**In the Dead of Night**
In the heart of the night, within one of the ancient manors in the northern reaches of the capital, a narrow room lay cloaked in oppressive silence. The windows were sealed, and a flickering lantern cast trembling shadows across the damp stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of metal, aged moisture, and something else—something familiar yet unsettling.
At the center of the room stood a man clad in a dark leather apron, his gloved hands moving with meticulous precision.
Professor Charles, his eyes devoid of emotion yet brimming with focus, carefully washed intestines in a stone basin. His movements were smooth, repetitive, and exact—as if he had performed this ritual countless times before. The water had turned a deep crimson, with globules of fat and decayed tissue floating within. Each segment of intestine was scrutinized, the outer layer meticulously scraped with a scalpel, cleansing it of impurities and excess fat.
Selecting a portion, Professor Charles separated it, leaving only the thin, elastic inner strands—translucent and gleaming under the lantern's glow. With care, he sliced the intestines, stretched them with specialized tongs, and fashioned them into long, uniform strips.
The next phase commenced. He gently submerged the prepared intestines into a large vat of limewater. A gentle steam rose from the surface. The lime solution dissolved residual proteins, rendering the fibers soft, elastic, and ideal for twisting. Professor Charles adhered to the timing with the precision of a horologist; even a minute's deviation could render the strings brittle or overly pliant.
Once ready, he retrieved the strands, drawing them between his fingers, twisting, knotting, and untying them repeatedly until they became uniform, robust, and consistent. He then hung the strings on slender wooden rods to dry, periodically wiping them with a fine cloth to keep them free from dust.
Hours later, he returned. The strings had dried, their texture gleaming and polished. Using an ultra-fine sandpaper, he smoothed their surfaces; even the slightest roughness was unacceptable. Finally, he applied drops of sweet almond oil to his fingers and gently massaged it into the strings. They became lustrous, fragrant, and supple—ready for music.
With the task complete, Professor Charles carefully affixed the strings to the violin he had crafted himself. The ebony wood shimmered subtly under the lantern's light. The sound of the strings tightening against the wood was like the heartbeat of something resurrected from death.
Stepping back, he gazed upon his masterpiece. A serene, cold smile formed on his lips. He raised a glass of dark wine, and before taking a sip, he softly murmured:
"To Elizabeth... for from pain, beauty was born."
---
**Return to the Dormitory**
As the cold mist slithered through the ancient walls of the academy, casting elongated shadows upon the ground, Arthur, Julius, and Anos returned to their dormitory in heavy silence. The atmosphere was dense; it felt as though the very academy held its breath, mourning Elizabeth's murder.
The door creaked open, and the sound of footsteps echoed on the wooden floor. Anos, as per his habit, collapsed onto his bed without a word, staring blankly at the ceiling. Julius, sluggishly removing his monotonous uniform, seemed mentally ensnared by the crime scene.
No one spoke. The silence, while distancing them, also weighed heavily upon their shoulders. Arthur quietly seated himself by the window. The cold moonlight streamed in, illuminating half his face. He buried his hands in his hair, thinking:
**"This murder... wasn't just a simple killing. It was symbolic, as if the killer wanted to convey something... a message, a meaning... but what?"**
Moments later, Julius broke the silence with a loud, frustrated, and slightly fearful voice:
"Man, there's seriously a psycho among us. Last week, those two crucified bodies, and now Elizabeth with her stomach filled with poisonous flowers?! Who does that? Who has such a twisted mind to use flowers for murder?"
Arthur lifted his head, his gaze sharpening. His lips moved as he whispered:
"Poisonous flowers..."
He paused, then suddenly stood up, his voice cutting through the silence:
"I've got it!"
Julius, in the midst of buttoning his sleep shirt, turned in surprise:
"Got what?"
Arthur took a deep breath, his eyes gleaming:
"Well, I'm not entirely sure... but I feel like the killer is speaking through the murder. It's as if this killing has a visual language, a symbolic message, not just a simple crime... a warning!"
Anos, hands clasped behind his head, lounging on the bed, smirked:
"Well, that's obvious enough for even me to get. The crime scene was a piece of art, but what its code and meaning were, I couldn't decipher."
**Arthur spoke with intensity and precision:**
— "The killer used toxic flowers—specifically *Hydrangea* and *Azalea*... In the language of flowers, they symbolize corruption, warning, and deceptive beauty. He wanted to reflect Elizabeth's character. Corrupt, dangerous, and yet alluring. The killer must've known her—must've hated her. Using *Azalea* sends a clear message: 'Be careful. If you're like her, you're next.'"
Anos sat up slightly, his eyes half-lidded as he rasped:
— "Makes sense... But what about the body's posture? Elizabeth had both hands clutching her own heart. Almost like... she didn't want to let it go."
Arthur fell silent for a moment, blinking, as if the image of the crime scene replayed vividly in his mind:
— "Maybe it shows how obsessed she was with herself… or maybe it's about control. A heart held in her own hands—could be a metaphor for selfishness. Possession."
Anos shut his eyes again and muttered:
— "You're overthinking it... Time to rest."
Arthur opened his mouth to reply, but the words dried in his throat. He looked to Julius, seeking affirmation—or perhaps contradiction. But Julius only let out a slow sigh and said:
— "You're diving too deep into this, Arthur. It's not good for your mind. Give yourself a break. If you think too hard… you might lose yourself."
Arthur said nothing more. He simply lay back on his bed. His eyes watched the ceiling, but his thoughts were still trapped in that scene... the toxic flowers, the heart in her hands, and a message yet to be fully deciphered.
---
**The next morning**, as the sky still lingered in the embrace of mystical twilight, Arthur and Julius rose as usual. The dormitory air was cold, and a fine mist swirled beyond the windowpanes, heralding another day in a world whose peace had long since shattered.
Despite the lingering weakness from an unspecified illness that continued to sap his strength, Arthur pushed himself to train beside Julius. The sound of their footsteps pounding the dew-laden grass in the academy's back garden had become their morning rhythm. Julius moved with steady force and discipline, while Arthur occasionally paused to catch his breath—but the faint smile on his lips betrayed his unwillingness to fall behind.
After the training, they returned to the dormitory. The room was still dim, thick with the scent of the night's chill. In a drowsy voice, Arthur called out to Anos, who lay buried beneath a heavy blanket. With a groan, Anos stirred and lazily began to dress.
Some time later, all three of them—now clad in their dark, high-collared academy uniforms, embroidered with the insignia of the royal house—made their way to the dining hall. Along the corridor, as always, they spotted Sophia. Her hair was neatly braided, and she walked toward them with a book in one hand and a warm smile on her face. Arthur nodded politely, and their group of four entered the dining hall together.
The hall was as crowded as ever. A medley of student chatter, the aroma of fresh bread, and the steam rising from bitter morning coffee filled the air. Students clustered in groups, and nearly all of them were whispering about the same thing: Elizabeth's murder.
They settled into a quiet corner around a wooden table. Breakfast was spread out—boiled eggs, warm bread, colorful jams, local cheese, smoked meats, and crisp red apples. Arthur slowly broke open a steaming loaf, savoring its scent with half-closed eyes, as if trying—just for a moment—to forget that he lived in a world where death waited around every corner.
Wiping his mouth with a napkin, Julius spoke in a low, serious tone:
— "These past few days have been rough... especially after what happened to Elizabeth."
Sophia looked up, concern in her voice:
— "What do you mean, Julius?"
He hesitated briefly, then spoke with a firmer, hushed voice:
— "Elizabeth's murder is different from what happened to those five hundred people in the capital. That massacre might've been the work of a cult or a rogue faction... most of the victims were ordinary people—judges, priests, merchants. But Elizabeth? She was a noble. Her father holds weight at court. This one's different. Way different."
Anos nodded slowly, his expression blank but his eyes sharp:
— "He's right. This won't be brushed aside. Special agents, maybe even royal knights, will get involved. The Headmaster's going to be under a lot of pressure for a while."
Arthur listened quietly, staring into his cup of tea. Then he said:
— "What's happening doesn't follow any normal pattern. From the mass murder of those five hundred across different districts of the capital... to the crucified students in the academy courtyard... to the murder of that seven-year-old child whose body was found in the central greenhouse… everything's happening too fast. There's a dark force at work here. It's like death itself has arrived—and it's walking in the shadows."
Sophia, who had frozen for a moment upon hearing of the child's murder, only murmured quietly:
— "...I feel the same way."
The dining hall buzzed with noise, but around their table, time seemed to pass more slowly.
At that very moment, in a large room on the upper floor of the Academy, moonlight streamed in through the tall windows as the Academy's esteemed professors took their seats, one by one, on tall wooden chairs. The walls were adorned with paintings of legendary mages from generations past.
The headmaster—a tall, elderly man with silver-white hair, pale skin, sunken eyebrows, and icy blue eyes—stepped forward. His heavy robe was embroidered with gold trim, and when he placed his hands on the table, his voice was soft but laden with sorrow:
— "Thank you all for being here. This meeting is to discuss the recent events both at the Academy and across the capital. As you're aware, several of our students have been murdered in the past few weeks. These weren't ordinary victims… they were all from noble families. That means we're under scrutiny—and the enemy knows it."
Professor Charles, in his formal gray coat and always-calm demeanor, sat beside Professor Satella—a mysterious woman with long black hair tied with silver ribbons, piercing frozen eyes, and a black dress that seemed like midnight mist woven into fabric. Darkness itself seemed to embody her. Several other professors were seated nearby.
Across from them sat Professor Kyle—a quiet man dressed plainly like a commoner, always clad in a black cloak that carried the scent of smoke. With his gray eyes and dark hair, he stared sternly at Professor Charles, his expression grim.
Professor Satella, who had long been harboring a quiet rage, suddenly spoke in a harsh, raspy voice:
— "Several students have been crucified and murdered in these past weeks, and the information we've been able to gather from the crime scenes is close to nothing. We still don't know who—or what—is behind these attacks. But Elizabeth's murder was different. The scene was precise. Symbolic. Strange. It's clear her killer wasn't a monster or an unknown entity... it was someone from within the Academy. Someone who knew her. One of us."
A heavy silence fell over the room. The professors exchanged wary glances.
Professor Kyle remained silent, his grim expression unmoving as his eyes stayed fixed on Charles. His gaze weighed heavily on Charles's impassive face, but the latter showed no reaction. Charles sat still, nodding occasionally at the remarks being made, his calm demeanor unshaken.
But within Kyle, a silent storm was brewing. Beneath the table, he clenched his fists tightly, trying to suppress the thoughts that stormed through his mind.
**"I saw something that night… something I can't ignore. The night we got word of Elizabeth's death, I was heading to the greenhouse to tell the two students with permission to stay late that their time was up... but what I saw… was Professor Charles. I saw him leaving the greenhouse. At that hour… at that place… why?"**
His jaw clenched. Thoughts surged behind his still eyes.
**"There's no reason for any professor to be there at that hour. Especially not Charles... a man whose routine is always exact. Why would he be there at night?"**
His lips parted slightly, but he said nothing aloud. Instead, he whispered to himself:
**"If I speak without proof, I'll only ruin myself. No one would believe me. But I can't ignore this either. I need to find out more… before something else happens. I have to know the truth."**
Silence still hung like a shadow over the meeting. After a long pause, the Headmaster finally spoke again, his voice calm but firm:
— "In the coming days, a few special agents from the capital will arrive. Their mission is clear: to investigate the murders thoroughly, especially Elizabeth's death. I ask all of you to cooperate fully with them. This matter is now beyond our personal control."
The weight in his voice sent a chill through the room. The professors quietly left the chamber, each heading toward their respective classes.
---
Elsewhere in the Academy, another class was beginning. Arthur, Anos, Sophia, and Julius sat in the middle rows. But the classroom no longer held the familiar sense of the past. One seat in the second row was painfully empty. The seat where Elizabeth used to sit—always proud, always engaged in class debates.
Not everyone had liked her. Sometimes, she had been difficult. But now\... she was gone. And that truth hung heavily over her classmates like a stone. No one could deny it anymore—one of them, someone among them, had been murdered in cold blood.
As the class began, Professor Satella's voice echoed—cold and formal. Arthur tried to focus on the blackboard, to take notes with precision, but his body wasn't cooperating. Several times, his dry cough interrupted the room—deep, raspy coughs, and the last time, a small spot of blood appeared at the corner of his lips.
He quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand and looked down at the notebook before him. His vision blurred, but he refused to fall behind. He had to stay strong—for himself, and for his friends.
Sophia, sitting beside him, watched his every move with growing concern. She knew Arthur wasn't well—but now it was obvious. His illness was worsening, faster than anyone had expected. And the worst part: there was nothing she could do.
She clenched her fist and thought to herself:
**"I can't just sit back and watch... I can't."**
Hours passed. The grueling class under Professor Satella, with her probing questions and piercing gaze, followed by Professor Charles's theoretical magic lesson—calm and emotionless. Everything continued as usual… but inside the students, nothing felt the same.
After classes ended, the students slowly made their way toward the dormitories, steps heavy and tired. Silence hung in the corridors. Even Julius's usual jokes lacked their typical energy.
As they walked back, Arthur's pace slowed. Sophia glanced at him from time to time, afraid he might collapse at any moment. Julius looked at Arthur's pale face but said nothing—though inside, a storm of fear and anger churned.
Anos, always quiet, finally spoke:
— "This is only the beginning. This isn't over yet."
No one responded. Only the sound of their footsteps echoed on the cold stone floor of the dormitory hall.
Suddenly, Arthur stopped walking. The sky outside had turned a blend of gold and orange, signaling sunset. Birds sang as they prepared to roost for the night. He looked briefly at his friends and said, with a tone both serious and slightly rushed:
— "I just remembered... I need to see Professor Charles. I want to talk to him about everything that's been going on."
Sophia stepped forward, worry etched on her face. The fading sunlight glinted in her golden hair.
Her voice trembled slightly as she said:
— "But you're not well, Arthur… are you sure you want to go alone? Should I come with you?"
Arthur offered a faint smile—more from exhaustion than reassurance—and shook his head:
— "No, it's okay. You go get some rest. I just need to speak with him for a few minutes."
Julius, shifting the weight of his bag on his shoulder, called out with exaggerated cheer that didn't quite land:
— "Don't stay out too long—come back soon!"
Arthur raised a hand in the air and headed toward the administrative building. The warm orange light of the setting sun streamed through the tall academy windows, casting long shadows on the stone floors.
---
The Academy's central building, with its grand architecture and somber elegance, was quiet at this hour. Arthur walked through the stone corridors slowly, the echo of his footsteps soft against the walls. Sunlight filtered through arched windows, painting the floors with golden light.
He reached Professor Charles's wooden door. Paused for a moment. Then knocked gently.
A moment later, the familiar calm voice came from inside:
— "Come in, it's open."
Arthur stepped in. The room smelled, as always, of black tea and old parchment. The evening light poured in through the tall window, bathing everything in a warm amber hue. Books were scattered in a kind of organized chaos, and the room held a distinct air of thoughtfulness and calm.
Professor Charles sat behind his dark wooden desk. When he saw Arthur, he smiled:
— "Welcome, Arthur. I believe it's been a few days since we last met—but a lot has happened, hasn't it?"
Arthur approached, his eyes tired and breath a little labored:
— "Yes, Professor. That's exactly why I'm here. I wanted to talk about everything that's happened... I figured you might have a better perspective on it all."
The professor gestured calmly to the seat across from him:
— "Please, have a seat. The usual—black tea?"
Arthur gave a faint smile and sat down:
— "Yes, please."
The professor stood up and walked to the corner of the room, where an old metal kettle was quietly steaming. He poured the tea carefully into porcelain cups, and in the silence, the bitter warmth of it filled the room.
As he placed the cup beside Arthur, he looked at him with a worried gaze and asked:
— "How are you feeling? Is the illness… weighing on you heavily?"
Arthur picked up the cup, his hands trembling slightly. He looked at the rising steam and said:
— "Honestly, it's progressing faster. Some days I feel like I'm getting weaker and weaker. But it's not enough to make me give up. Not yet."
Professor Charles stared at him thoughtfully, his voice calm but heavy:
— "I'm truly sorry, Arthur. Someone with your gift... carrying such a burden. But perhaps this wound is also the very force that could make you stronger."
Arthur was silent for a moment, as though something were brewing in his mind. Then, with a cautious voice and a faint smile, he said:
— "Or maybe it's what'll kill me, right?"
The professor gave Arthur a brief glance. His eyes, as always, were calm… perhaps too calm.
Arthur leaned back and held the teacup in his hands. The silence between them stretched taut—like a thin rope ready to snap.
Professor Charles gazed deeply into Arthur's eyes. His stare was serene but held a hidden depth of knowledge, as though behind every word lay centuries of thought and experience. With a soft, deliberate tone, he said:
"Life and death… these are merely stations along a much greater path. From the moment one is born, one walks the road of evolution—spiritual, intellectual, and beyond. Death, contrary to what most believe, is not the end. It might be the final and most complete stage of growth. The point at which one sheds the confines of the flesh and draws closer to one's true essence."
Arthur stayed quiet for a moment. His expression shifted with surprise, then a faint smile touched his lips. Half-closing his eyes, he took a sip of his tea and said:
"That's pure philosophy. Exactly what I'd expect from you, Professor."
The professor gave a weak smile and, without a word, lifted his own cup and drank. A pleasant silence settled in. After a moment, Arthur set his cup down on the table and said:
"Since the night the blood-stained cross was found at the academy, I haven't had a chance to speak to you about it. So much has happened—my illness, my absence, and then... Elizabeth's death."
The professor took a deep breath. A hint of deep sorrow flickered in his eyes. Then he said:
"Yes, that night and everything that followed changed everything. Elizabeth's death hit hard. But I know you're still looking for answers. You want to know what really happened, don't you?"
Arthur nodded and said:
"I heard that over five hundred people were killed across the capital that night. Symbolic murders... Do you know more about these events?"
The professor leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and remained silent for a few seconds. When he opened them, his voice had grown slightly heavier:
"According to the evidence, the massacre was carried out by a demonic cult—or a secret organization with the aim of overthrowing the kingdom. Everything was precise, calculated. Not random killing, but theater. A message. Judges were executed with nails driven into their eyes—as if to symbolize that justice had turned a blind eye or seen the truth and passed it by. In the courts, lawyers' faces were flayed with meticulous cruelty. In churches, priests were crucified and children seated before them, as if made to witness the torment of God's representative on earth."
Arthur was shaken by what he heard. His eyes filled with horror and confusion. He whispered:
"But why? Why kill in such complex, symbolic ways? Why not just end them simply?"
The professor paused. Then, while gently running his fingers along the rim of his teacup, he said:
"Because the goal isn't just to kill, Arthur. These murders are messages. Driving nails into a judge's eyes means closing one's eyes to justice; killing a corrupt priest in front of innocent children is a statement. That religious corruption poisons the next generation. They're not just killing—they're speaking. To the kingdom, to the church, to the courts. They're saying: 'We know you're corrupt. And we will cleanse this system or rebuild it from the ashes.'"
A heavy silence hung in the room. Arthur took a deep breath. He felt like he had just stepped into a much darker, more intricate world than he had ever imagined.
Finally, the professor said in a calm but firm voice:
"We're dealing with an enemy that not only hides in the shadows, but understands the power of symbolism, the psychology of fear, and the madness it breeds. And what's clear is that this kingdom is nearing collapse… or perhaps, the brink of a rebirth."
Arthur shook his head in confusion, his voice low and unsteady:
"I really don't know why everything's happening so fast... the murders across the capital, the deaths of academy students, and now\... one of my classmates. It feels like everything's spiraling out of control."
Professor Charles sat in his eternal calm, legs crossed with grace, and gently placed his teacup on its saucer. He gave Arthur a penetrating look and spoke with a measured tone:
"What did Elizabeth's death make you feel, Arthur?"
Arthur raised his head. His eyes stared at the ceiling, as if searching for answers among its silent plasterwork. His voice trembled:
"I'm scared…"
The professor tilted his head slightly and whispered:
"Of what, Arthur?"
A moment of silence passed between them. Arthur lowered his gaze, took a deep breath, and with a voice heavy with hidden pain, said:
"I'm afraid of losing the only thing I have left… my friends. They're like family to me. Losing my classmate made me realize how close death is... how vulnerable they are. I keep wondering if I'm really strong enough to protect them… or if I'm just fooling myself."
The professor was quiet for a moment. His gaze was still calm, but heavy. After a brief pause, he said:
"And who is it that fears losing *you*, Arthur?"
Arthur replied instantly, his tone unwavering:
"That doesn't matter. I just want to protect what matters to me… even if I'm destroyed in the process."
The professor gave a gentle smile. His face momentarily softened, becoming something more human—perhaps a silent form of admiration.
"If that truly comes from within, then I'm sure you have the strength. Even if you don't know it yet."
At that moment, Arthur looked around. Suddenly, his eyes caught sight of a beautiful violin resting on the professor's walnut desk. His eyes widened in surprise.
"I didn't know you played music… Professor."
The professor glanced at the violin, a faint smile touching his lips.
"It's an old passion of mine. In fact… I built this violin myself."
He stood up, walking toward the desk with deliberate, measured steps. He picked up the violin with obsessive care, as if handling a precious gem. Its dark wood gleamed in the candlelight, and its strings were drawn with exquisite precision.
Arthur spoke in admiration:
"It's truly remarkable… What are the strings made of? They look... special."
The moment Arthur asked about the strings, time seemed to pause for Professor Charles. All sounds dulled. His mind, unbidden, returned to a not-so-distant past…
He stood in that underground chamber. The walls glowed yellow and dead under the oil lamps. Elizabeth lay in the corner, her hands bound, her clothes torn, her face dusty, her eyes filled with terror. With a trembling voice, she said:
"You… you're my professor… please… I didn't do anything…"
Professor Charles approached her with an empty gaze. In his hand was a surgical blade—clean, flawless, and deadly. There was no thrill, no anger, no pleasure in his face. Only necessity—or perhaps the illusion of it.
Elizabeth dropped to her knees. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her voice cracked:
"Please… I'm just a student… please… don't…"
The professor knelt. With a handkerchief, he gently wiped the corner of her face. His voice was calm—just as it had been when speaking of the philosophy of death:
"You don't understand... but one day, you will. There's a certain beauty in suffering—especially in dying silently."
And then, the blade descended.
A scream. The sound of slicing flesh. Warm, dark blood splattered across the cold stone floor. Elizabeth fought to live until the very last moment, but the professor simply continued his work with precision, as if performing a vital lab experiment. When her body finally went still, he took a deep breath. Silence.
He washed his hands. Then, with the same unshakable composure, he picked up his tools and began carefully dissecting her—removing intestines, extracting each organ with surgical accuracy. For a fleeting moment, he questioned himself: was this... art, or madness?
But when he pulled the strings—those warm, soft, living fibers—something within him whispered:
**"Believe me... this will create a sound the world has never heard."**
Back in the present, after the flashback faded, the professor smiled faintly and said in a measured voice:
"Usually, violin strings are made from animal gut. But I decided to take a different path. I hunted a wild minotaur. Its intestines were elastic and resilient—perfect for producing a unique tone. And the wood? Pure ebony. Rare and precious."
Arthur's eyes lit up with fascination.
"That's incredible... it really does feel special."
The professor stared deeply into Arthur's eyes and asked:
"Would you like to hear its first performance?"
Arthur's eyes sparkled, like a child awakened inside him.
"Truly?... That would be an honor, professor."
The professor began his preparations with the elegance of a true artist. He picked up the bow, wiped it clean with a white cloth, tuned the strings meticulously, took a deep breath, and began...
The music poured through the room. A sound not quite of this earth—gentle and gliding, like nighttime rain on wet leaves. Like the hum of galaxies, or birdsong from a forgotten dawn. Arthur closed his eyes and tried to find, within the notes, some trace of peace—or even truth.
When the piece ended, Arthur stood with a deep smile and misty eyes. He applauded softly:
"That was a masterpiece... a true work of art. You... you're a real master."
The professor bowed modestly.
"You're too kind. There's still room to improve..."
Arthur replied earnestly:
"No, truly. It felt like you've been doing this for decades. The way you played—it was like telling a story."
The professor answered:
"I started as a child. Back then, music was the only place I could find myself..."
But suddenly, a harsh cough broke the silence. Arthur was coughing—deep, dry, suffocating. His palm filled with blood, and his vision quickly blurred. His face turned as white as chalk. The professor rushed to his side, though his voice and movements remained calm.
"Arthur... you need to rest. You've pushed yourself too hard."
Arthur managed a nod.
"I think I should return to the dorms... Thank you for everything, professor. Your words helped... and your music... it touched my soul."
The professor only looked at him—quiet, unreadable—like a man who knows the truth but chooses not to speak it.