another, believing Valhalla awaited us. But in truth, there was nothing. Death was simply death—drifting on the freezing sea, meaningless."
His voice was calm, as though recounting a story that no longer belonged to him.
"That voyage should've been my last. I clung to a scrap of deck until I drifted to Inlveig… A church priest saved me. The church where I awoke looked… almost exactly like this."
His gaze drifted around the dim, narrow room, as if his mind had never left that place.
"He was a damned strange Inlveigian. Truly deranged. The first thing he asked when I woke was whether I wanted to learn about the Gospel Church."
Sabbo laughed—freely and without restraint.
"Imagine that—a Viking, and he thought I'd be interested in the Church."
He laughed so loudly it seemed the walls should echo, but the distant music swallowed the sound, drowning it until the room fell still as dead water.
"And how did that story end?" the doctor asked. His voice carried a metallic neutrality—perhaps shaped by the mask itself.
"When I faced death, no Valkyrie descended. Valhalla shut its doors to me. So I thought… perhaps betrayal would get the noble Odin to spare a glance at an ant like me."
"I accepted baptism. And then I lived. Lived until now—no punishment, no nightmares. I've prospered more than I ever did as a pirate."
Sabbo almost sounded amused. Everything he—and everyone else—once clung to felt no more substantial than a soap bubble.
"I think I understand," the plague doctor murmured after a moment of silence.He paused, then asked, "Do you think gods… are useful?"
"You mean in saving people, Doctor?"
"Something like that. I dissected many bodies. Humans are so intricate, so beautiful—every organ with its own purpose, blood pulsing beneath the rise and fall of the heart… the brain itself is a miracle."
He looked at his hands, feeling his own breath. All beings chase miracles, forgetting that their own existence is one.
"Sometimes I wonder—humans are so mysterious, so complex. Could gods truly have created us? And if not gods… then how did we come to be?"
Sabbo considered this, then raised a single finger.
"One silver lion. The gods are worth exactly one silver lion. You've seen the ones outside, haven't you? Those 'drunk on heaven.'"
His disdain carried a muted sorrow.
"For a single silver lion, you can buy a vial of hallucinogen. One dose grants them three days in heaven. For one silver lion, they can bid farewell to this damned world and drown in their dreamland until they need the next dose."
"Entering heaven is that trivial, isn't it?"
The doctor thought for a while. He liked thinking… though he knew it was often pointless, dull, and without reward.
The distant music rose gently, accompanied by faint laughter. A single wall of glass separated this room from that world of revelry—yet the gulf between them felt immeasurable.
"It's time for the sacrifice, Sabbo," the doctor finally said. He had not come for idle talk. He simply did not know how to begin, for death was always difficult to speak of.
"I know."
Sabbo seemed unsurprised—his eyes calmer than they had ever been.
"Doctor of plagues… you came here to proclaim my death, didn't you? Just like in the era of the Black Death centuries ago. Physicians never had the power to heal—only to distinguish the infected, then kill them, sealing the sickness within a single ring."
"According to your doctrine, you'll ascend to Heaven once you die."
The doctor attempted to comfort him.But as though he had just heard an outrageous joke, Sabo's voice halted for a heartbeat—then he burst into laughter, loud, raw, almost manic.
"Valhalla is absurd. Heaven is absurd. You know I don't believe in any of that."
He had accepted the baptism, yet never the faith.
The doctor had not expected such an answer. Sabo was a dying man, and yet he wore a serenity toward death that seemed almost unreal.
After a brief pause, the doctor continued.
"The Sacred Coffin has already left Old Dunling. It's in a safe location now. But the Purging Bureau's pursuit hasn't stopped. Intelligence says the airshipDawntook off ten days ago. No one knows where it is. It might be hovering along the coast… or it might be right above us. Its thousandfold thunder cannons could already be trained on this place."
"What do you need me to do?"Sabo asked.
"Create a distraction. We need more time to relocate the Sacred Coffin."
"So… chaos. The bigger the better?"
The doctor nodded.
"Yes. Any anomaly will force the Purging Bureau to respond. Their manpower is limited, and as long as we delay them, it's enough. Once the Coffin leaves Engirveig territory, every sacrifice will be worth it."
He opened his medical kit.Inside lay rows of syringes—each one filled with a twisting, molten crimson sealed behind clear glass.
It was a Pandora's box.The moment the lid opened, Sabo's breath sharpened. A rare tremor flickered in his eyes. He stared, unblinking.
It was a feeling beyond words—like the air people breathe without ever noticing, until it suddenly becomes heavy and scorching. Heat and restlessness swelled and pressed against the room, as if something had slipped free and now seeped into every corner.
"Refined secret blood—technology inherited from the Church,"the doctor said calmly, as though long accustomed to the eldritch pressure it exuded."It leads to Hell… or opens Heaven. Doctrine was never the blade that won the war. The Church bred monsters with this, and that was how they claimed victory over faith."
Still staring at the vials, Sabo's voice quivered.
"All of that… is for me?"
"Only one dose."
"Sabo, this is your chance to rewrite fate. If your strength is real, one chance is enough. If this is all you amount to… giving you more would be nothing but waste."
His words were uncharacteristically cruel.The doctor stood and walked to the stained-glass window. Through it, the splendor of the ballroom below shimmered in his eyes.
"I heard this place was once an arena."
"Yes. Old Dunling was built by Romans. Traditions like this always slip through the cracks of history. During the Glorious War, the lower district didn't exist yet—this was a wasteland. Times were hard, so people gathered here for underground gambling."
Sabo never rose from the sofa. He simply sat there, letting memory wash over him.
"The wealthy bought useless war captives—slaves. The poor, desperate to live, took up weapons and stepped into the ring. So the Engirveig fought the Gaulnalos in Roman arenas."
"But the Engirveig usually won. To encourage the public, Gaulnalo fighters were stabbed before entering. They fought wounded. Once the gates opened, their lives began to run out."
It had been a blood-soaked era.The enemy came across the White Tide Strait.The war began with ships and blades, and over the next century, weapons evolved—flintlocks to long-range cannons, steamships to zeppelins.
"Those duels no longer exist. In a civilized age, people prefer social balls."Sabo chuckled lightly.
"Arena or ballroom, it's all the same. A place to gather. Great families dividing their interests from their seats. Girls choosing their husbands. Boys choosing their wives."
The doctor didn't answer. He simply watched the masked crowd below—faces hidden behind tradition, maintaining one last layer of elegant deceit.
"Looks like you've prepared for this well."
"Those noble aristocrats should never have come to this filthy lower district. Especially not wearing masks. Regardless of their identities, both officials and their families will deny dying here. It would be a disgrace."
From the beginning, tonight's ball had been a trap.They would be Sabo's funeral offerings—fuel for his grand, long-cherished vow.
"I will not disappoint you, Doctor. This is what I was born to do."
Sabo took the single syringe from the case.For the first time, he rose to his feet—his body small, frail, hunched.
But the shadow he cast stretched long and monstrous.