Chapter Text
When Abaddon and Cassandra returned to the inn they were staying at, the Crimson Moon had already climbed to its zenith, hanging heavy and swollen in the night sky. Its light spilled across the streets in dull scarlet hues, staining stone and shadow alike. Abaddon paused beneath it, lifting his gaze, his expression darkening as an uneasy pressure swelled within him.
His Spirituality churned restlessly, surging and recoiling like a tempestuous tide battering against an unseen shore. The sensation was uncomfortably familiar—an unmistakable sign of approaching a critical point. The question pressed itself into his mind with growing insistence.
Was advancing to Sequence 7 right now truly a wise choice?
Setting aside the obvious concern of speed—how rapidly climbing the Sequences might draw unwanted scrutiny—there was the far more troubling issue of whether he could endure the consequences. The Serial Killer Potion was not merely dangerous in theory. According to the author’s own descriptions, the compulsion it imposed was overwhelming, a gnawing, ever-present hunger. The urge to kill was described as being as fundamental and relentless as the need to eat or breathe for ordinary people. And worse still, digestion required more than simple murder. The killings had to meet specific, twisted criteria.
Abaddon was not confident he could manage that balance—maintaining control, fulfilling the potion’s demands, and doing so beneath the watchful eyes of Galawain and Linuria. Even with the significant boost in cognitive capacity granted by the Serial Killer Potion, the margin for error felt dangerously thin.
Then there was the Werewolf Boon that accompanied the advancement.
Abaddon’s eyes lingered on the Crimson Moon, its baleful light seeming to pulse faintly in time with his own heartbeat. In its glow, he could vividly imagine the transformation: bones twisting, muscles swelling, coarse fur tearing through skin as he became a hulking, feral wolf-creature. Under that moon, with his mind already strained by the potion’s influence, losing control was not merely possible—it felt inevitable.
No. That would not do at all.
“I guess I’m delaying it,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and edged with resignation. “Until things settle down… or until I leave this town.”
Cassandra glanced at him sidelong, her expression unreadable. She offered no comment. Instead, she stepped forward, unlocked the door to their room, and slipped inside without hesitation.
Whatever strange, half-muttered deliberations her employer was engaged in had nothing to do with her—at least not unless he suddenly decided he needed someone incinerated.
Inside the room, the low hum of the late night hung heavy, broken only by the scratch of pages and the occasional sigh. James, true to his Sleepless nature, had long abandoned the concept of rest. His eyes, sharp and unblinking, scanned the pages of his book with relentless focus. Beside him, Linuria had joined, her posture rigid, the book she held a religious text rather than a tale of fiction. The glow of the lamp caught in her eyes, revealing a mix of curiosity and suspicion as she studied the room.
“Where’s Galawain?” Abaddon asked casually, leaning back as if the question were mere idle curiosity.
Linuria’s gaze flicked toward him, lingering for just a second on his bandaged palms before she frowned. She didn’t answer immediately. “He’s gone to bed,” she said at last, her voice measured. “Where were you?”
Abaddon shrugged nonchalantly. “Went to the pub,” he replied, with the practiced ease of a man telling a half-truth, settling onto the couch. Cassandra followed suit, sliding in beside him. He draped his arm over her shoulder and pulled her closer, eliciting a stiffening from the Pyromaniac—subtle, but there nonetheless. She didn’t resist outright, but her body tensed. Linuria’s eyes narrowed dangerously at the display, fingers curling around the spine of her book, but still she remained silent, her scowl sharpening.
“I don’t smell much alcohol on you,” Linuria observed, her tone almost triumphal, as if she had caught him in a misstep.
“I’m not much of a drinker,” Abaddon said smoothly, his gaze fixed on Cassandra as he absentmindedly twirled a strand of her red hair. “Mostly prefer the atmosphere.”
Linuria’s frown deepened. “I thought you said you were investigating?” she pressed, the words sharp.
Abaddon’s bored look and the playful tug of Cassandra’s hair earned an internal curse from her—the thought of “This damned bastard” flashing through her mind—but she didn’t stop him. “I was,” he admitted lazily, leaning back further. “And I can safely say that those drunks know absolutely nothing about what’s going on. They despise this killer as much as the next person. Disrupting business, they say. The local gangs are out patrolling for him instead of the Night’s Watch.”
James shifted slightly in his chair, rocking back and forth with an almost imperceptible creak. “There have been several vicious gang-related murders recently,” he reminded Linuria, voice calm but heavy with concern. Linuria scowled, briefly lifting her eyes before returning to her text, clearly annoyed but unwilling to argue.
Abaddon snorted, amusement flickering across his face. He turned his attention back to Cassandra, brushing her hair with idle fingers. “How do you keep it so smooth?” he mused, a teasing note in his voice.
Cassandra’s glare was sharp, words blunt. “It won’t be smooth for much longer if you keep doing that,” she snapped, though there was a faint twitch at the corner of her lips betraying a flicker of amusement—or maybe frustration.
Abaddon didn’t relent. He paused, then brought his other hand up, ruffling her crown, ignoring the immediate slap she sent his way. Cassandra busied herself with untangling the strands he had disturbed, muttering under her breath, while Abaddon leaned back, grinning. The faint curl of satisfaction in his smirk reflected a man thoroughly entertained by the chaos he created in a room otherwise filled with quiet tension.
There were few joys better in this life than teasing a beautiful woman, Abaddon noted, and wondered if this particular little sadism came from the taint of the Abyss, or his original life. He was beginning to understand why he had transmigrated into Farbauti of all people.
The morning light spilled through the curtains, catching the silver sheen of his hair and glinting off the planes of his face. Abaddon flexed deliberately in front of the mirror, examining the symmetry of his features and the subtle interplay of muscle and elegance in his body. Every line and curve seemed designed for both intimidation and admiration—a sculpted perfection that balanced masculine strength with a faint, almost teasing effeminacy.
He stretched his long legs, noting the lean power in each sinew, and the mirror reflected back the confidence he felt coursing through him. The thought of his own reflection drew a smirk; there was a certain satisfaction in being both fearsome and aesthetically irresistible. “Absolutely delightful,” he murmured, brushing a lock of silver hair from his face.
There was no shame in his pride. Narcissism, he concluded, was a tool as much as a vice. What was pride to a mortal, after all, compared to the inevitability of divinity? To one destined to become a God—or even a Great Dominator of the Universe—such self-appreciation was merely acknowledgment of potential, a rehearsal for the greatness he was meant to command.
He shook his head with a wry grin. Klein, in the original story, had always frustrated him with his lack of self-assuredness. Unable to wield his ego as effectively as his strength or intellect, Klein had been a shadow of what Abaddon now saw in himself. Gerhman Sparrow, by contrast, had always balanced arrogance with capability—a model Abaddon now emulated willingly. Adjusting his posture and flexing once more, he whispered to the empty room, “Confidence isn’t vanity—it’s strategy.” The mirror offered no rebuttal, only reflection, and Abaddon accepted it fully, already plotting how to let the rest of the world—and the cosmos—recognize the same. Still, that was for a later date. Right now, he was in the mood forsome breakfast.
Before he dressed, Abaddon closed his eyes and felt a familiar, almost weighty pressure on his head. With a quiet sound that reminded him of tearing skin, he opened his eyes to see a pair of goat horns twisting upward from his forehead, intertwining like a natural crown. He ran his fingers along the ridged grooves of the horns, noting the texture and warmth of them, before concentrating and sliding them back under his skull. He hadn’t let them breathe freely for some time and had nearly forgotten their presence. Almost.
Downstairs, the breakfast table was a scene of orderly chaos. Everyone was eating heartily: bread, butter, jam, fresh fruit, and cups of milk were spread across the table. Even Linuria, ever the sourpuss, had joined in. Abaddon took his seat and began serving himself.
“You missed morning prayer,” Linuria reminded him sharply.
Abaddon shrugged without looking up. “I prayed in my room.”
The Notary snorted but, thankfully, allowed herself a bite of bread instead of continuing her lecture. Over time, she had given up trying to force Abaddon to perform the Sun God’s ritual before meals. It wasn’t that he couldn’t fake faith—he could, and flawlessly, as part of the Unwinged Angel’s Acting Method—but honestly, he couldn’t be bothered. Prayer to a dead God seemed… unnecessary. He almost muttered the True Creator’s Honorific Name on impulse, knowing it would have been amusing if anyone had noticed.
The five Beyonders ate in a pleasant, mostly silent harmony. But Abaddon, ever restless, soon grew bored. He began kicking Cassandra under the table whenever she raised a spoonful of porridge to her mouth, causing her to spill it back into the bowl. Cassandra glowered at him and retaliated with a kick of her own, sparking a foot war that lasted until Galawain intervened. One of Cassandra’s kicks had nearly shattered a table leg.
Like a strict, single father, Galawain scolded both of them, calling them “petty children” and threatening to lock them in their rooms if they didn’t behave. As hollow as the threat was, it worked; both Abaddon and Cassandra returned to their meals in silence, pretending to eat dutifully.
With that, breakfast quietly came to an end, leaving the room calm once more.
The cheerful calm that had lingered after breakfast evaporated almost instantly. The five Beyonders had just finished clearing the table, stacking plates and bowls neatly, when Abaddon felt the familiar stir of his Spirituality—a subtle prickle that always preceded trouble. Everyone at the table, except Galawain, tensed, their eyes flicking toward the door with unease.
Two seconds later, a polite knock echoed through the room. Being the closest, James moved first. He twisted the handle and opened the door to reveal Adrean, the Polymath, standing there with his usual composed smile, though the darkness in his eyes betrayed the weight of the message he carried. Removing his hat with a small flourish, he bowed slightly to the group.
"My apologies for interrupting your breakfast, Honorable Blessed, but I have to inform you: a third body has been found," Adrean announced, his voice calm, almost clinical, yet heavy with implication.
Abaddon’s jaw tightened instinctively. He could already feel the mental weight of sifting through streets, alleys, and trash bins for clues, knowing full well that his efforts would likely reveal little. The last two investigations had yielded almost nothing—disjointed fragments, empty leads, and streets crawling with indifference or fear. The thought of wading through more of the same, his time consumed by the tedious dance of chasing shadows, annoyed him.
“Lead the way,” Galawain said simply, rising from his chair and slipping on his coat. There was no hint of hesitation in his tone; this was duty, and he carried it with the quiet authority of someone who had seen far too much to flinch.
Abaddon’s gaze swept over the scene, the morning light reflecting coldly off the damp cobblestones and wet wood. The victim’s body, suspended from the beam like a grotesque marionette, contrasted sharply with the surrounding quiet of the east-quarter. The city seemed oblivious to the death that had occurred, the distant chatter of merchants and the clatter of carts masking the sinister undertone of the scene.
He crouched, inspecting the bindings first—thick ropes, expertly knotted, suspending her with barely a hint of slack. Whoever had done this knew their craft; sloppy knots or an unstable perch would have resulted in her body toppling before rigor set in. He noted the absence of a struggle nearby, and the lack of watermarks along the cobblestones, indicating that the drowning had likely occurred elsewhere.
Adrrean had already mentioned it, but Abaddon needed to confirm for himself: blue-tinged skin, bloated features, the subtle distortion of facial muscles from immersion. The woman’s lips were slightly parted, as though she had gasped one last breath, and her eyes stared blankly toward the ceiling, devoid of life but frozen in a fragile echo of what had once been happiness. It was almost poetic in a twisted sense.
Stepping back, he surveyed the crime scene as a whole. The beam from which she hung was old but sturdy, part of an abandoned dockside storage building. Mud and watermarks on the lower walls suggested the presence of a river or canal nearby, but it was a good distance away. Any transportation of her body would have required discretion—or brute strength. Abaddon’s instincts nudged him toward the former: the killer likely drowned her at this isolated location rather than risk moving her through crowded streets.
He noticed something else—a faint, thin line across the woman’s chest, the same subtle signature he had seen on the previous victims. A calling card, as predictable as it was chilling. Whoever was responsible didn’t care whether it was man or woman, young or old—they simply had a pattern. The consistency suggested planning, deliberation, and a deep-seated compulsion guiding their actions.
Linuria’s gold-tinged eyes glimmered as she examined the body more closely, whispering incantations under her breath to detect any traces of foul influence. Abaddon, meanwhile, began inspecting the surrounding area, marking the positions of nearby buildings, exit routes, and any evidence of a struggle—or approach. Every detail mattered. Every misstep by the perpetrator could be exploited.
His mind wandered briefly to logistics: the distance from the river, the strength required to lift and suspend her, the careful execution of her bindings. All signs pointed to meticulous preparation. Abaddon’s fingers twitched slightly at the thought of confronting such a methodical killer, the familiar mix of anticipation and irritation stirring within him.
“Too clean,” he muttered under his breath, stepping back to let Linuria continue her examination. “He’s escalating. Or he’s getting more confident.”
Adrrean’s calm voice broke the tension. “Judging by the placement, the method, and the signature, I’d say we are dealing with the same hand as before.”
“Any closer to a motive?” Abaddon asked, his tone flat, though the irritation under it was clear.
Adrrean shook his head slowly, hat tucked under one arm. “None. My Divinations remain blocked, though I can sense that our killer has moved locations since the last time—they must have detected my probe and become more cautious.” His gaze scanned the river-adjacent streets beyond the crime scene, dark and quiet under the morning light. “This is no careless murderer. They anticipate observation and adjust accordingly.”
James, still fiddling with his gloves, nodded. “It was a long time before they struck again.” He glanced up at the suspended woman, silent for a moment as though weighing the scene. “It makes sense in a horrifying way—someone with patience, someone willing to plan meticulously.”
A few seconds later, Linuria’s blade of light cut through the ropes with precision, the edges of her weapon glowing softly against the morning shadows. She caught the bloated body with gentle strength, lowering it carefully to the cobblestones without disturbing the fragile, waterlogged flesh. Her gold-tinged eyes swept over the corpse. “No signs of obvious evil or foulness,” she reported matter-of-factly. “No traces of curses, no demon taint, nothing to indicate external corruption.”
Galawain, brow furrowed, leaned closer. “Could it be a calling to the Abyss?”
Abaddon’s eyes flicked toward Cassandra as she made a faint gesture of surprise. If she had spoken, it could have betrayed him—or worse, tipped someone else off. He let out an internal sigh of relief when no one else noticed. Adrrean remained absorbed in his analysis of the body, so Abaddon kept quiet.
Adrrean responded carefully. “Perhaps. In recent months, activity of this sort has indeed increased. But a calling to the Abyss… that usually comes with specific signs, and I detect none here. The pattern is more… personal, methodical, and self-contained.” He paused, brushing a lock of flaxen hair from the woman’s face. “Sivo, the Devil you fought, did he ever mention any associates, friends, or members of a sect?”
Abaddon shook his head. “No. He mostly just spat profanities, and then Linuria burned him to ash. There was nothing coherent beyond his anger.”
“Hmmm,” Adrrean murmured, stroking his chin. He looked at the group now assembled, everyone tense and silent in the chill morning air. “Then I’m afraid I can offer no better conjecture than previously. Whoever is responsible is precise, adaptive, and exceedingly dangerous.”
He adjusted his hat and straightened his back. “In any case, I must report this to the Mayor. You, good Sirs and Madams, must take care of yourselves. Avoid traveling alone. The killer is at least a Sequence 6. And if my assessment is correct, they are learning from each encounter—they are becoming more efficient with each strike.”
Abaddon’s lips pressed into a thin line. Sequence 6. That alone made the weight of the situation sink into him. This wasn’t a mindless murderer; this was someone capable, disciplined, and far beyond the casual chaos of street crime. The thought made him flex his hands subtly, testing the familiar, dangerous thrill of anticipation.
Linuria’s light faded, and she straightened fully, the faint glow in her eyes receding as she withdrew her power. Her expression remained serious, contemplative rather than alarmed.
“I understand, Sir,” she said calmly, addressing Adrrean, “but perhaps we should consider this from another angle. Maybe our killer doesn’t have a motive in the conventional sense. Maybe they are killing because of compulsion, and deliberately trying to confuse us by constructing a false scenario.”
Abaddon blinked, genuinely taken aback. He had not expected that level of psychological clarity from Linuria—especially not framed so succinctly. For a brief moment, his gaze lingered on her profile, reassessing her.
Adrrean, too, paused. The old Polymath straightened slightly, his dark eyes sharpening as they settled on Linuria. For several heartbeats, he said nothing, as though turning her words over again and again, testing them from every angle.
“…A killer driven by compulsion rather than intent,” he murmured. “And a fabricated narrative meant to mislead observers.” He nodded slowly. “That would explain the inconsistencies.”
He inclined his head toward her with unexpected respect. “Very well, Ms. Linuria. I will take your words into consideration and report them to the Mayor. Thank you for your insight this morning.”
With that, the matter was—at least for now—closed.
The team of five turned away from the grim scene and began walking back toward the city proper, leaving Adrrean behind beside the bloated corpse. The Polymath stood motionless, hat in hand, staring down at the drowned woman with a thoughtful, troubled expression, as though her lifeless face concealed an answer he had yet to decipher.
As they walked, Abaddon shoved both hands into his pockets, his posture relaxed but his mind anything but. His thoughts churned, colliding and branching in rapid succession.
A ritual to summon the Abyss?
No. That didn’t fit. Not cleanly enough. Not this soon. Running into another Devil so quickly would stretch even the Law of Beyonder Convergence past credibility. Law or not, reality still had a sense of pacing. Even Klein hadn’t been subjected to this degree of relentless escalation without Sefirah Castle tilting the scales—and later, the absurd interference of 0-08.
And Abaddon had neither.
“So what’s going on here?” he thought.
He briefly entertained the notion of returning to Farbauti, to have “Him” probe the city for any trace of Devils or Demons that might be stirring. A fleeting glance at the skies above the city, crimson with the remnants of early morning haze, reminded him why he dismissed the idea almost immediately.
‘I may be your creator, but I am not your parent. You cannot rely on me all the time, and doing so defeats the whole purpose of me creating you. Solve your own problems, Abaddon, and reap your own rewards,’ the words echoed in his mind.
Profound, yes, but of limited practical utility in the face of an active killer. Still, he conceded. At worst, this situation would persist until one of a few possibilities occurred: the murderer made a critical mistake, the Mayor called in someone with superior Divination skills, or the killer simply ceased their activities of their own accord.
Speaking of the Mayor…
“What do you think he and that Judge are up to now?” Abaddon asked, keeping his tone casual while scanning the empty streets ahead.
Galawain glanced over his shoulder, voice calm and measured. “Most likely managing the city’s day-to-day affairs. This particular killer commands attention only because he evades Mr. Adrrean’s detection. By contrast, any gang activity in the east quarter presents far greater disruption to the public. I imagine our encounter with that Devil and the bandits outside the city unnerved them, but on his own, this madman isn’t the primary threat.”
Cassandra muttered under her breath, her tone laced with judgment. “Doesn’t care much about his citizens, then.”
James shook his head, his posture careful but firm, as though balancing reason against emotion. “Of course he cares, but institutions like the Night Watch and the City Watch exist for a reason. The Mayor cannot be expected to divert his full attention to every single threat or act of violence. Half of these duties are delegated for efficiency, not indifference.”
Abaddon’s mind, however, was less forgiving. I imagine he would if he were a victim of the killer, he chided silently, choosing to remain outwardly silent. Public perception be damned—let them maintain their faith in the city’s institutions. Abaddon had long since developed a clinical distrust of any authoritarian figure, especially one nested within a feudal hierarchy.
Probably trafficks children, or drugs, he mused inwardly with a dry, cynical chuckle, letting the thought linger just enough to taste the ironic bitterness before returning his attention to the street ahead.
The city continued to breathe around him: merchants opening shutters, carts rattling down cobblestone, and distant bells tolling in the square. A woman with her whole life ahead of her was dead, yet the city didn't blink for even a millisecond. How cold, how inhuman, how natural.
'Give it another two or three weeks, and after that I'll pack my bags and leave. The Mayor only wanted me to stay to authenticate my identity, and he shouldn't object to me going then, especially since I'm hardly a suspect. If I can find a way to gather the Sphix Brain for Cassandra in the meantime, even better, but once I leave I'll advance to Serial Killer and Werewolf. With that, I should be able to use the Reaper's Spear with much more ease...and summon Devils directly from Farbauti's side.'
The future looked bright, Abaddon decided.