Within the confines of a basement that seemed to be drowned in darkness, the echoes of demonic chants reverberated through the walls like the heartbeat of a living creature. A group of figures in long black robes surrounded the scene, resembling mere shadows, their gender impossible to discern. Each wore a grotesque mask, some frozen in unnaturally wide smiles, others blank and featureless as if reflecting the emptiness of their souls. They chanted their infernal rites around a young man who seemed to be in his late teens, around eighteen or nineteen, with chestnut-red hair and hollow golden eyes. His wounded body was tightly bound with mysterious chains. His golden eyes, lifeless and unblinking, stared at the corpses of his companions and the deranged cultists surrounding him, while the heavy air, thick with the scent of blood and burning candles, testified that every step he and his team had taken had led them to this cursed moment. The bodies of Lloyd, Inspector Winslow, and the others lay scattered like fragments of a shattered dream, leaving him with a silence heavier on his heart than his own flowing blood.
"So, this is the supposed price of truth?" Arthur whispered to himself. The bitter smile on his lips could not conceal the pain of his wounds, each breath stolen from him one by one, as he observed the masked shadows swirling around him as if they were part of the night itself.
He drew his final breath, but not before noticing something glimmering at the center of the basement: an inverted pentagram glowing with dark, ominous light. From it, a shadow erupted, consuming all light, air, and everything around him, until it seemed the very place itself was disappearing from reality. In his last moments, he saw what no human should witness, something beyond consciousness and reason, beyond human comprehension: an entity embodying immeasurable horror and madness, staring into him and reaching into his very soul, making his heart pound with fear and awe as if the terror existed within him. Then everything went dark, and he was swallowed by eternal night.
Now, to understand how such a tragedy came to be, we must rewind time slightly, back to where it all had just begun a few weeks earlier, almost two weeks or so…
In northwest London, within the boundaries of Kensal Green and North Kensington, on Harrow Road, lies Kensal Green Cemetery. Spanning nearly twenty-nine hectares, it stretches from Harrow Road to the north, Ladbroke Grove to the east, and the Grand Union Canal to the south. Paved paths wind through marble headstones and ancient tombs, scattered here and there by silent angel statues guarding towering family mausoleums. In this place, the noise of the city fades into the distance, replaced by the scent of damp earth and wildflowers, while the occasional caw of a crow echoes faintly through the branches.
Along one of those paths walked a lone young man who appeared to be in his late teens. His reddish-brown hair caught the faint light of morning, and his sharp golden eyes glimmered with intelligence. He wore canvas trousers, a white shirt with a wool collar, and a long brown winter coat that reached his thighs. Confidence and striking good looks shaped his appearance, though in that moment his face was marked by a heavy silence as he gazed at a marble gravestone engraved with the words:
William Ashford
1956 – 2014
In memory of a man who was a model of loyalty, strength, and tenderness. His memory will forever live on in our hearts. Rest in peace and eternal comfort.
This young man was none other than Arthur Leonharth, the brilliant consulting detective celebrated as one of the most skilled and distinguished minds of the modern era. His journey into the thorny world of crime investigation had begun five years earlier, when he was only fourteen years old. Even then, he displayed an astonishing intelligence and an almost unsettling ability to observe and analyze.
Arthur's mind was rigorous and logical, yet he possessed a rare, almost uncanny gift for uncovering truths from the smallest details, whether hidden or in plain sight. This talent earned him a reputation for solving the most complex and bewildering cases. Time and again, his sharp reasoning and uncanny intuition revealed the threads that tied together mysteries others had deemed unsolvable.
Known by titles such as "The Great Detective" and "The Modern-Day Holmes," and even by some playful and childish nicknames like "The King of Mysteries," Arthur now stood silently before the gravestone of the man who had been like a father to him. This was the man who had raised and cared for him after the tragic disappearance of his parents when Arthur had been only four or five years old.
"Today will mark the fifth anniversary of that day. The day you, Aunt Lilia, and the others vanished from this earth. And yet, even after all this time, after five long years of searching, I have found nothing to explain what truly happened that day. No matter how great of a so-called detective I am, no matter how many people call me the modern-day Sherlock Holmes, I still cannot solve the one case that still haunts my dreams," Arthur whispered as his hand brushed the cold marble gently. His words carried the pain of a heart still wounded and the frustration of a mind unable to unravel the tragedy that had defined his life.
And how could he not feel such anguish? After all, the very reason Arthur had become the great detective he was lay in that single, fateful day when the ancestral Leonharth estate exploded and went up in flames. The grand palace, passed down for centuries through the family line, was reduced to nothing but ash, and with it perished everyone within its walls. Servants, caretakers, and companions, all bound in one way or another to the Leonharth name, were lost. Among them was William Ashford, the loyal steward who had been both a father and a mentor to Arthur. From that painful moment onward, Arthur resolved to step into the world of investigation and crime, driven not by ambition but by the unyielding need to uncover the truth of that calamity, to expose its hidden causes, and to secure justice for those he loved.
Not to mention how Arthur's resolve had grown even stronger than ever before when he had uncovered some evidence proving that the so-called "accident" had never been an accident at all. The authorities had dismissed it as nothing more than a gas leak, said to have caused the explosion and fire that consumed the Leonharth estate, a property spanning more than four hectares, or over forty thousand square meters. Yet the reality was far darker. What happened was no stroke of misfortune, but a deliberate act of destruction, a calculated crime carried out with the sole intent of eradicating the Leonharth family once and for all.
In his youth, Arthur had never imagined a future in law enforcement or investigative work. A prodigy by nature, he had completed high school at the age of nine and, by fourteen, had earned his PhD in both biophysics and biochemistry fields, long before most children his age had even begun to consider their future. It was as if his mind knew no bounds. And naturally, criminal investigation had never entered his thoughts, nor did the fields of law enforcement hold any significance for him at the time, as He had never even once considered pursuing such a path. Yet life, as it always does, held unexpected turns. The destruction of the Leonharth estate five years ago was never merely a passing tragedy for Arthur; it had become a turning point far deeper than words could convey. In a mere instant, he found himself swept into a whirlwind of mystery and grief, surrounded by questions that left him no choice but to seek the truth.
The decision to pursue a career in criminal investigation was neither simple nor immediate for him, as he wrestled with the conflict between his cold, rational intellect and the ache of a heart that could not endure injustice. He knew his age would make others doubt him, and he understood that the road ahead would be filled with resistance. Yet his resolve did not waver. He pressed forward, determined to let neither doubt nor hardship deter him. Within only a few years, he silenced his critics and proved that his brilliance was no accident, but a true gift, one capable of unveiling the darkest truths.
At last, after sharing his heart before the grave of the man who had meant more to him than his own father, Arthur laid down a bouquet of white roses threaded with dark red blooms. He turned and began walking toward the cemetery gate. A glance at his watch reminded him that he was expected at a nearby café to meet with his editor about his upcoming novel.
As he walked, the solemn hush of the cemetery gave way to the bustle of London's streets. It was as if he had crossed from a realm of stillness and memory into one alive with noise and movement. Before leaving, Arthur cast one last look back at the rows of gravestones, pulled his coat tighter around him, and stepped into the world beyond.
As he turned from Harrow Street into Green Hollow, a narrow side alley lined with aging brick façades and tiny windows exhaling the faint scent of roasted coffee, Arthur felt the quiet familiarity of a path he knew as well as the back of his hand. This alley, in particular, always led him, inevitably, to his favorite refuge, 'The Quill and Cup.' And though it was but one of London's countless winding passages, for Arthur it carried a singular weight: his own gateway to sanctuary, a place where he often met his editor and friend, George Criss. Here, conversations on literature mingled with the steam of hot coffee and the rustle of turning pages, as though the café itself were a chapter drawn from a never-ending novel.
As Arthur neared the entrance, his eyes quickly found George seated at a corner table by the window, sipping his coffee with unhurried ease as he waited. Arthur strode forward and, upon reaching the table, bent slightly in greeting: "Ah, George, you seem to have arrived early… apologies for the delay, have you been waiting long?" he said in an apologetic tone.
George smiled calmly, setting his cup down. "Not at all, I only just got here a few minutes ago, actually."
Arthur settled into the chair opposite, but George wasted no time, pulling out the preliminary draft of Arthur's upcoming novel, which Arthur had sent him days before. With a faint smile, he asked, "So… this retired detective of yours. Don't you think he gives the reader the sense that he's hiding something far bigger than the crime itself?"
Arthur took a slow sip of coffee, his gaze lost in the rising steam. "Sometimes, my friend, the real mysteries aren't only at the crime scene; they lie within the very soul of the one trying to solve them."
George leaned forward, eyes gleaming with curiosity. "And the ending? Will you truly leave the reader without the full truth?"
At that, Arthur's lips curved into a cryptic smile. "Who's to say… perhaps I'll reveal it, or perhaps I'll leave them in the dark. After all, in life, most mysteries remain concealed and unsolved, their answers forever hidden."
But before George could reply, Arthur's phone buzzed on the table, cutting through their exchange. When he glanced at the screen, it was no exaggeration to say he was stunned; the name displayed read' Inspector Edward Winslow.' Raising the phone to his ear, he heard the inspector's sharp, deliberate yet quieter than usual voice: "Arthur… we have a case. And this time, we may truly need your expertise."
No sooner had he ended the call than Arthur grabbed his brown coat from the back of his chair, excusing himself hurriedly. "I'm sorry, George, but it seems our conversation will have to be cut short today… as it seems that something urgent has come up." With that, he strode out, leaving behind his steaming cup of coffee, much as he left their discussion suspended mid-thought.