Fortunately, I made it in time. For once, I managed to successfully present my analysis—something I had never been able to pull off before. Not bragging, but after everything that had happened to me in the past few days—or should I say the past few hours, depending on how twisted this time really is—nothing could possibly faze me.
Or at least, that's what I believed.
Until I saw the dead body of the man I had once called my boss.
Sure, I hated him. He was lazy, rude, and the very definition of "good-for-nothing." The only reason he even held that position was because of his connections. But that didn't mean I wanted him dead—or that I'd take pleasure in the gruesome state in which I found him.
I was horrified. So much so that my legs moved before I could think, carrying me away from that dreadful sight. My stomach revolted, and I couldn't stop myself from puking until my insides felt hollow. It's not like I'd never seen a dead body before, but this one… this one was different. This one belonged on the very top of the list of the most spine-chilling corpses I'd ever laid eyes upon.
Who could have done such a thing? And what kind of hatred—or madness—would drive someone to inflict something so inhuman on him?
He wasn't the sort of man you'd expect to have enemies. A single guy. No family. Friends long scattered or lost to time. Nothing to pass on, no legacy to claim. For once, I pitied him. All this time, I'd assumed he only got his position through privilege and politics. But as the investigation unfolded, we learned something else entirely:
He wasn't cruel by choice. He was simply being rude because the higher-ups wanted to get rid of us. And while he pretended to side with them, behind the scenes he was quietly correcting our work when nobody noticed. In his drawer, they found a diary—page after page filled with the names of his subordinates. Each entry contained notes about their strengths, words of praise, encouragement, and suggestions for what paths they should pursue.
That truth hit harder than his death.
It would be wrong to say that things returned to normal in a few days. But time has a way of dragging people forward, whether they want to move or not. Work piled up, deadlines loomed, and eventually even his desk was occupied by someone new. Life is cruelly efficient like that.
Still, I couldn't shake the weight in my chest. If there's such a thing as another life, I can only hope he won't have to live it so lonely.
That was the moment I decided—I would resign. Enough of this half-dead routine, enough of hiding behind numbers and reports. I would take the path of the hunter. Today, I planned to register, but first I wanted to say my goodbyes.
The office watchman, one of the few true friends I had made while working here, was especially saddened when he heard about my departure. I consoled him with promises to stay in touch, and soon our conversation meandered into random chatter—future plans, the strange way life changes, and eventually, the subject of my late boss.
That's when he said something that froze me.
"I saw him that evening," the watchman whispered, glancing around as if the shadows themselves might be listening. "He was talking to some people. They wore platinum-colored capes. Faces covered, couldn't tell who they were. But… I saw a tattoo on one man's hand."
He paused, his eyes narrowing as though replaying the sight in his head.
"You remember those alchemy symbols we once saw in that short while scrolling? I think it was the symbol of Mars."