"You killed them all."
Lloyd's gaze hardened. He stared at Sabo, trying to discern what kind of man hid beneath that bull-shaped mask.
"Yes. They're all dead. It was our mentor's order." Sabo spoke as if recalling a trivial errand. "They returned expecting praise—and they received it. Good food, fine wine… as much hallucinogen as they desired. And when the room was finally sealed, I poured lamp oil through the crack beneath the door. By then, the drug had taken hold. When they burned, what they felt was Heaven's gentle embrace. They simply… fell asleep."
He said it quietly, without a hint of remorse—without even the awareness that a massacre was something worth feeling anything about.
"Why did you kill them—" Lloyd began, but the rest of his question died in his throat. Realization struck him like a hammer. His expression shifted; his grip tightened on the Winchester in his hands.
"That's why you told me all this… isn't it?"
The great detective finally understood what had been wrong from the very beginning. There is no nameless kindness—not for Lloyd, and not for Sabo.
"That's right."
Sabo nodded. His tone carried neither joy nor sorrow. Lloyd had seen that expression before—back in Victoria Central Hospital, in the faces of those who were standing with one foot already in the afterlife. Nothing in the world could sway them anymore. No delight, no despair—just a quiet resignation.
Fate had already passed judgment. There was no room left to struggle.
"That is not something mortals should ever come into contact with," Sabo murmured. "To merely know of its existence is a sin immeasurable… like staring into the blazing sun, where even a glance demands the sacrifice of your sight."
"So this is their price?" Lloyd asked. "Death."
Sabo didn't answer. He simply hopped down from the chair, his small figure staggering ever so slightly, as though his very existence resisted description.
"Death is a release—far kinder than living. You don't understand what that thing truly is, detective."
"So that's what you call compassion?" Lloyd's voice chilled. "Anyone who learns the truth must die. Whether they're the crew of the Silverfish… or us. Tonight, everyone who set foot into this carnival of madness is destined to perish, isn't that so?"
That was the reason Sabo had been so forthcoming. Lloyd's arrival was just an unexpected bonus. Everyone who attended this revelry was already marked as a sacrifice—blood and flesh offered to appease the forbidden.
Lloyd raised the shotgun, aiming directly at Sabo. A single pull of the trigger would send a storm of pellets tearing through the small man—no chance to evade.
"And what about you?" Lloyd demanded. "You know the truth as well. Does that mean you'll die tonight too?"
Sabo answered without hesitation.
"Yes. I will die tonight."
He had never intended for anyone to survive—not even himself. The wager earlier was nothing more than a final diversion for the condemned. His remaining fingers grasped the blood-stained rapier, a faint shake producing a shrill whistle as it cut the air—fresh droplets falling like rain.
"Stop!"
Eve had snatched the revolver from the gambling table. Only one round was loaded, but it was already aligned with the firing pin. Now, two guns were trained on Sabo. Victory seemed inevitable.
"Wait, Eve!" Lloyd barked, ice giving way to sudden urgency. He had finally realized the true danger. His voice sharpened.
"So that's it. That was the purpose of your little coin-flipping game."
Sabo nodded. The rapier danced dangerously between his fingers—a predator ready to strike.
"You are Lloyd Holmes, the butcher of the Blood-River Massacre. You slew hundreds with gun and blade alike. 'Detective' hardly suits you—you are a killer with impeccable technique." His voice remained eerily calm. "And I… am a cripple. Facing you head-on would be suicide. But you needed information, and that gave the hallucinogens enough time to take effect."
The air—heavy with unseen toxins.
The concentration had been low. But with deliberate delays, Sabo had allowed Lloyd to inhale far too much. Already, his vision twisted; shapes crawled at the edges of perception.
The bull mask seemed to come alive—blood streaking across its grotesque surface. Only then did Lloyd grasp the truth: it was never a bull. It was a horned creature. His mind, desperate for familiarity, had merely mistaken it.
"Eve! Move!"
Lloyd roared and fired. The hallucinations made every movement uncertain. The only thing he knew was that Eve needed distance—before he accidentally turned the barrel toward her.
But she did not move.
Her eyes—wide, trembling. She too had fallen into the illusion's grasp.
Thunder boomed beneath the vaulted ceiling.
No more time to hesitate.
The shotgun blast shredded the gambling table into splinters—but failed to hit Sabo. That small frame moved with terrifying speed; the rapier left a silver arc behind it like a darting bladefish before slashing toward Lloyd.
Cornered, Lloyd wrenched up his cane to parry. The jagged edge of the rapier gnawed into the wood, sparks erupting as steel scraped against the hidden core.
"The same blade as mine!"
Sabo's voice rose with a strange delight as he pressed the attack. The cane's wooden shell cracked apart, revealing the gleam of steel beneath.
The strike forced Lloyd backward. He hadn't expected such strength from that frail body. In close combat the Winchester was useless—he slung it behind him and gripped the sword-cane with both hands.
Sabo was right. The weapon was the same as his—just a grip and a blade. No crossguard. No protection for the hand.
Crossguards are meant to save a swordsman from a slipping blade. But neither of these weapons had one—just like their wielders—men who did not care to protect themselves. Or perhaps men confident enough to kill before being harmed.
"You're under the influence too, aren't you?" Sabo spoke with chilling familiarity.
The world writhed around Lloyd. Nothing could be trusted—not shape, not distance. Guns faltered in such uncertainty.
But the sword… the sword touched truth. A blade could feel what the eyes could not.
"I've grown used to fighting inside nightmares," Sabo said. "A born weakling like me must rely on dishonorable means. I do hope… you'll forgive me."
Even through the haze, Lloyd could see it—the same distortion twisting Sabo's view. Yet the little man moved as though the illusions were an old friend.
He had lived in madness far too long for it to shake him anymore.
He was born a deformity—slow to run, unable to leap—and he had already lost most of his fingers in gambling games. But he wanted to win. He wanted it more than anything. From the moment he came into this world, he was branded a failure. He had nothing. And so he would seize everything he could ever steal.
"Long ago," Sabo murmured, "I learned to hide a fistful of sand in my pocket—so I could blind an enemy in the split second before cutting their throat."
As he spoke, his other hand slipped behind his back. His spine bent like a drawn bow—then he launched forward like an arrow loosed from the string.
Steel clashed against steel. Sparks burst forth, and under the drug-born illusion they scattered like roaring flames. Beyond that inferno, a horned beast lunged out of the blaze, snarling.
Sabo had only a few fingers that could still exert real strength. In a direct confrontation he was nowhere near as powerful as Lloyd. Thus his rapier moved like a serpent—striking, rebounding, then striking again from an impossible angle, never lingering even for a heartbeat.
Lloyd's sword followed, relentless. Yet in the next instant, Sabo spun midair—his hidden hand whipping free.
Lloyd had been waiting for this exact moment. Sabo flung what he held, and Lloyd immediately swept up his coat to shield his eyes. But to his surprise, what burst forth was not sand—no, it was something finer. A dust-like powder.
The narrow battlefield filled in an instant with a cloud of crimson haze. Lloyd inhaled a single breath—and at once knew something was terribly wrong.
This was a hallucinogen. A potent one.
He held his breath and rolled clear of the choking smoke. Behind him, Sabo stood motionless at the center of the cloud—breathing calmly, his body on autopilot, utterly unaware of what he was doing.
Lloyd's nerves felt under siege. Hands trembling, he fished a cigarette from his coat—his favorite kind, laced with invigorating herbs. He had no idea how long they could stave off the drug's effects… but anything was better than nothing.
He never got the chance to light it.
The vision of hell swallowed him whole.
The floor beneath his boots turned soft. His skin prickled with blistering heat. The chandelier above them ignited like a burning sun.
"So this is what you see after taking the stuff… Heaven? Hardly."
It had been ages since Lloyd had witnessed a sight so vile. A sacrilege dressed as a ritual—bodies rotting beneath the ballroom floor, grotesque things writhing their way out of human husks. Pleasure-twisted moans warped into endless screams.
And from the smoldering haze, Sabo emerged.
A metal mask had fused into his skull—flesh and iron welded as one. As he grinned, the mask split open into an abyss-black maw.
"Heaven and hell…aren't they merely two sides of the same coin? For me, this place is already paradise."
His voice fractured into static, warped by the frenzy, as he raised his rapier. Its glistening tip leveled at Lloyd.
"Mr. Holmes… You were once a priest, weren't you? Pray for yourself—while you still can."
That small, twisted figure seemed to radiate malice. The very air warped and burned—as though they stood submerged in molten lava.
Lloyd knew this was illusion. But there was no path out. His senses were turning traitor—he thought he was still standing, but perhaps he had already collapsed. And the sword in his grip… no longer felt like something he could trust.
As for prayer…
Did anyone truly believe in such a thing anymore?