**Professor Charles stood in silence for a moment after Arthur left the room, his gaze fixed on the door. A pale light filtered through the large window, casting a slow dance of dust motes in the air. With quiet steps, he moved toward the towering bookshelf, ran his hand over the old leather-bound volumes, and pulled out one of his special sketchbooks.**
**The cover was hard and black, worn at the corners from years of use. As he opened it, a page emerged from among the other sketches — a drawing of Elizabeth's death.**
**Elizabeth was depicted kneeling, barely upright, a sword embedded in her abdomen and a spear piercing her shoulder. Her right hand, bloodstained and trembling, reached out toward an unknown source of light, as if calling for salvation — or release — in her final moments. Professor Charles stared at the image for a while... and a faint smile curved his lips. It was not the scene of a murder he saw, but a work of art.**
**He picked up his drawing pen and began adding details with obsessive care — the folds of fabric, the curve of blood, the expression in Elizabeth's half-open eyes...**
**Suddenly, a soft knock broke the silence. A calm but confident voice asked:
"Professor Charles? May I come in?"**
**Charles answered with a composed and gentle tone:
"Yes, please, come in."**
**The door opened, and Professor Kyle entered. Dressed in his usual dark attire and black cloak, his expression was cold and unreadable, though his eyes scanned the room quickly — as if searching for something.**
**Charles welcomed him with a warm smile:
"Welcome, Professor Kyle. Please, have a seat."**
**Kyle offered a small bow, head lowered slightly.
"Apologies for disturbing you at this hour… but there's something I felt I had to discuss with you in person."**
**Charles nodded warmly.
"No trouble at all. I'm glad to hear it."**
**He stood and moved toward the shelf behind his desk. With his back to Kyle, he retrieved a dark bottle of red wine and set two crystal glasses on the table. During this moment, Kyle took a step forward.**
**A golden opportunity to look around.**
**With his mind tangled in doubts and unanswered questions, Kyle stole a quick glance around the room. His eyes landed on the drawing desk... and the open sketchbook. He froze.**
**Elizabeth's death.**
**Not as a sketch, but as a near-perfect recreation of the crime scene. The details — the blood, the angles of the wounds, the position of her limbs, the light — were far too accurate to be imagined.**
**Color drained from Kyle's face. His heartbeat quickened. He took a step back, holding his breath, and forced himself to look away — but it was too late. Professor Charles now stood behind him, holding two glasses of wine, a deep smile on his face.**
**"Please, have a seat. You said you had something to discuss?"**
**Kyle, hands slightly trembling and trying hard to maintain a composed expression, replied:
"Y-yes, I... I'll sit now."**
**He took the seat, avoiding the sketchbook with his gaze. Professor Charles sat across from him, handed him a glass, took a sip from his own, and said in a soft, cordial voice:
"It's not often we get to sit and have a proper one-on-one conversation... I've been longing for a good discussion."**
**The glass in Kyle's hand shook ever so slightly. His thoughts were a whirlwind of doubt and fear... and one question echoed relentlessly in his mind:**
**Was he sitting across from an artist — or a murderer?**
Kyle still looked shaken, fear etched deep into his features. His face clearly revealed a mind overwhelmed by doubt and unspoken questions. As he stared silently at the table, all he could think about was whether Professor Charles could truly be the killer. In an academy full of secrets and lies, he now faced a man who seemed not only a distinguished scholar, but something far more complex—and possibly far more dangerous—than Kyle had ever imagined.
Professor Charles sat calmly in his chair, legs crossed, a cold, innocent smile playing on his lips. His gaze was steady, unmoving, as though waiting for Kyle to make the first move and speak.
After a brief pause, Kyle took a deep breath and began to speak, his voice still quivering faintly with fear.
"I wanted to talk about Elizabeth's murder."
Charles slowly lifted his eyes from his glass of wine and looked at Kyle. His smile remained, but there was a certain depth of thought behind his gaze. He paused for a moment, as if weighing Kyle's intent, deciding how best to respond.
"Of course," Professor Charles said, raising his eyebrows slightly. "What part of that murder do you find interesting?"
Kyle, who had been trying to maintain eye contact all along, failed and looked down. His heart was pounding, but he told himself he had to keep going. Carefully, he asked,
"Is there anything you know about Elizabeth's murder that you haven't told anyone?"
Charles tilted his head slightly to the left, examining Kyle with precision. The smile faded just a bit, but he remained composed and in control.
"That's a rather unexpected question," he said, as though weighing the truth in his mind. "But I'll answer. I know as much as everyone else knows—no more, no less. But why did you ask that?"
Kyle's heart beat faster. His mind was tangled with contradictions. Did Charles really know nothing? Or was he playing a game, pretending to be ignorant while holding all the cards? Was everything Kyle thought he knew about him a lie?
He paused for a few minutes, placing his hand on the table and clenching his teeth. Then, in a voice that tried to remain steady, he said,
"Nothing specific… I just wanted your opinion. The fact that there's a psychopath among us, killing students in such a grotesque way, made me want to bring it up with you."
This time, Charles kept his calm gaze on Kyle. His smile had thinned, but there was still no trace of fear or unease in his eyes.
"Elizabeth's death—and the others over the past month—have made this academy unsafe," he said, his voice deeper now, layered with meaning. "Especially for the students. They're the most vulnerable. As for Elizabeth's murder and the others… let's just say the methods and signatures don't match. One of them is here, in the academy, targeting students. The other is part of something else—a secret organization."
Charles fell silent, lost in thought. Then, with a tone that suggested he was thinking of something far beyond the walls of the room, he added,
"Whatever's happening… it feels like a much larger event is unfolding—something tied to the capital."
Kyle, still reeling from the information Charles had shared, felt as though these words were just the beginning of a far greater mystery—one that might change his life forever. New questions began to surface in his mind. Was Charles telling the truth? Was he just a professor… or something much more?
A war was raging inside Kyle's mind. He listened intently to every word, yet he couldn't shake the doubts that clung to him. Should he trust this information? Or was this part of Charles's plan to deceive him?
The room grew heavier with tension. Every word, every move Charles made, felt like a step deeper into a dark and unfamiliar world. Was Kyle facing the truth—or something far more sinister?
Kyle stared into Charles's cold, emotionless eyes. The silence in the room was unbearable, each second like a blade dragging across his nerves. With a voice bubbling from deep inside, though he tried to sound calm, he said:
"I'm just thinking… how could anyone be so cruel as to kill a seven-year-old girl like that? To pull out her internal organs, stuff her stomach with flowers, and rip her heart out of her chest. That kind of horror… only a true psychopath is capable of such things. Someone among us appears calm and harmless on the outside—but inside, they're hell itself. A real monster. And the fact that I don't know who it is… terrifies me."
The smile faded from Charles's lips. His face was now neutral, expressionless. His gaze, sharp and merciless, was locked on Kyle. He paused for a long moment, then asked quietly, but with weight:
"Is there someone you suspect, Professor Kyle?"
Kyle fell into silence. His mind was a storm of confusion, brimming with unanswered questions. He didn't know whether to trust what he heard or believe the fear that gnawed at him. With a trembling yet serious voice, he replied:
"Honestly… I don't know who's innocent anymore and who might be the killer. Anyone could be hiding a monster behind their face. I can't name names… because if I'm wrong, I'll just make a fool of myself."
Charles leaned forward slightly, picking up his glass of wine.
"That's perfectly understandable, Kyle. When such horror surrounds us, it's natural for our minds to fill with questions. We're all searching for answers... looking for a glimmer of light in this darkness."
Kyle tried to push aside the storm in his mind. He reached for the table and picked up his wine glass. He took a sip. The bitterness of the wine mixed with the bitterness of his thoughts. He calmed slightly, but his movements still betrayed his anxiety.
At that moment, Charles gave a faint smile—as if something in his mind had just been confirmed. Then he said:
"I have a feeling that your visit here wasn't just to talk about Elizabeth's murder, was it? It was more about the killer."
Kyle suddenly felt a swirl in his head. A soft but growing dizziness, like a wave rising from deep within. His mind was tangled in a thousand thoughts, and he didn't realize where the feeling came from. In a voice laced with both tremor and doubt, he said:
"To be honest… I suspect you, Charles. I've tried hard to push the thought away, but I couldn't. That night—I saw you. I saw you coming out of the greenhouse. The same place they found Elizabeth's body the next morning. At that hour… you had no reason to be there."
Charles smiled again—this time wider, with a strange pleasure—tilting his head slightly.
"So, you finally decided to say what's been on your mind. I must say… your courage is truly admirable, Professor Kyle."
Kyle tried to stand up. But suddenly, he lost his balance. A wave of dizziness swept over him, and his body collapsed against the bookshelf beside the table. The sound of the crash echoed through the quiet room.
Charles remained seated, legs crossed, as though the entire scene was completely normal. He silently watched Kyle.
Kyle, struggling, gathered himself off the floor. His face was flushed, his body heavy, and his mind clouded. With anger and confusion, he shouted:
"What the hell did you put in that wine?!"
**Charles rose from his seat calmly. His steps were slow and deliberate, like a hunter certain that the prey had no way out. He approached Kyle, stopped in front of him, leaned in, and said in a cold, composed voice:**
**"Just a strong sedative... something to help you think more clearly."**
Kyle's eyes flared with fury. His breaths grew heavy. With all his strength, he shouted:
**"I knew it! I knew you were the killer, you sick bastard!"**
But it was too late. His body was already too heavy to resist, and Charles... Charles just smiled. It was no longer the smile of a calm man—it was the mask of a demon. A demon that had long hidden in the dark, now fully stepping into its role.
Kyle's eyelids grew heavier. The world spun around him, and sounds echoed distantly in his ears. He tried to keep his eyes open, but the light from the chandelier fractured and blurred. The last thing his mind registered was Charles's face. He was standing there, right in front of him, wearing a calm, cold smile void of all emotion.
Then everything went black.
---
He didn't know how much time had passed. Maybe minutes, maybe hours, maybe an entire day. When he opened his eyes, the dim glow of an old filament bulb barely illuminated the room. He found himself seated on a rusted metal chair, arms and legs bound with thick chains. The air smelled of damp and rotting wood. The room was cold and clammy—like a forgotten basement.
Kyle tried to take a deep breath, but his chest burned with pain. His head was still heavy, and he felt nauseous. There was no sign of mana—he tried to feel the energy flowing through his body, but something within the chair or chains was blocking it. The chains swallowed mana like a dark void, draining every attempt he made to gather power.
He struggled. Once. Twice. But the chains didn't budge. Only a faint metallic creak echoed in return.
Then came the sound of footsteps—slow, heavy, deliberate—echoing in the hallway outside. With each step, they drew closer to the door. Then the old wooden door creaked open.
Charles entered.
He wore a long, dark coat, a dusty, tattered cloak draped over his shoulders. The light behind him cast his shadow long and monstrous on the wall. In silence, he stared at Kyle—his eyes devoid of any mercy.
With that same soft tone he always used—though now more befitting a torturer than a friend—he spoke:
**"Hello, Kyle. Awake already?"**
Kyle, sweat pouring down his face, but his eyes still burning with fury, spat back:
**"You think you can escape the law? One day you'll be caught, Charles."**
Charles paused. A bitter smile tugged at his lips. Without breaking eye contact, he said:
**"But by then... will you still be alive?"**
His voice was soft, but something horrifying slithered beneath its surface. Kyle froze. He understood the threat—not just to his life, but to his mind, his very identity.
And in that bitter silence, he whispered one word:
**"Why?"**
Charles raised his eyebrows. Tilted his head slightly, as if the question truly puzzled him.
**"Why what?"**
Kyle, barely holding back his fury, shouted:
**"Why did you kill Elizabeth?! She was just a child… an innocent student. Why that way?!"**
Charles stepped closer. Now only a few feet separated them. He moved silently, like someone approaching a dark altar. Slowly, he knelt until he was eye-level with Kyle. A short silence passed before he spoke, quietly, yet heavily:
**"Innocent? No, Kyle. That girl only wore the mask of innocence. Do you know how many younger students she threatened? How many she drove to the edge of suicide?"**
For a moment, his eyes burned.
**"I brought justice. What she did to others... the emotional torture, the humiliation, the destruction of self-worth... sometimes that's worse than death. She wasn't just a child—she was a monster wrapped in a child's skin. And Kyle? Monsters... don't deserve mercy."**
A crushing silence fell over the room. The only sound was the occasional drip of water from rusted pipes above, tapping onto the damp stone floor. Kyle had nothing to say. What he'd heard tore at his mind. Was it a bitter truth—or a sick justification for murder?
Charles stood again. A cold smile crept onto his face—a smile with no warmth, just the reflection of a twisted pleasure. His eyes glinted in the flickering light overhead.
**"You see, Kyle, the plan to kill Elizabeth had been written in my mind long ago. Like a carefully scripted play, with all its scenes and dialogue in place."**
He walked slowly. The sound of his heels echoed on the damp stones.
**"I knew where you'd be, what you'd do, even when you'd start digging into things. That's why I left her body in the greenhouse... because I knew, sooner or later, you'd find it there. I left through the main gate—on purpose. I wanted you to see me. I *wanted* you to suspect me."**
Now he stood directly in front of Kyle. His voice was soft, but each word sank like a dagger into Kyle's chest.
**"You were like an open book, Kyle. I knew you'd collect clues, look for patterns, search for a motive… and that's exactly what I wanted. A mind preoccupied. Attention diverted. Until I found you... right where I wanted you: vulnerable, and trusting. The sedative... was just the final flourish."**
He paused. His voice, now more than cold, carried a twisted pride—artistic, almost theatrical.
**"All of this was for one thing, Kyle... *fear.*"**
He leaned in. So close, Kyle could feel his slow, deathly breath.
**"You didn't even realize... you were part of the plan from the moment you saw Elizabeth's corpse."**
Kyle clenched his jaw. His eyes burned with a mix of rage, hatred, and fear. His voice trembled, choked with emotion:
**"If Elizabeth deserved to die—if she had done something wrong—then what about me? What did *I* do?"**
Charles gazed into his eyes, calm and steady.
**"Nothing. You're not guilty. You're not innocent. But that doesn't matter to me."**
He tilted his head slightly, as if admiring Kyle's face—not like a man, but like a sculptor eyeing an unfinished statue.
**"You're going to become a work of art. A beautiful piece... with a very clear message for the Academy."**
Kyle, filled with disgust, muttered:
**"What message?"**
Charles smiled—soft, almost like a lullaby:
**"Fear."**
Kyle's eyes widened. His breathing quickened. His body felt ice-cold. He whispered:
**"You... you're not just insane… you're a monster. A monster who kills people for fun—for some twisted pleasure."**
Charles slowly raised a hand and gently touched Kyle's shoulder—like a father comforting a weary child. But his touch was cold. Soulless.
**"Are you afraid, Kyle? Of death?"**
Kyle dropped his head, took a deep breath, and said:
**"Of course I am… I'm human. I have a family… things I want to protect."**
Charles stepped back, clasped his hands behind him, and spoke in a cold, philosophical tone:
**"If the world is merely a thought in the mind of God, then maybe... only in the moment of death, that thought becomes clear. Perhaps only at the brink of destruction do we understand who we truly are… don't you think?"**
He pulled a slender, gleaming knife from within his cloak. Its edge was fine, its surface too clean to be just a killing tool. With a white cloth, he began wiping it—meticulously, like a craftsman tending to his finest instrument.
Kyle glanced at the chains. He struggled again. His breath quickened. The chains didn't move. His mana, once his source of strength, was useless here. Every attempt to summon it was swallowed by something unseen.
Charles stepped closer. Knelt. Eye level again. His gaze fixed on Kyle's.
**"Close your eyes, Kyle… and embrace the eternal silence."**
And with terrifying softness, he slid the blade between Kyle's ribs. A wet, sickening sound filled the room. Kyle's mouth opened—but his scream died in his throat. His vision blurred, but he still saw Charles's eyes.
**Eyes calm. Unbothered. Like those of an artist—not a killer.**
And the last thing he felt was the cold kiss of steel in his heart.
Drops of blood fell slowly from the deep wound in Kyle's chest, the sound of each drop like a death knell echoing in the silence. Every drop, a grim reminder of the seconds he had left.
His chest heaved with effort. His breaths were short and sharp. The fire of the knife still burned in his chest—but worse was the cold, spreading through his limbs. The cold of death.
All Kyle could do was stare into Charles's eyes. Eyes without pity, without mercy, glimmering with the twisted pleasure of witnessing suffering.
A tear slipped from the corner of Kyle's eye—not from the pain, but from quiet terror. The terror of never seeing his family again, of never hearing his wife's voice, or seeing his daughter's smile.
The thought of everything left unfinished hurt more than the blade.
His final breath escaped with a ragged gasp…
And his eyelids froze—half open.
**Charles stared for a moment.**
At Kyle's lifeless face.
At the dried tear on his cheek.
At the warm, silent corpse before him.
Then he bowed his head slightly and whispered, in a voice as soft as breath:
**"…And now, it's time for the performance."**
As though the lead actor had finally stepped onto the stage, and the play was ready to begin.
With care, Charles began unfastening the chains. Blood still seeped from the wound in Kyle's chest. He dragged the body across the floor with meticulous precision, each streak of blood painting the ground behind them like the brushstrokes of a deranged artist.
Every drop—an unholy signature on the cold, lifeless floor.
---
**The next morning – Academy Amphitheater**
The sun had yet to fully rise.
Pale yellow light streamed through the tall windows of the amphitheater, cold and distant.
The air smelled of old dust and aging wood.
The academy's janitor, a middle-aged man in a gray uniform, shuffled into the hall, dragging his bucket and mop behind him. Like every other day, he moved toward the rows of seats, mind dulled with routine—until he stopped.
His eyes widened.
The color drained from his face.
Then, a scream—sharp and raw—tore through the silence of the amphitheater:
**"Oh God! This… this is—!"**
Footsteps thundered through the academy's corridors. Guards rushed in, breathless. But when they reached the amphitheater, they fell silent.
Not from indifference—
But from horror.
A heavy, choking silence blanketed them.
One of the guards, lips parted, voice trembling, muttered:
**"Dear God… this is a massacre."**
At the center of the stage, seated on the actor's wooden chair, was a corpse.
**Kyle.**
His eyes were not closed, but had been forcefully bound with a black cloth—tight, as if the killer wanted to ensure that, even in death, Kyle would see nothing.
His mouth had been sewn shut with thick red thread—each stitch cruelly precise, a declaration of eternal silence.
A knife jutted from his chest, lodged deep in the heart, its blade still glinting.
Blood dripped from beneath the chair, soaking into the wooden floor, spreading like a shadow—
like a curtain of nightmare.
Behind the body, across the velvet backdrop of the stage, written in blood, were the words:
**"And he who has seen the truth
must have his eyes and mouth
sealed for eternity."**
The academy trembled.
Screams echoed.
Boots pounded.
Soldiers stormed in.
Security officials.
Investigators.
The theater became a crime scene.
But in their eyes, beyond the uniforms and the weapons,
was **terror**.
The killer had not only murdered one of the academy's most powerful instructors—
He had transformed death into a performance.
A cruel, exacting performance.
A message.
And this was only the **beginning**.