By the time he left the terminal, it was pouring rain outside.
The streets were completely empty, with floodwater rushing up to the curbs, gurgling as it flowed.
L casually shut the employee access door and looked up at the sky. Brilliant white lightning split the dark clouds, illuminating the towering buildings.
This kind of torrential weather was pretty rare for Florida, sitting there on the southeastern coast.
If it weren't for Orland's comprehensive city surveillance system, L would probably already be sitting in his hotel suite right now, having a drink and falling asleep to the sound of rain.
Killing "those things" wasn't difficult, but covering up their existence was way more complicated.
A police officer's disappearance was no small matter for ACPD. Combined with the local urban legends, it was enough for the media to spin it into some conspiracy theory that strayed way off from the facts.
But sometimes, to cover up the truth behind it all, L had no choice but to go with more efficient methods.
It might not be the best ending, but it was a fair equivalent exchange, and he'd move on to new battlefields, fighting until death.
In the noisy wind and rain, L threw the travel bag stuffed with bloody clothes into a metal drum along with some gasoline. Tonight's weather was too nasty for anyone to care if some homeless guy was trying to stay warm in a dark corner.
He lit himself a cigarette, exhaled a puff of smoke, then flicked the butt into the drum. Flames roared to life.
Day 374 of traveling alone. The hunt was over.
Thunder rolled away in an instant. L walked toward that 1967 Chevrolet Impala at the street corner. Not far off, Officer Schroeder sat in his car eating donuts, never once noticing that solitary figure.
...
Fifteen minutes later, Ushery Street, Pace Hotel.
L folded his umbrella and walked toward the Roman-style building standing in the darkness, carrying a briefcase with silver metal trim.
The waiter in his long coat spotted this young man walking through the storm from way off. After taking the gold coin L handed him, he bowed respectfully.
"Happy hunting, and thank you for your service to the Hidden World."
The waiter pulled open the heavy door, revealing an impeccably polite smile.
The Pace Hotel—one of the Secret Party's constituent organizations.
Its properties spanned five continents, operating independently without participating in the Secret Party's high-level decisions, yet enjoying considerable autonomy. It was mainly responsible for posting various bounties.
In some ways, this was the best trading spot for freelance hunters, and also the Secret Party's transfer station for maintaining order in the Hidden World.
Whether you were a wizard with no bloodline background, a wandering alchemist, or just an ordinary person who'd accidentally stumbled into the Hidden World—as long as you spent one Augustus gold coin issued by the hotel's upper management, you could enjoy the world's top-tier service and protection.
Absolutely no bias, strictly business, as long as you followed two iron rules:
No private fighting, and obey the Secret Party.
"Here to collect payment, but the target was two ghouls. Their biological samples are inside."
L walked up to the central front desk and pushed the briefcase across to the kindly-looking manager, keeping it brief.
"My sincere apologies. It seems our posted bounty had a slight intelligence error—" Hotel manager Mayeck pushed up his glasses and smiled at the young man before him.
"L." The young man with sharp, blade-like features said flatly.
"Admirable work efficiency, Mr. L. If I'm not mistaken, this should be your second day staying here."
Mayeck nodded elegantly, his appreciation obvious.
"To compensate for your loss, this bounty will be increased to four Augustus gold coins. Would you prefer to exchange them for cash or take them directly?"
Augustus gold coins—the Pace Hotel's currency. The front and back were printed with Marcus Aurelius, hailed as the world's liberator, and the Black-eared Cross symbolizing ancient Roman royalty.
Each one was worth fifty thousand dollars and could be directly exchanged for equipment, supplies, and various services within the hotel.
"Of course, I personally recommend the exchange option. Our finance department will deposit it into your account through legal means, or we can commission our partners—namely Goldman Sachs—for short-term investments."
Mayeck, a Yale School of Management graduate, spoke eloquently, apparently not minding giving this excellent hunter a few tips.
"The future world will only become more turbulent. We all need to plan ahead, don't we?"
"Very tempting advice, but please indulge me in a bit of trivial hypocrisy."
L declined the offer and calmly pulled out a stack of neatly arranged gold coins from his coat pocket: "Add these to the total, and send it to the families of those who died needlessly, in some reasonable way."
From the quantity, these coins were worth about a million dollars, which conservatively translated to over ten undead beings.
It was hard to imagine that someone as young as L had such an impressive record. Among freelance hunters with a 54% fatality rate, this was extremely rare—enough to rival Secret Party field operatives.
"For many years to come, they'll keep searching for their missing family members, won't they?"
He asked this question, his handsome, pale face showing neither joy nor sorrow, making his emotions impossible to read.
Mayeck was stunned speechless.
After a long silence, he finally bowed slightly and lowered his proud head: "As you wish, then."
"Thank you very much." L casually paid one gold coin as a tip, then turned and left under Mayeck's astonished expression.
Another deep night, with torrential rain outside the hotel. Security personnel stood like sculptures in various areas.
L sat alone at the bar, listening to the sound of rain washing against the glass, enjoying this rare moment of leisure.
"One Macallan, Sherry Oak or Fine Oak, then muddled blackberries, plus two parts apple juice, thanks."
He looked toward the empty lounge area, where only an old man in a wheelchair was reading a collection of Shelley's poetry.
"Nice taste, way better than those hicks who only drink highballs." The young bartender hummed a tune while quickly carving ice. "Mind if I steal your recipe, young man from far-off Britain?"
"Is that a stereotype?" L gently tapped the black umbrella beside him, not denying it. "Prism speaking—my friend's recipe."
"Unusual name. Must be quite the charming gentleman too." The bartender put away his ice pick, admiring the smooth ice sphere in his hand before expertly placing it in the glass and giving it a spin.
"Yeah, interesting guy." L said quietly, seeming lost in memory. "But unfortunately, he's already dead."
"Stepping into the real world means keeping company with death—fair equivalent exchange."
The bartender followed his gaze through the floor-to-ceiling windows toward the cloudy sky: "But kindhearted hunters like you are pretty rare. Feeling merciful?"
"Every hunter has their own reasons for hunting. Money, power, advancement—I just value that last one more, and do what I can on the side."
L pulled out a cigarette from an aluminum case.
His hand was steady as he lit the match, the flame illuminating his face deliberately hidden in shadow, carrying some inexplicable loneliness.
"A gentleman's character—doesn't seem like a wizard... Truth Path alchemist?"
The bartender poured amber liquid into the glass while chatting with L.
"Good guess. First Order: Gold."
The bartender's expression froze for a moment, apparently not expecting L to reveal his intelligence so smoothly.
Even so, he was still somewhat surprised that someone under twenty had already passed the purification period.
The so-called Truth Path was the process by which humans sought self-realization and achieved perfect unity of spirit and flesh.
At the beginning of this path, one had to use the fetal blood of naturally miscarried infants to draw the original transmutation circle, stripping away the Self from the Sea of Human Reason—the collective unconscious—and completing the process from coagulation to decay.
In this process, one had to use the pineal gland in the human brain as an anchor point, causing the Self to decay into the Ring of Thanatos capable of bearing holy relics, inscribing it into the flesh to achieve the body's first circulation, and finally enter the long period known as purification.
But this was merely the beginning.
Because in a sense, reaching the far shore of purification—Gold—was the true start of the seven Orders.
This Order took its name from alchemy's hidden language: turning lead into gold.
Using holy relics as a medium, achieving compatibility with the Ring of Thanatos, then decomposing it into primordial fluid and containing it within, forming one's own unique transmutation techniques and prototype transmutation circles, forging true human gold.
At this stage, all aspects of human physical function would experience growth again, possibly even exceeding in certain areas.
However, based on the principle of equivalent exchange, gaining this power required paying a non-fatal one-time price.
But if the price of touching truth were so small, it wouldn't make countless people hesitate.
Because the final ritual of each advancement meant facing what represented one's original sin—the Beast of Human Reason.
This materialized creature from the collective unconscious was undoubtedly an extremely difficult chasm for humans to cross.
Killing, reconciling, or submitting—different choices would determine each alchemist's future path.
"But having overcome so many difficulties to reach today, you're surely destined to step into that flawless Emerald in the near future."
Probably realizing his impropriety, the bartender who had been silent for so long finally smiled.
"Maybe. After all, I've already mastered the advancement ritual for the Second Order."
Faced with the bartender's praise, L generously continued revealing precious intelligence: "But I'm currently stuck on the first step. To fully master my own transmutation techniques, I probably need more refinement in technique."
Given the situation, the bartender stopped holding back and generously shared his knowledge.
"Second Order: Emerald, taken from the Emerald Tablet's hidden language—'One is All.' It symbolizes the fusion of 'Life Instinct' and 'Death Instinct' into the 'Self Egg,' achieving complete circulation. But to master transmutation techniques and refine skills is far less important than understanding the nature of the techniques." The bartender emphasized.
L gave the stage to the bartender and silently picked up his silver knife to muddle fresh New Zealand blackberries.
"However, in my view, the second step might be even more crucial."
He grew more excited as he spoke, taking apple juice from the cooler and pouring it smoothly into the glass.
"Because fusing techniques with the prototype transmutation circle to become part of the circulation—its true meaning is achieving self-control over the body. Every nerve, every muscle no longer submits to instinct, but forms an interactive triangular balance with spirit, flesh, and the transmutation circle."
"Unity of heaven and man from Eastern philosophy."
L made a precise summary and applauded.
"As for the Beast of Human Reason symbolizing gluttony, its essence represents addiction to material pleasures and unrestrained pursuit of happiness." The bartender turned to clean up the waste, smiling silently. "But with your nature, I imagine you'll choose the optimal path in the choices of human reason."
"You're not bad yourself—reaching the Emerald Order before twenty-three, yet willing to play a bartender and chat with me."
L pressed a finger against the glass the other pushed toward him and suddenly said quietly.
The young man disguised as a bartender's face changed drastically as he spun around.
The moment their eyes met, both of them simultaneously revealed brilliant golden pupils.
"Humerian, enough." The old man put down his poetry collection and said flatly. "If this were a battlefield, you'd already be dead."
"Cough, just exchanging some academic questions with a fellow student I've never met... Humerian Rutledge, Miska Academy undergraduate, sophomore year."
The young man smiled sheepishly and extended his hand to L, though facing the two gold coins handed to him, he suddenly felt like he'd eaten shit.
"I still prefer how you were just now, but what gave me away as not being a real bartender? This has been my dream since childhood..."
The heartbroken Humerian wiped his hands on his apron, quite openly admitting his failure—and incidentally accepting those two gold coins.
"You reek of blood too much. That's not something a little cologne can cover up. Plus professional bartenders never use perfume—it affects customers' tasting... Isn't that common knowledge?"
L drank his liquor by himself, his calm tone making the other guy plenty mad.
As for those two gold coins, there was no mockery intended—purely appreciation for wisdom.
"Sorry, my worthless junior meant no harm, he's just mysteriously curious about you."
The old man in the wheelchair smiled. Hard lines covered that weathered face like an iceberg. As his secretary pushed him over to L's side, he waved for Humerian to leave.
"Well, see you next time. Hope to see you at the academy's pool party."
Humerian gave L's shoulder a hearty slap, with the flavor of wandering heroes meeting wherever life takes them, though the second half of his comment sounded to L like he was looking for accomplices in highway robbery.
The old man watched him leave, then said calmly after a while: "Unfortunately, even personally stepping onto the hunting battlefield, he still can't compare to you."
"His hunting target should have been a Krampus. That bloody smell of tar mixed with heather is quite memorable. But I also caught the scent of fresh human blood—not his. Seems the hyena trying to steal food chose the wrong opponent."
L casually drained his glass of liquor, speaking with certainty.
"More perceptive than I imagined." The old man smiled. "I can only say, worthy of a child the Gray family places such hopes in."
"Surnames and pride are worthless before real strength. Self-important brats will still die on real battlefields no matter how armed to the teeth they are."
"Is that so?" The old man seemed moved by L's statement. "For a privileged noble heir, your resolve is frighteningly firm."
"Only by being first to step onto the battlefield is the real privilege of nobility. Minister Rutledge, if I'm not mistaken."
Finally, L turned to look at the old man beside him.
Secret Party North American Division Executive Minister, Cole Rutledge.