It was already noon when Anger returned to the station, the soles of his boots still flecked with cemetery grass. He took out the ring, placed it on the desk, and sank into thought. Hendrick had no idea what the inspector had been through. He entered with a hot cup of tea and a express parcel in hand.

  “Inspector, you’re back.”

  “Close the door, Hendrick. I need you to do two things.”

  Hendrick swiftly produced his shorthand notepad and pencil. “Go ahead, sir.”

  “First, look into any information related to The AshGuild of Forged Scars or The ScarScribes. Focus on their origins and any records—any at all—linked to them over the past decade… no, make that the past thirty years.”

  “Understood.”

  “Second, gather all available information on The Weeping Mine. I want everything, no detail too small. The more thorough, the better. You’ve a quick mind and have read plenty, but these are rather obscure subjects. It may take some time.”

  Hendrick looked up. “Inspector, if I may… these don’t sound like typical homicide inquiries.”

  “Do you see that ring on the desk?” Anger’s gaze shifted to the ring lying on the wooden surface. “This may be connected to the Viscountess.”

  Anger had never explained to Hendrick why he was so invested in the Viscountess’s case. The whole affair felt unreal. The inspector had handled plenty of bizarre cases before, yet this one… he was peculiarly fixated. Perhaps there was something about the name Bethany—some hidden significance. Hendrick didn’t quite understand, but he knew better than to ask why.

  He closed his notepad. “I’ll start in the archives, then.”

  ******

  Just as Anger stepped out of the Great Scotland Yard station, he unexpectedly spotted a familiar face from the East End's Whitechapel division—Perkins. The young constable wasn't entering the station directly but loitering outside. Anger knew he must have a reason for not coming straight to him. With a glance, Anger understood and quietly followed.

  "Inspector Hastings," Perkins began, keeping his voice low. "Inspector Carter sent me. There's been another. The fourth. In an alley at the edge of Whitechapel, near the commercial street. But this one... it's a bit different. Inspector Carter says the parish has already taken charge of these cases. They won't allow Central Division to get involved. So he wants you to come have a look."

  "Wait for me a moment. You go back first. I'll be right there."

  "Best be quick. The Inspector says we need you to see it before that flock of parish vultures arrives."

  "Right."

  "And the Inspector said he'll try to buy as much time as he can."

  The hansom cab stopped some distance from the scene—a deliberate choice by Anger. Getting too close would only invite unnecessary trouble.

  Anger followed Perkins through the warren of alleys. Carter was still there, leaning against a wall, smoking. The familiar, bitter scent hung in the air.

  "She's inside. Elizabeth Stride. Fortyfour. Prostitute. A breakfast stall vendor found her. Came to fetch his flour barrel he stores here."

  "Time of death?"

  "Preliminary estimate, between two and four this morning."

  Anger entered the alleyway.

  The first thing he noticed was how clean it looked.

  The woman lay on the cobblestones, her clothing relatively intact. Only her coat had been pulled open. The fatal wound was at her throat—a single, horizontal slash, neat and deep, severing the windpipe. Blood had flowed onto the ground, congealing into a dark red crust in the gaps between the stones.

  No disembowelment. No missing organs. Not even much sign of a struggle.

  Except... her right hand was slightly curled. Under her fingernails: moss and brick dust.

  The reason Carter had called for Anger was precisely this sense of something off, but Anger didn't ask. He put on his gloves and first examined the edges of the wound.

  "Was the weapon found?"

  Carter gestured for Perkins to show him.

  A bloodied knife lay discarded beside a pile of rubbish. An ordinary pocketknife. Blade about ten centimetres. Rough steel. The kind of cheap thing you could buy for a few pence from any street vendor in the East End.

  "The wound and this knife don't match," Anger stated. "And the emergence of the crystalline substance?"

  "Correct."

  The throat wound, judging by its depth and angle, suggested a longer blade—at least fifteen centimetres, singleedged, with a slight curve. This knife was too short and too straight. Anger flipped the blade over. "And the base of the blade has a notch. But the edges of the victim's wound are smooth. No corresponding tearing."

  "That's why it's so damned peculiar."

  "Likely discarded by the killer to mislead us."

  ******

  Anger returned to the corpse. He adjusted his breathing, focusing his attention, and then he activated the Sight—entering a state of heightened perception.

  He saw golden threads, fading from the victim's neck. Anomalies around the knife hilt. Filaments and mycelial strands extended from the flesh of the wound, floating in the air, their ends quivering faintly.

  No raven feathers were found at the scene—at least, he hadn't seen any yet.

  Aside from these peculiarities, there was the knife. For now, Anger didn't know where to start, so he could only begin the investigation from the direction of the blade.

  "Carter, would butchers or meat shops in Whitechapel use this kind of knife?"

  Carter took the knife and examined it. "They might. It's cheap and durable. But lots of places in the East End sell this sort—not just butchers."

  "I need a list. All shops that could possibly sell this type of knife."

  "That could be dozens."

  "Then investigate. The more detailed, the better."

  "That would require a lot of manpower. And many shops keep no records at all." Carter paused. "Also, why would the killer throw the knife here? Why not take it?"

  "That's precisely why you need to investigate."

  Anger did not answer why he was pursuing this direction. He couldn't reveal the real reason. He had seen something similar on the table knife of the BoneBird killer at the Viper's Breath—but the threads on that blade had been intact.

  Because this situation would seem utterly ludicrous within conventional investigative logic, Anger couldn't speak of it. The uncanny was everywhere now. He feared Carter knowing too much would disrupt his own line of inquiry. Anger also had a private desire to understand why such things were happening in Whitechapel. Therefore, he couldn't reveal too much.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  He turned and walked towards the other end of the alley. There were drag marks there.

  Bloodstains trailed along the cobblestones, then vanished near a drain. At the edge of the drain were fresh scrape marks; one of the iron grate's vertical bars was slightly bent.

  Primarily, he saw residual silvery lightdust on the ground, scattered in a spatter pattern.

  The nature of the lightdust was similar to the silver slime he had discovered at the railway construction site. All of this seemed utterly baffling to Carter. This detective's investigative direction was truly unlike any he had ever encountered.

  Anger crouched down to collect samples.

  Sounds came from outside the alley. Carter approached. "It should be the parish team arriving. Found anything useful? The lads below can't hold them off much longer."

  Anger did not answer directly, instead choosing silence for the moment.

  Anger's deduction was this: If operating under the assumption of the same perpetrator, the killer was not a pure psychopathic murderer. More likely, they were conducting some sort of ritual. This method was neither the modus operandi of the BoneBird killer, nor the collection method required for Bellatus's type of human experiments.

  The ritual of the fourth night had most likely failed. The reason was unknown. From the presence of that knife, one could further speculate that this failure may have caused a backlash—the killer lost control, hurriedly completed the killing, or even engaged in selfharm.

  Now that he could see the mycelial chains, their colors, and with the diary manifesting information, deductions based on this new, most mysterious direction were reasonable. If treated as a normal case, one could simply say the scene was the work of a psychopathic killer, an indiscriminate murder.

  "The perpetrator might be injured." Anger based this on his own deductions, but tried to proceed in a way that involved as few bizarre elements as possible for Carter. "Judging from the bloodstain distribution and drag marks at the scene, he may have made violent movements here, even fallen. That mismatched knife might be what he used to cut himself in the chaos."

  "Selfharm?"

  "A failed ritual's punishment." Anger chose an ambiguous phrasing. "Some serial killers punish themselves when they cannot complete their ritual. It's a psychological aspect."

  Carter nodded slowly. "So we should check surgeons, apothecaries, clinics—places that handle knife wounds."

  "That's one conventional direction."

  "Whitechapel has knife fights every day. Clinics won't record every patient's origin unless the injury is severe enough for the hospital."

  "Then check hospital emergency records."

  "That would likely require authorization from Headquarters."

  "I'll apply for it."

  Carter let out a short laugh. "I heard Schneider has suppressed your report. Do you think your Chief will still grant you authorization?"

  Anger truly had no answer. Carter was right. That matter wasn't so easily brushed aside. There could be many reasons, but the police high command and the Church had already begun to block him. Obtaining authorization would almost certainly not go smoothly.

  Footsteps and voices came from the alley entrance. The parish's CleanUp Crew had arrived.

  "You must leave. Perkins will take you out the other way."

  ******

  Anger left quickly, pausing for one last glance at the body. Did those golden threads mean she, like the Viscountess, had seen colours she shouldn't have?

  He followed Perkins out the other end of the alley. In the distance, the scolding voices of the parish team were already audible.

  Anger stopped. “Perkins.”

  “Inspector?”

  “Tell Inspector Carter three things. First, delay the parish's 'cleansing' as long as possible—even if it's just a nominal cordon. Second, closely monitor all surgeons, butchers, and apothecaries. Take note of any fresh knife wounds treated recently. Third, trace the origin of that knife. And if any raven feathers are found, log them too.”

  Perkins nodded. “I’ll pass it on.”

  “One more thing. Post extra men tonight. The killer has lost control. The next attack will be either more rushed or more vicious.”

  “You think there’ll be a next one?”

  “The rite wasn’t completed. It will continue.”

  “Rite?” Perkins didn’t understand, but he dared not ask further. He only felt the Inspector’s investigation seemed profoundly specialised—truly the work of an anomalies specialist.

  If Anger wanted evidence, he had to discard all conventional thinking. Though the Viscountess’s case was technically beyond his jurisdiction, and Whitechapel wasn't his division, everything that was happening felt like a sinister abyss, slowly pulling him in.

  ******

  The station's archive room possessed a single, rather posh electric lamp—one of the few such luxuries on the premises. Hendrick, however, dared not switch it on. He was but a junior clerk; lighting it up just to rummage for some documents would earn him nothing but a scolding.

  So, he held an oil lamp in his hand. Its flame swayed, casting his elongated shadow against the towering wooden cabinets. The task Inspector Hastings had set him piqued his own curiosity immensely. Shedding his coat, he remained in his shirt and waistcoat, rolled up his sleeves, and made for the index card catalogue.

  A search through the cards yielded no files related to "Forged Scars" or "Weeping." This was expected. Truly important things never appeared in straightforward catalogues—at least, he believed a man like Inspector Hastings wouldn't assign him a simple task.

  He turned to the older files not entered into any system. Many were piled at the edges, not even kindly sorted, and often incomplete. Well, time had rubbed the stories away. What use were these records, anyway? At least, that's what the station's clerks seemed to think. Coughing from the dust, he sifted through.

  He found several monitoring report appendices mentioning unorthodox metallurgy and heretical semiotics. The contents were vague, but they did contain specific terms: Forged Scars.

  《Excerpt from Summary of Monitoring of Heretical Doctrines and Potential Disturbance Tendencies, Third Annex Office, Maritime Court. (Clearly)》, this was a transcription from a full monitoring report, likely material associated with some case. After all, the station didn't keep complete books, only what was caserelated.

  It mentioned the socalled "ScarScribes," sporadically appearing in the discourse of secret societies harbouring presumptuous conjectures about the world's fundamental structure. They absurdly claimed that all existence bore the "Forged Scars" and "Edict Imprints" of its making, which could be discerned and even interfered with.

  This doctrine was preposterous, yet required attention due to its tendency to tenuously link itself to historical anomalies, lest ignorant common folk be misled. According to fragmentary records, traces of this school's activities occasionally surfaced around major engineering failures, disputes over ancient contracts, or unnatural calamities. Its members were elusive, but as their doctrine fundamentally denied the sanctity of the established order, it remained a heretical ideology requiring monitoring.

  Hendrick couldn't grasp the full meaning of this obscure text, but the mentions of "Forged Scars" and "Edict Imprints" were likely the origin of the term "Forged Scars."

  He continued his search, but found nothing on "The AshGuild of Forged Scars" or the "Weeping Mine." On reflection, this made sense. First, he couldn't possibly comb through the entire archive at once. Second, these weren't necessarily linked to recorded cases, and even if they were, the connection wouldn't be directly written.

  So, relying on memory, he tried to piece together any possibly related information, but ultimately found nothing more.

  In the end, Hendrick gathered an armful of potentially relevant old newspaper compilations and left the archive room, planning to look through them when he had time.

  As he exited, he ran into old Constable William. His seniority was immense, nearing retirement, but he stayed on, needing the position. Hendrick had heard William's story—he had begged the Chief to let him remain.

  "Well now, lad, digging graves?" William quipped, eyeing the pile of old news. "Hauling all that ancient history about?"

  Hendrick stopped. "Just a quick question, Mr. William. With your broad experience, have you ever heard of 'The AshGuild of Forged Scars'?"

  "The AshGuild?" William's expression shifted slightly. "That's no ordinary society, lad. More of a legend."

  "A legend?"

  "Mmm. Gravediggers of the World's Scars, some call them. No society, no sermons. Come in silence, watch in silence, record the cost in silence. No one knows where they're from or where they go. But that business... must be thirty years back now."

  "So long ago?"

  "Something about an 'Incident of the Night' over in Hevetia. Skyfalling kind of trouble. Of course, that old history is probably all hushed up by the Church now. Best not to ask too much about things that brush up against the Church."

  "Alright. Just curious. A learned man like you is truly admirable."

  "Save your flattery, lad. You're the one they call the station's prodigy, with a memory like a steel trap. You'll go far. An old duffer like me has just lived long enough to hear a few odd things."

  Seeing that Mr. William wasn't refusing conversation, Hendrick ventured another question. "What about mines?"

  "Mines? All the capitalgents' enterprises, those are. You could ask around about that sort of thing; easier to find out. But you won't get answers from me. Enough now, I've got reports to deliver."

  The Weeping Mine. The name itself sounded like no good place. What would Inspector Hastings do? Hendrick found himself unconsciously trying to think like the detective, hoping for inspiration. After a long moment, he still had no ideas. But he needed to go out soon.

  He didn't know exactly what the Inspector was investigating, but if he could do his absolute best, he might earn the Inspector's praise. Perhaps one day he too could become an outstanding detective, featured in the newspapers.

  Anger had told him to search the archives, but knowing Hendrick had limited channels, had also instructed him to go to a certain place to seek information from a fixer. If it proved useful, then he was to pay.

  ******

  When Inspector Miller returned to the station after dealing with some routine matters, he noticed Hendrick's seat was empty. Frowning, he turned to William, who happened to be passing by.

  "Where's the lad? Hendrick?"

  "Gone on an errand for Inspector Anger, sir. Said he was off to look up some records."

  "Look up what?"

  William had no intention of crossing Miller. Staying on at the station hadn't been easy for him, and Miller was the Chief's man. Antagonising him offered no benefit whatsoever. Besides, while he knew Anger was a good detective, the man had no knack for currying favour with his superiors.

  "Something about 'Forged Scars' and mines, sir."

  In an instant, William had sold the young clerk out. His internal reasoning was a simple one: I owe nobody.

  Miller returned to his own desk, pulled out a sheet of letter paper, wrote a few lines, and sealed them in an envelope. He called over a passing messenger.

  "Take this to the usual place."

  The envelope bore no address, only a single symbol.