As the Yellow Weaver watched his two allies—figures of unquestionable strength—be devoured raw by the demonic sword, there was no horror or grief in him, only cold, tactical recalibration.

  I need to be careful of that sword. Its condition is clearly related to blood. It is Better to maintain distance. Any cut could end with me being eaten as well.

  With that thought, he didn't hesitate. He unleashed a barrage of explosive fireballs, saturating the space between them with chaotic, detonating heat.

  Red Cape flowed through the blasts, his movements flawless, slipping through hellfire. But the true attack came from a blind spot—a Fire Spear lancing from an unexpected angle.

  He twisted, bringing his palm up. “Lightning Palm!” A concentrated bolt of electricity met the spearhead midair, both attacks canceling out in a burst of steam and shattered energy.

  But while he was occupied, the Yellow Weaver was already there, surging up from below and to the left, his hands flaring into claws of red, explosive energy meant to tear the Red Cape in half.

  Red cape saw him, spun on the ball of his foot, and drove a hardened elbow into the Weaver's temple, staggering him back.

  He didn't let up. "Lightning Frenzy!" He pointed a finger, and a sustained, arcing torrent of electricity engulfed the Weaver.

  The Weaver roared—not in pain, but in fury. He slammed both fists into the cobblestones, shattering the ground into a crater and using the violent disruption to ground and dissipate the current.

  Amid the rising dust and debris, he clasped his hands together, compressing a massive, unstable orb of explosive fire—an attack meant to erase the entire city square.

  Red cape materialized out of the haze, an electrified kick aimed at the Weaver's head. The Weaver just laughed, caught the leg with terrifying ease, and used the momentum to slam Red cape into the ground.

  Before he could rise, the Weaver twisted the captured limb, swung him in a brutal arc, and smashed him down again, driving him deeper into the crater.

  The Weaver followed instantly, dropping his weight onto Red Cape’s chest. He reared back, hands blazing with volatile, explosive energy, and drove them down in a killing strike.

  Red Cape surged up just in time, Lightning Palm flaring as he caught the blow head-on.

  They locked palm to palm, locked in a contest of raw power. Red Cape’s lightning crackled and spat, but he was being forced back, his arms trembling as the Weaver bore down on him.

  The Weaver’s strength had become monstrous, His fury has driven him beyond his usual limits. He laughed—a manic, unhinged sound—as he pressed harder.

  Red cape's mind raced, he wanted to use his sword again. But the moment he broke this deadlock to draw it, the Weaver would detonate the catastrophic energy he was holding point-blank, incinerating the square and him along with it.

  He was trapped in a contest of strength, against an enemy who had become a conduit of pure, destructive wrath.

  As the contest of raw power raged, a third figure entered the fray. He moved with a staggering, pained lurch, his uniform mostly burned away to tatters.

  His skin was a horrific tapestry of weeping burns and angry, darkened flesh. Blood matted his hair—a mess of white ash and black soot—and seeped from countless wounds.

  His hands were a ruined mess of broken fingers and charred skin. Every line of his body screamed in silent, excruciating agony.

  Yet, Tiger jumped.

  He launched himself onto the Yellow Weaver's back with the last of his strength, a final, defiant act.

  The Weaver, consumed by his manic laughter and the thrill of crushing Red Cape, was caught off guard.

  He snarled, shaking violently to dislodge the weight. "Get lost, you weak mutt! I'll kill you, you bitch!"

  Red Cape, shocked to see his friend in such a state, felt a new, furious strength surge through him. He pushed back against the Weaver's grip with everything he had.

  The Weaver, refocusing on the direct threat, made his worst mistake: he dismissed Tiger as a nuisance.

  Gasping for air, Tiger fumbled with his good hand. He pulled out the Nightmare Emblem—the dark purple crystal pendant—and shoved it against the base of the Weaver's skull, channeling every last shred of his own draining mana into it.

  The effect was instantaneous and horrifying.

  The Weaver's eyes flashed a violent dark red. A guttural, inhuman sound tore from his throat. His balance shattered. His hands, clenched around explosive energy, spasmed and lost their form.

  He began to scream—not in rage, but in raw, unadulterated terror. His eyes rolled back, showing white.

  He was trapped, conscious but utterly paralyzed by an overwhelming, psychological torment, assaulted by visions of his deepest, most primal fears made manifest.

  With the Weaver's grip gone, Red Cape wrenched himself free and shoved the shuddering killer back.

  Tiger didn't let up. He kept the emblem pressed to the Weaver's temple. The Weaver's body jerked and convulsed, sweat pouring from him like rain.

  He choked, spitting up blood, his screams dissolving into choked, wordless gibbering.

  Red Cape moved swiftly. He came up behind Tiger, placing a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder.

  His voice was soft, urgent. "Stop. It's enough. Anymore, and it will start to affect you, too."

  Tiger took a shuddering, ragged breath and pulled the emblem away.

  The Yellow Weaver collapsed to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

  He lay twitching, his eyes still eerily white, his body trembling in silent, continuous seizure, utterly broken in mind if not yet in body.

  Tiger pushed himself upright, swaying, and looked at Red Cape.

  Red cape immediately held up a placating hand. "I don't mean any harm. I was here to help."

  Tiger breathed hard, each inhalation a wet, pained sound. "I know, sir. Why would you mean any harm to me?"

  Red cape let out a silent sigh of relief, then felt a surge of guilt and profound respect. This poor soul fought so long. How crazy—and tough. A true officer. Then something clicked. Wait. Did he just call me 'sir'?

  He made his voice deliberately tougher, meaner. "What do you mean, 'sir,' young officer? I'm just a normal guy helping out the city. You don't need to address me like that."

  Tiger looked at him with pure confusion. "But, Sir… you are Officer Liam, right? Why would I not treat my senior with the utmost respect?"

  Red Cape—Liam—felt his mouth fall open behind his helm in shock. How does he know? Is it that obvious? I thought my act was good!

  "Liam? Huh. That corrupt officer? You're comparing me to that dimwit? From what angle do I look like him?"

  Tiger's confusion only deepened. "Is this some new kind of play you're doing, sir? Now that I see it… why you're wearing all this, I don't get it."

  "I am not your 'sir.' I am the Red Cape. Why do you think I'm that loser, Liam?"

  "In the whole city," Tiger stated blandly, his voice flat with exhaustion and certainty, "you are the only one who uses that specific perfume. My nose is pretty sensitive, you know. Also, your voice doesn't change much, even when you try. It's practically the same—I guessed mainly from that. Your height is also the same if we account for those boots. Three coincidences? If I looked over that, I wouldn't be a very good officer, would I?"

  Liam's whole world felt like the ground had been pulled from under his feet. His entire edifice of secrecy was gone. This boy is much smarter than he looks. And I always thought he was just a brute.

  He sighed, the sound muffled by his helm. "Let's not talk about this. Let's first deal with him and save everyone else from the fire."

  "That… I have already done," Tiger said, his voice weakening. "I saved everyone who was alive. I also… moved the bodies of the dead."

  Liam again was deeply impressed. "Good." As he spoke, he moved to the twitching Weaver. With two brutal, precise kicks, he shattered both of the killer's legs. Then he did the same to his arms. "Now he won't move. Bring some chains to bind him. We need at least one alive for interrogation. It'd be better if it were one of the others… I really want to kill him, but I guess we can't."

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  "Yes," Tiger agreed, swaying slightly. "We need him. To understand. To see if there is more going on."

  Liam nodded, then his gaze fell on the Nightmare Emblem in Tiger's hand. "What is this thing?"

  Tiger looked at it, a wave of profound sadness crossing his battered face. "It's a Nightmare Emblem. The doctor used it… to save those two knights, and then…"

  "It's okay," Liam said softly, cutting him off. He suddenly felt exposed. "Well, I better go before the other officers arrive. I'll hide in the shadows nearby and watch over things. Don't worry, I'm just here. And please… make sure you keep my identity a secret."

  Tiger gave a slow, pained nod. "I can talk about this 'Red Cape' persona, right?"

  Liam just waved a hand in weary assent and disappeared into the smoky darkness, leaving Tiger standing guard over the broken Weaver, the weight of the night's horrors and revelations pressing down on them both.

  Monica, Aers, and Sera rushed toward the emergency signal, dread coiling in their guts with every step.

  The fear that they were too late solidified into grim reality as they arrived.

  The Department of Law Enforcement building was a blackened, smoldering shell.

  The square around it was a wasteland of craters, scorch marks, and shattered stone—a brutal testament to a fight of monstrous intensity.

  Aers felt a wave of sickening frustration. He scanned the ruins, his heart sinking as he thought of the officers stationed inside. If only I hadn’t been caught, if I hadn’t made that stupid decision…

  Sera’s reaction was a cold, simmering horror that quickly crystallized into pure, focused anger. Seeing her turf, her place of duty, rendered to this… it was a profound violation. This wasn’t just destruction; it was a message. Whoever did this wanted to humiliate everyone—the dead, those who stood. They’re telling us we mean nothing to them. The thought burned hotter than the embers.

  Monica felt the same sting of failure, the blow to her pride from a night of relentless setbacks. But she shoved the emotion down, locking it away behind a wall of duty. The analytical part of her mind took over, cold and sharp.

  “Sera, Aers,” she commanded, her voice cutting through the heavy air. “Search for survivors. Recover and assist anyone who needs help. I will monitor the area for remaining threats and assess the scene. Find any signs of what transpired here.”

  As Aers and Sera fanned out, Monica’s sharp eyes swept the devastation.

  They landed on a silhouette—a figure sitting slumped in the blown-out front of a ruined shop, something large and limp chained at their feet.

  All three officers moved toward it with silent, wary purpose, hands on weapons, expecting a final enemy.

  The sight that greeted them was not what they expected.

  It was Tiger.

  He was barely recognizable, a monument of pain and endurance, holding the end of a chain wrapped around the broken, twitching form of the Yellow Weaver. He was breathing in shallow, ragged pulls.

  Tiger saw them. He tried to push himself up, his voice a scraped whisper. “Officer Monica…”

  Monica was at his side in an instant, a hand on his shoulder, gentle but firm, stopping him. “No. It’s okay. Your state is not good. I know you fought well. Please, rest. I will take your report later. For now, let us get you to medical care.”

  Tiger took a deeper, shuddering breath, the effort visible. “As you say. I… saved a few. They’re at the back. They also need medicine.”

  Aers and Sera stared at Tiger’s ruined form. A silent, shared pang echoed in their chests—a mixture of guilt, respect, and fierce protectiveness.

  They hadn’t been there to share the burden. He had to face the storm alone.

  Monica didn’t waste a second. She extended her will. A soft, shimmering field of her force manipulation magic expanded, gently enveloping the survivors Tiger had pulled from the wreckage, the bodies of the fallen, and Tiger himself.

  They were lifted in a collective, cushioned sphere of energy that floated a few feet off the ground.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, her focus absolute as she began directing the sphere. “This is the fastest method. Aers, signal the medical unit. Tell them to prepare for triage, now.”

  Aers snapped to attention, “Yes, ma’am!” He glanced at the twitching Yellow Weaver. “What do we do with him?”

  Monica’s eyes flicked to the monster, then to the dark pendant still loosely clutched in Tiger’s hand. “He is under a deep, nightmarish slumber induced by some charm. He won’t wake easily. Secure him.”

  Sera stepped forward, her expression grim. “Got it. Can I drag him, please?”

  “Sure” Monica said.

  Aers was already pulling heavy-duty mana-suppression cuffs from his belt. “Let me bind him a little more first.”

  As Aers added redundant restraints and Sera took a firm grip on the chain, Monica began moving the floating sphere of wounded and dead toward safety, Tiger finally allowing his eyes to close, his duty done.

  The immediate rescue was underway, but the cost of the night was written in blood and ash.

  They didn’t know whether this was victory or defeat. The only word they could give this whole situation was 'survival.

  Just as they were processing the devastation, the night itself was rewritten.

  A brilliant, miniature sun ignited high above Pipra, flooding the ruined square and every shadowed alley with a clean, relentless, golden-white light.

  The deep night vanished, replaced by the stark illumination of a sudden, impossible afternoon.

  Aers shielded his eyes, staring upward. “What the hell is that?”

  Sera shook her head, her anger momentarily displaced by pure awe. “I have no clue.”

  Monica recognized it instantly. This warmth.

  The specific, purifying quality of the light. It was the same essence that had saved her in the arcade, that had scoured away Renda's poison. The same mysterious power.

  The questions roared back in her mind, louder than ever. Who? What do they want? Is this a new danger, or an unseen guardian? Her analytical mind churned, but the mystery defied logic.

  One thing, however, was undeniably clear: even Monica, the composed and pragmatic commander, felt a moment of profound, humbling awe at the sheer, breathtaking scale of the event.

  A sun at night. An act of power that felt less like magic and more like a divine edict.

  A little farther away, perched on a roof near a chimney overlooking the square, Liam watched the same spectacle. The darkness around him was utterly banished by the radiant light.

  “It’s definitely the work of that Observer,” he murmured to himself, his voice lost in the silent brilliance. “Is this a signal? Stating everything is over now? Or… what?” He let out a short breath. “Well, I hope it is the end of the night. There are still mysteries… but I’ll find them soon.”

  With that quiet resolution, he melted back from the ledge, and disappeared into the routes only he knew.

  After a few breathtaking, eternal moments, the brilliant sun winked out of existence.

  At the same time, deep within the vast labyrinth of Pipra's back alleys, inside a forgotten house cluttered with secondhand books, the Scholar hid with his captives.

  He had dropped his fa?ade. The man in his thirties, with one missing eye and a face etched by exhaustion, stood over the bound and gagged forms of Colin and Carlos.

  A knife gleamed in his hand, poised for a final, carving justice.

  A miniature sun blazed above the city, its light piercing even the dusty windows of the hideout. The Scholar flinched, looking up. "What was that? A sun… suddenly showed up, and now it's gone…" He shook his head, the mystery irrelevant to his mission. "Never mind. I have to focus."

  He turned back to the terrified gang bosses, his knife steadying.

  THUD.

  The door didn't open—it exploded inward, shattered by an unseen force.

  Hector Claude stepped through the wreckage, brushing imaginary dust from his pristine sleeve. "Oh my, my. Finding you was a huge hassle, you know?" His voice was a lazy drawl. "The fact I had to go this far for something so… mundane and unimportant personally is beyond redemption."

  He surveyed the scene: the bound men, the knife, the Scholar's true, ragged form.

  He let out a low whistle. "Wow. You've prepared a deluxe meal for yourself right there. Haha. Continue, continue! I also want to see how a professional serial killer works."

  Colin and Carlos looked at him, a flicker of desperate hope in their eyes, which then died as they processed his words.

  Hector laughed, noticing their gaze. "Stop staring at me like pigs about to be slaughtered. I am not here to save you."

  The Scholar’s voice was flat, final. "I am not a serial killer. I just wanted my revenge. I have never killed any innocent or bystander."

  Hector looked directly into his one good eye. "You've got yourself a really nice excuse there. Very good. You've boarded the train of hypocrisy and self-justification."

  He tilted his head, as if considering. "You are responsible for many of my guards' deaths, for sure. You'll say you had to do it because they were in the way, blah blah blah. Also, I heard you killed his daughters." He jerked a thumb at Colin. "I get it, I get it. But seriously, drop the charade and enjoy your true self at your last moment."

  The Scholar didn't flinch. "That was not me. A few of his own men killed them after they… forced themselves on the girls, then tried to replicate my style of killing. I found that out during my investigation. I have already killed them as a response. I never targeted anyone's family. Those killings were mostly done by smaller rival gangs, or by people inside who wanted things to become unstable. I have only ever targeted those who wronged my wife and my daughter, and those who stood between me and them."

  Colin's eyes widened in dawning, horrific recognition behind his gag.

  Hector's interest sharpened, becoming less playful. "I see. So the killings happening in the Entertainment District… that was the Weaver Club, for sure. That solves quite a mystery."

  "They were involved," the Scholar confirmed, his voice weary with the truth he'd unearthed. "But ever since the news of 'the killer' spread, many people took the opportunity to settle grudges, eliminate rivals, or simply… satisfy their fetishes. Most were gangsters, civilians, or those in the business themselves. Many used the name 'serial killer' as a tool for their own bidding. Gangs used it to cause riots and chaos so they could grow. If I had to say… 40 percent of all deaths before tonight, the Weaver Club is responsible. I am for 20. The remaining 40… are those other people I mentioned."

  Hector laughed, looking at Colin with open mockery. "How funny. Most of the mess was happening right at your feet, and you couldn't do anything." He turned his gaze back to the Scholar. "But why are you telling me all this? Are you hoping I'll give you a pardon just because you chose truth at the end?"

  The Scholar gave a small, weary shrug. "I felt like it."

  Then he moved his finger.

  It was a subtle twitch. The threads he had woven throughout the room—invisible, razor-sharp, and laced with the last of his energy—activated.

  Carlos's leg was severed into pieces. He screamed into his gag, a muffled sound of pure agony.

  Then his right hand. His left. His torso and head followed in a series of sickening, precise dissections.

  The same gruesome fate befell Colin in the span of two heartbeats. Their segmented parts littered the floor.

  Hector watched, his smile not faltering. "Oh. You were setting up those threads to end them in the worst way possible as you were talking with me. Hahaha. You sure didn't trust my words, did ya?"

  He grinned, then turned his face away from the carnage as if bored, and began to walk toward the shattered door.

  Behind him, the Scholar closed his eye. "I have done it."

  As Hector was about to step outside, the Scholar's head burst, from within.

  His limbs twisted like wet cloth, his body contorting in a violent, impossible convulsion. Blood flooded the room in a sudden wave.

  Then the roof groaned. The entire structure of the house twisted, warping in on itself with a sound of screaming wood and stone before collapsing inward in a cloud of dust and debris.

  Hector walked away from the crumbling ruin without looking back at the destruction he had caused with a mere thought.

  He had already done what he came for; he had no other reason to waste his time.