Even great detectives make mistakes. They are human, and to be human is to err.

  The stained-glass panels did not illuminate the hall; instead, they fractured the light into a riot of colors that spilled over the enclosed room. The joyful music felt distant here, replaced by a faint white mist carrying soothing incense.

  A man on the sofa bowed his head toward the wall, as if in prayer, while a dark cross on the wall writhed eerily, a trick of the eye that seemed almost alive.

  “Nice decor—like a church,” remarked the visitor, clad in black, wearing a top hat and a plague doctor’s mask with a long, beaked snout.

  Such attire harkened back centuries, when the Black Death ravaged Inverweig and neighboring kingdoms. Back then, doctors wore these masks—silver beaks stuffed with herbs to filter out “poisons.” The era had passed, but the clothing remained a symbol of dread. Those doctors held absolute power: a diagnosis of plague meant isolation, your home burned by knights, your body thrown into a pit with others, doused in oil and set alight, your death a ritual to purge the sickness.

  This man looked more like Death than a healer, his presence oozing foreboding.

  “Yes. It’s modeled after the church in my hometown—a small place, only room for dozens,” Sabo said, lifting his head. Light from the stained glass behind him cast his figure in shadow, a dark silhouette against the colorful glow.

  “I thought Vikings worshipped Odin.” The doctor settled across from him, eyes hidden behind dark lenses.

  “Not anymore. When iron ships and cannons came to the North Sea, the gods died. We fought and died, believing we’d earn a place in Valhalla, but there’s nothing. You just float in the cold sea, dead and meaningless.” Sabo’s voice was flat, as if recounting someone else’s story.

  “That was my last voyage. I clung to a ship fragment and washed up in Inverweig. A priest found me. The church where I woke looked just like this.” His gaze wandered the dim room, as if reliving the memory.

  “He was a crazy Inverweigian—asked if I wanted to learn about the Gospel Church the moment I woke. Me, a Viking!” Sabo laughed roughly, but the distant music swallowed the sound, leaving the room as still as a tomb.

  “And the ending?” The doctor’s voice was eerily neutral, metallic, muffled by the mask.

  “When I thought I was dying, no Valkyrie came. Valhalla shut its doors. So I tried betrayal—maybe the great Odin would notice a worm like me.

  “I got baptized, lived on. No punishment, no nightmares. Thrived, even—better than as a pirate.” Sabo found it absurd; all those years of faith, nothing but smoke.

  “I think I understand.” The doctor paused, then asked, “Do you think gods… help?”

  “You mean save people, Doctor?

  “Perhaps. I’ve dissected many bodies. Humans are complex, beautiful—every organ has a purpose, blood surging with each heartbeat… the brain itself is a miracle.” The doctor studied his hands, feeling his breath.

  “Sometimes I wonder: could a god really create us? But if not, how did we come to be?”

  Sabo raised a finger. “One silver lion coin. That’s how cheap gods are. You’ve seen them outside—the ‘drunk on dreams’ crowd.

  “One coin buys a hallucinogen, three days in paradise. One coin to escape this cursed world, lost in dreams until the next dose. That’s all ‘paradise’ costs, isn’t it?”

  The doctor pondered. The distant music swelled, mingling with faint laughter. A single glass wall separated them, yet the worlds within and without might as well be galaxies apart.

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  “It’s time for sacrifice, Sabo.” The doctor finally spoke—this was no idle chat.

  “I know.” Sabo seemed unsurprised, his gaze steadier than ever.

  “You came to pronounce my death sentence, didn’t you? Like the Black Death doctors—they couldn’t cure, just identify the sick and kill them to contain the plague.”

  “According to your faith, you’ll go to heaven.” The doctor tried to comfort him, but Sabo paused, then laughed loudly, as if hearing the world’s funniest joke.

  “Valhalla, heaven—both absurd. You know I don’t believe that.”

  The doctor continued, “The Holy Coffin has left Old Dunling, hidden somewhere safe. But the Purification Bureau’s pursuit hasn’t ended. Ten days ago, the Dawn Voyager airship launched. Its location is unknown—could be off the coast, could be overhead, its thousand cannons aimed here.”

  “What do you need from me?” Sabo asked.

  “A distraction. We need time to move the Holy Coffin.”

  “Meaning chaos. The bigger, the better?”

  The doctor nodded. “Yes. Any anomaly will draw the Bureau’s forces. They’re stretched thin—every delay counts. If the Holy Coffin leaves Inverweig, every sacrifice will be worth it.”

  He opened his suitcase, revealing rows of syringes filled with boiling, radiant blood. The sight made Sabo’s breath hitch, his calm cracking as he stared, unblinking.

  “Tech from the Cult—purified sacred blood. It can open doors to hell or heaven. The Cult didn’t win wars with doctrine; they won with this, creating monsters to spread faith.” The doctor spoke calmly, accustomed to the eerie aura.

  “All for me?” Sabo’s voice trembled.

  “Only one.”

  “Sabo, this is your chance to rewrite fate. If you’re strong, one is enough. If not, more would be waste.” The doctor’s words were uncharacteristically harsh as he stepped to the stained glass, gazing at the ball below.

  “I heard this was once an arena.”

  “Correct. Old Dunling was a Roman settlement—some traditions linger. During the Glorious War, the Lower District didn’t exist; this was wasteland. Hard times led to underground gambling rings.

  “Wealthy men brought prisoners as slaves. Poor folk fought for survival—Inverwegians vs. Galunarians in Roman-style arenas.”

  “The Inverwegians usually won. To boost morale, Galunarians were wounded before entering—their deaths were countdowns from the gate’s opening.”

  It had been a bloody era, when war evolved from ships and swords to cannons and airships.

  “No more arena fights now. Civilized society prefers balls for socializing.” Sabo grinned.

  “Arena or ball—both are stages. Noble families negotiate power, girls choose husbands, boys choose wives.”

  The doctor said nothing, watching the masked crowd—anonymous, maintaining the lie of noblesse oblige.

  “It seems you’ve been planning this from the start.”

  “Nobles shouldn’t dirty the Lower District. Masks or not, their families and the state will deny their deaths here—it’s a disgrace.”

  From the first, the ball had been a trap; they would be Sabo’s sacrifices, fodder for a grander cause.

  “I’ll make you proud, Doctor. I should have done this long ago.”

  Sabo took a syringe from the case and stood for the first time. His figure was hunched and small, yet the shadow he cast was incredibly grim.