Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Ghosts of the Sunken Ship

Even though I am accustomed to things that defy reason, I still find this matter particularly incongruous.

I stood up and said, “That ranger major—what was her name again? No matter. She encountered the killer in this room—most likely her own residence. They fought, yet the major didn’t use her gun or any weapon. The enemy killed her with something like iron clawed gloves…”

Mirse considered this. “Is it possible she used such a weapon herself? Or perhaps it wasn’t a weapon at all, but claws like those of a feline or a tiger?”

I replied, “Her? She hasn’t undergone any demonic transformation.”

Mirse said, “Go on.”

Gradually, I found my rhythm. I once had a detective novel, utterly obsessed with it, reading it through no less than fifty times. Regrettably, there was no pipe nearby to let me strike a pose. I paced slowly and continued, “After committing the murder, the killer dismembered her body, scattering it across the floor, yet found the leisure to stitch up the wounds with silk thread to stop the bleeding? Then, in a panic, he started a fire, trying to destroy the evidence?”

Mirse said, “Does the killer suffer from intermittent insanity? He can’t be tense one moment and relaxed the next.”

I surveyed the hut. Compared to the lower class, it was spacious—thirty square meters over two floors, with few occupants. Perhaps she lived with her husband or parents.

The downstairs hadn’t been scorched. In a cabinet, I found men’s clothing. I sought out Bohr and said, “Bring all the neighbors nearby.”

Upon inquiry, I learned that Major Rita Mann did not live alone. She resided with her brother, and not long ago, she had taken a boyfriend and brought him into Black Coffin.

Her situation was similar to Lamia’s, and this thought filled me with pity. I swore to uncover the true culprit for her.

Quietly, I asked Faga, “Can you access records for these two people?”

Faga said, “Her brother is a civilian of Black Coffin. As for her boyfriend, there is no information.”

How could that be?

Faga explained, “On levels one through twenty-nine, the population is dense and chaotic. There are so-called ‘shadow citizens’—those smuggled in by gangs. Thus, he was never registered in Black Coffin’s database.”

Shadow citizens?

I asked, “How do shadow citizens get in?”

Faga replied, “Usually through forged documents and overstaying. Local gangs charge exorbitant membership fees. They even have ways to remove time trackers.”

I said, “But a shadow citizen can never hope to get out.”

Faga answered, “It’s difficult, but not impossible.”

I asked, “How?”

Faga replied, “That’s beyond my knowledge.”

Ah, she is, after all, a little angel struggling for herself—not an omniscient god. She must be lonely, watching me from afar with pitiful eyes, her heart stirring, yearning for this brave uncle to hold her hand, chat with her, and soothe her dried, indifferent soul…

Faga said, “Disgusting.”

I asked, “Disgusting what?”

Faga said, “Annoying!”

I asked, “Annoying how?”

At last, Faga said, “Shut up!”

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I was deeply wounded, but forced myself to calm down and asked, “Where is this shadow citizen hiding?”

Faga ignored me further—truly a child who couldn’t take a joke. She once tormented me with ghost songs, and I never ignored her.

I asked one of the concerned-looking women, “Miss, can you describe that man to me?”

She replied, “He’s strong, a bit fierce, with long hair, but very handsome, not over twenty. He’s clearly a gang type, with tattoos.”

I asked, “What kind of tattoos?”

She said, “A demon with a sword, like a much thinner red devil.” She lowered her voice, “He never exposes his skin, but once, the ventilation system broke on this floor, and he took off his shirt to wipe off sweat. That’s when I saw it—his muscles are very good!” Speaking of this, her gaze grew fervent.

I was astonished that she wasn’t afraid of this dangerous suspect, even openly admiring him. Could it be that for women, longing for love truly outweighs all else?

I asked, “Where does he usually work?”

She replied, “He cleans garbage in the marketplace. Despite his appearance, he is very honest.”

This was a surprise—a man chosen by a ranger major, dressed as a gangster, yet honestly sweeping the streets?

I asked, “How long since you last saw him?”

She said, “About three hours. I saw him leave early this morning, then the fire broke out, and Black Coffin put it out automatically.”

I noticed her apartment faced this one directly, and in her narrow window was a telescope.

I asked, “You spy on this room?”

She answered candidly, “Yes, I can’t forget that man, so I watched him change clothes in the attic. He doesn’t mind.”

I was startled, but hopeful, and said, “Did you see what happened?”

She thought carefully. “No, I might not have been fully awake when it happened.”

I said, “Really? I think you just like that man and are giving him a false alibi!”

She shook her head vigorously. “No, I really... really... I can’t remember. I might have been looking out the window, watching him come back to change, but I…”

I said sternly, “This is a grave matter. If you conceal the truth, I can expel you from Black Coffin! You won’t even qualify as a shadow citizen!”

She cried, “Please, don’t—” Suddenly, her eyes rolled back and she fainted before me.

This was highly suspicious, as if some mental shock had forcibly erased her memory. I ordered the militia to carry her away.

Salvador said, “If this matter involves dark arts or magic, perhaps we should consult the exorcist? He might have clues.”

I remembered that thread and asked, “Isn’t that person a fraud?” I’d already been swindled by a merchant before and was wary of strangers in Black Coffin.

Salvador said, “That’s the man Marquis Michael wanted to see. Even if the exorcist had a hundred heads, he wouldn’t dare fool the Marquis.”

Mirse added, “The house is unnaturally strange—you’ve felt the mental pressure. If the exorcist is truly effective, it’s worth a try.”

My heart was uneasy: to think that I, who had mastered a detective novel, must rely on a mysterious occultist, likely a charlatan. Yet, the exorcist was inevitable.

We passed through a cluster of low houses, came upon a low wall topped with black tiles, adorned with plants—a tranquil temple amid the bustle.

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We pushed open the door, and entered a courtyard, its arrangement simple and elegant, low leaves and stone lanterns scattered throughout. I couldn’t fathom how one could grow such plants in a place bereft of sunlight. The courtyard was large enough to keep a moose.

We made our way to the old-fashioned mansion at its heart. Suddenly, I felt my mind in turmoil, my spirit agitated, as if countless fierce enemies lurked behind the pillars. Salvador’s face betrayed fear; he halted and said, “Careful, it’s a trap! We can’t rush in blindly!”

Mirse said, “It’s a mind blade.” As he spoke, his sword was already in hand.

I resisted the mental assault and nodded, “Indeed.” My fishbone spear sprang forth.

An elderly man, sickly in appearance, stepped out from behind the door, holding a black-lacquered wooden staff. Upon closer look, he was not truly old. His hair was slicked back, eyes sharp, clad in a black suit, chest held high, stomach in, face unlined but exuding an air of age, as if he were an old soldier abandoned by time yet clinging stubbornly to his dignity.

Mirse whispered, “Orchid.” Coincidentally, I too thought of my foster father. This man had the same aura, yet unlike my kindly foster father, he was particularly stern and courteous.

He asked, “Who are the guests? Sword and Shield Society?”

Mirse replied, “Yes, sir, we heard there is a master of the occult here and have come to pay our respects.”

The old man straightened his back further, stepped forward, staff raised, and said, “Use mind blade on me.”

I knew this was a common ritual in Sword and Shield Society—an instructor testing an apprentice’s swordsmanship. All their warriors learned some mind blade techniques, and though their skills varied, they understood the principles. The instructor would test the apprentice in surprise.

Mirse nodded, “Yes! This is the Eight Rites Sword, taught by Sir Orchid.” With that, he charged, stabbing with a sword empowered by mind blade, the strike booming through the air—but I knew Mirse wielded it with perfect control and would never harm the old man.

The old man twisted his staff horizontally, and Mirse’s sword instantly grew limp. The sword dropped to the floor, and the old man struck it with his staff, sending it rolling toward Mirse’s feet.

Mirse was shocked as if he’d seen Dalia lying in my bed.

The old man said, “Is that the extent of your willpower?”

Mirse picked up his sword and declared, “Not at all, sir. Next I’ll use ‘Stone Fir’—I once split a boulder with this technique. Please judge accordingly.”

The old man’s expression was grave. “It is not for you to judge my strength, but for me to judge yours.”

Mirse focused, breathing quietly, then swung his sword in a fierce arc, unleashing a sharp force with his will.

The old man did not dodge, but tossed aside his staff and blocked with a single hand. The powerful ‘Stone Fir’ was caught barehanded.

Mirse was astonished, as if discovering Dalia still alive—and transformed into a man.

The old man said, “Enough. Your mind blade is quite good. Given your age, you are outstanding.”

He pointed at me. “Now it’s your turn.”

Mirse asked in surprise, “Longi, you’ve learned mind blade too?”

I nodded, gathered my strength, and thrust out with the fishbone spear. My intent drove my shadow forward in a surge. The old man smirked coldly, using the same technique to block my Stone Fir. But I manipulated the mind blade to twist, striking from behind. The old man flicked it away as if swatting a fly, and my shadow vanished.

The old man said, “Ridiculous. You haven’t learned to walk, yet you’re already trying to fly?”

We marveled at his skill. Mirse said, “Sir, we admit defeat. Might we ask your name?”

The old man said, “I am but a ghost from a sunken ship.” His tone was tinged with sadness. He turned and entered his house, closing the door behind him.

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