Young Arthur lay on the muddy ground, his small body almost swallowed by the damp earth. Beside him rested a shovel nearly as large as he was. Beyond the patch of ground where he lay stood a cluster of wooden houses, each surrounded by small, weathered fences. It was a town, though there was something strangely unnatural about its silence. The houses looked abandoned, the streets were empty, and the atmosphere carried the unsettling stillness of a place that had witnessed something terrible. After several moments, Arthur slowly pushed himself upright and looked first to his right, then to his left. He scratched the back of his head, almost absent-mindedly, before reaching for the shovel. His fingers closed around its handle, and he began walking.
His steps were uneven and painfully slow. Arthur had grown noticeably thinner, to the point where his bones seemed almost visible beneath his skin. His clothes were little more than torn pieces of fabric hanging from his weakened body, and numerous wounds covered his arms, legs, and face. One of his eyes was swollen, making it difficult for him to see properly, while several injuries marked the other side of his face. His body looked as though it could barely support itself, yet somehow he continued moving, dragging the heavy shovel behind him. Under ordinary circumstances, walking even a hundred paces in such a condition would have been nearly impossible. Fortunately, his destination wasn't far away. The houses were only about fifty meters behind him.
When Arthur finally reached the edge of the settlement, his strength gave out. He released the shovel and left it lying in the dirt. Then he continued without it. Ten more steps. That was all it took.
He had reached his destination.
A graveyard.
Though it wasn't a proper cemetery, the sight before him resembled one. More than twenty makeshift graves had been scattered across the ground, each marked by a crude cross constructed from wooden sticks. There were no engraved stones, no flowers, and no names carved into marble. Only rough earth and small wooden crosses stood as reminders that someone had once lived there. Arthur stood silently for several seconds, staring at them before looking around. His eyes moved from one direction to another, making certain that he was alone. He then noticed a loose wooden stick lying nearby and picked it up.
Slowly, Arthur walked between the graves.
He continued toward the farthest one, positioned almost at the center of the small makeshift cemetery. When he finally reached it, his legs could no longer support him. He dropped onto his knees and stared at the grave in silence. His eyes began to glisten with tears. For a brief moment, the grief he had been carrying inside him surfaced, raw and overwhelming. His lips trembled, but before the tears could fall, Arthur abruptly shook his head and forced himself to regain control. He lowered the wooden stick toward the dirt and began writing.
Antonio Doyle
1902–1944
Arthur remained there for several minutes.
He said nothing.
He simply stared at the name.
Then a strange sound broke the silence.
A mechanical rumble.
Arthur slowly lifted his head.
An engine.
The sound seemed to be coming from somewhere within the town. He turned toward the houses and listened carefully. He didn't move from the grave. From where he stood, the buildings blocked his view of whatever was moving through the streets, but Arthur knew exactly where the sound was coming from. He had heard that kind of engine before.
Then—
BANG!
Arthur's body stiffened.
The sound reminded him of what had happened three months earlier, when the town had been attacked. He remained completely still as another noise followed, as though something had been dropped onto the ground. Moments later, the engine roared again, and the vehicle began moving away. The sound gradually faded into the distance until, eventually, there was nothing left but silence.
Arthur didn't follow.
He remained beside the grave.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
Then fifteen.
Almost twenty minutes went by before he finally stood.
He turned toward the town.
And ran.
Or at least, he tried to.
His weakened legs carried him only a short distance before giving way beneath him. Arthur fell hard against the ground. He stayed there for a moment, breathing heavily, then forced himself upright and tried again.
A few more steps.
He fell again.
He got back up.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Every attempt became slower, but Arthur refused to stop.
Eventually, he reached the outskirts of the houses. He immediately ducked behind a wooden barrel and crouched there, breathing as quietly as he could. After waiting for several seconds, he cautiously lifted his head and looked toward the street.
Someone was lying on the ground.
A soldier.
Arthur's eyes narrowed.
The man was injured and barely moving. Blood had stained the ground around him, but he was still alive. He was struggling to breathe, his body occasionally twitching with pain.
Arthur looked to his left.
Then his right.
Nobody.
The town was deserted.
Only the remnants of the attack remained: dark stains across the streets and walls, broken windows, damaged doors, and the scattered remains of homes that had once been lived in.
Arthur's gaze fell upon a sharp fragment of broken glass lying nearby.
He picked it up.
His fingers tightened around it as he slowly approached the wounded soldier.
When he reached him, Arthur looked down at his face.
And recognized him immediately.
The soldier was one of the men who had been standing around his father's body.
The soldier noticed Arthur as well.
His eyes widened slightly.
"Am I… in the afterlife?"
Arthur's expression remained completely blank.
"Unfortunately, not yet."
The soldier gave a weak, almost amused breath.
"Oh… I see."
He coughed several times.
"It's too bad."
"Yeah."
The soldier slowly turned his head, looking around at the ruined town. Recognition gradually returned to his expression.
"I thought everyone was dead," he murmured. "But it seems you somehow managed to survive."
His eyes settled on Arthur.
"It's too bad you suffered so much. We should've simply burned the town."
Arthur said nothing for a moment.
Then he asked,
"Where are the other two?"
The soldier gave a faint shrug.
"Probably dead already."
He paused.
"Did we kill someone you loved?"
Arthur's fingers tightened around the glass.
"Yeah."
His voice was quiet.
"My father."
For the first time, a smile appeared on the soldier's face.
"I pity you, kid."
He coughed again before continuing.
"But you see… it was your father's destiny to be killed by us."
Arthur stared at him.
"Destiny?"
"Yeah." The soldier's voice was weak, but his conviction remained strangely firm. "Destiny. Fate."
He looked toward the ruined streets.
"Nobody is equal in this world, kid. There are superiors and inferiors. Ordinary people and extraordinary people. Some are simply born with more than others, and because of that, the ordinary are meant to be suppressed."
His expression twisted into something resembling satisfaction.
"That's the way nature works. The ordinary become sacrifices for the greater good of the extraordinary. Scapegoats."
Arthur listened without blinking.
The soldier continued.
"But don't think it's your fault that you're inferior. You didn't choose it."
He gave a faint laugh.
"It's simply what you were born with. And if that's what you were born as… then your duty is to remain there."
The soldier suddenly seemed to realize the absurdity of what he was saying.
"Hah…"
He shook his head weakly.
"What the hell am I doing, talking about this with a child?"
Arthur didn't answer.
His eyes remained fixed on the soldier.
Empty.
Completely empty.
His hand slowly tightened around the piece of glass. The sharp edge pressed into his palm, but Arthur didn't seem to notice. A small trace of blood appeared between his fingers, yet his expression remained unchanged.
He looked at the soldier for several seconds.
Then his lips finally moved.
"Destiny… huh?"
A faint smile appeared on Arthur's face.
"Cowards."
He raised the piece of glass.
And brought it down.
7 August 1959
Arthur stood in front of the café, staring through its windows for a moment before looking to his left, then to his right. The entire street was deserted. Not a single person walked beneath the afternoon sun; there were no passing cars, no voices, no distant footsteps—nothing. The silence felt strangely deliberate, as though the street itself were waiting for something to happen. Arthur swallowed, glanced once more down the empty road, and finally pushed open the café door. The small bell above it rang softly as he entered.
His eyes immediately went toward the table where he had been sitting the previous day.
William was already there.
He sat alone in the same seat, casually eating as though he had been there for quite some time. Several empty plates were scattered across the table, while another dish sat in front of him. The moment William noticed Arthur, a familiar smile spread across his face. He lifted one hand and waved.
Arthur had not expected him to arrive so early.
He glanced down at his wristwatch.
12:11 PM.
They were both far earlier than the time they had agreed upon. Arthur sighed quietly before walking toward the table. As he approached, William looked up at him, his mouth still full of food.
"Ahh, Mr. Doyle!" he exclaimed through the mouthful. "You took more time than I expected. Anyway, come on, sit."
Arthur pulled out the chair and sat opposite him. "I thought I was early, but it seems you're quite punctual. Anyway, what are you eating?"
William raised an eyebrow. "You seem quite lively today, Mr. Doyle."
He swallowed before continuing.
"And no, actually, I was just hungry, you see. Hehe. Well, this…" He looked down at the dish with an almost childish fondness. "Mmm… this is called Croque Monsieur, and I just love it. You know, I could eat this all day."
"You don't seem like the type," Arthur replied, studying him, "but you certainly have an appetite."
"Ahh, don't blame me, Mr. Doyle. Blame the man who made this delicious dish." William laughed lightly. "There was nothing like this in Germany when I was there."
Arthur's expression shifted slightly.
"Oh? You've been to Germany?"
William nodded.
Arthur then noticed the food smeared across his face. "By the way, I think you should clean your face. The dish is all over it."
William blinked before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a handkerchief. He casually wiped his face clean.
"Thanks for that, Mr. Doyle."
He folded the handkerchief and placed it beside his plate.
"Anyway, yes. I remained there for around five years. I was a schoolteacher."
"A schoolteacher?"
"Eh—yes. Actually, I was a class in-charge as well." William leaned back slightly. "I only came back here recently, at the beginning of this year, you see. The school I worked at was a renowned one. A very respected school."
Arthur's eyes narrowed.
"Was?"
William's smile remained for another moment.
"Oh, yeah. Actually, you see…"
His voice suddenly became quieter.
"An incident happened there."
Arthur's attention sharpened.
"Like I said, it was a renowned school in the capital city of Bonn, in West Germany."
"S-so what exactly happened?"
William's expression grew unusually calm.
"A student killed other children."
For a brief moment, neither of them spoke.
"I myself don't know all the details," William continued. "But trust me, Mr. Doyle, this is a much stranger case than it sounds."
Arthur remained silent.
"They say the student who committed the act had been excessively bullied by the other students. Apparently, he had been pushed around for quite some time."
William paused, his eyes lowering toward the table.
"But the strange part is…"
His gaze returned to Arthur.
"I knew that student."
Arthur's expression became more serious.
"And at least one thing I know for certain is that he couldn't simply commit a murder. I mean, yes, he could fight back, of course. Anyone can reach a breaking point. But murder?" William shook his head slowly. "I simply couldn't imagine him doing something like that."
He gave a faint, thoughtful smile.
"So it stayed in my mind for quite a while, you see."
Arthur studied him carefully.
"Well," he said at last, "this certainly is an interesting matter."
"Oh, trust me."
William's smile returned.
"It isn't."
The casual atmosphere that had surrounded him only moments earlier seemed to disappear as quickly as it had arrived. William glanced toward the empty café around them, then back at Arthur.
"Anyway, Mr. Doyle, it was nice having this little conversation with you."
He leaned forward slightly.
"But I think…"
His smile widened.
"Maybe we should discuss some business now."
A brief silence followed.
"Shall we, Mr. Doyle?"
Arthur frowned slightly.
Yet a smile appeared on his face.
"Of course."
He leaned forward.
"Let's begin."
Chapter ends
To be Continued