Bensail Club – Chapter One
11:23 PM
In a corner of the club, four bald-headed men were laughing in sync with the others—but they were different. Why different? Because they were sitting and talking.
A woman, about 157 cm tall and around 34–35 years old, stood out. Her skin was bright and fair, clad in a pink blazer, her wrist adorned with an expensive black watch. Its ticking matched her own rhythm. Her hair, tied with a Chinese hairpin, cascaded neatly. By BMI standards, she fell around 25–27. In her hand, she held a large bottle of alcohol, offering some of its contents to a young man in front of her—a slender 24–26-year-old with black hair, tall, almost lanky, enjoying the drink.
Beside them, a white man in his mid-thirties, with blond hair and a black blazer, chimed in, "Mrs. Wilson, don't get carried away. You won't be drinking this, right? Or maybe you, Sherlock?"
Mrs. Wilson smiled. "Oh, Mr. Sam, if not now, then when? I can't drink regularly anymore—for my seven-year-old son, William."
Nearby, a man around 5'11", wearing a large cap and golden glasses, with rolled-up sleeves of a bright red shirt, spoke with a grin. "Christina, surely neither Wilson nor William appreciates such antics. As a mother, performing this in front of your young son—does it look good? Yes, you got promoted and threw this party, but there should be limits. Otherwise, I'll have to call William over."
Sam, Sherlock, and Taylor started teasing her. Christina frowned, trying to scold them into silence.
Sherlock stopped laughing and said, "Well, I might not be able to stay long. My fiancée might get upset."
Sam grinned mischievously. "Of course, husband! Well, there's an invitation, after all."
Sherlock smiled faintly. "We are socially married, though not yet legally. That's why she's at my place. Tomorrow or the day after, the paperwork will make it official. After that, you all are invited to celebrate."
Everyone laughed, and Sherlock left the club.
He didn't care for drinks—he was drawn more to gaming, reading, and wandering. His destination wasn't far from the club, just a 13–16 minute walk, traffic lights permitting.
Checking his watch: 12:19 AM. It was late. He needed rest.
As he turned off the club road onto Bey Street F3, he heard strange noises—someone appeared to be fighting desperately to escape an attacker. Emotion stirred, and he entered the alley.
At the far end, something lay like a lifeless body, twisted against a transformer. A 21-year-old girl, her features obscured by darkness, struggled.
Suddenly, three shots rang out: "shot… shot… shot".
A violent explosion hurled Sherlock 9–11 feet into the air, his body coming into contact with live electrical wires.
In a heartbeat, it was over. Sherlock was dead.
---
Next morning, 9:17 AM
East Quelia Cemetery
A young woman, around 19–20, wept over Sherlock's charred body, tears streaming endlessly. Behind her, a man in his early sixties tried to console her.
Sam arrived in a rush, unable to believe Sherlock was gone. Before him were Mr. William and his family—Christina and Wilson. Christina looked at Sam, tears spilling from her eyes. Taylor spoke quietly with the police nearby.
Through her sobs, Christina whispered, "Sam, I told you not to let him go. Look—he's no longer with us."
William stepped forward, holding her hand. "Who knows when death comes? Only God decides. We cannot know."
Sam's eyes moistened as well. One month ago, Sherlock had married a woman named Helen—legally unregistered, but they loved each other deeply.
Sam approached the grieving Helen, straightened his cap, and said, "Helen! Pull yourself together. Be strong. Don't break down now."
Helen, her eyes red, looked at him. Sam, like a close relative, pulled her into his chest, offering comfort.
Suddenly, a priest from behind spoke, "Prepare for the final rites. Everyone remain calm."
---
Perfect, Oni-san! Here's your English, publish-ready version of the chapter, keeping all the fantasy, suspense, and character voices intact:
---
Amidst ancient ruins, a stone statue began to crack. Slowly, fissures ran across its surface until, with a sharp collapse, the statue crumbled entirely.
From the shattered remains, Sherlock emerged. His eyes struggled to adjust—the world was hazy, indistinct. Staggering, he sank onto a chair—a chair carved from stone.
As his vision cleared, he realized he was somewhere entirely new. Sherlock scanned his surroundings, astonished. Memories of recent events surfaced. "Wait… I didn't die? Then what happened to me?"
He wandered, exploring, when his eyes fell on another statue ahead. Slightly taller—perhaps four or five inches—its body covered entirely in moss. Cautiously, Sherlock reached out to touch it. In an instant, it shimmered and cracked open.
Inside stood a figure with a long face, black hair, and a streak of red at the crown. Their eyes were partially hidden by hair.
The figure bowed low. "Oh, Lord Zero. Welcome back. I am Diablo, at your service."
Sherlock blinked in disbelief. "Zero? Who's Zero? And you—Diablo—why were you a statue?"
Diablo lowered his head. "Master, all as you command."
Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "All as I command? Explain that."
Surveying the area, Diablo smiled faintly. "Ha… how many years has it been? The palace has become ruins. Huh huh."
Raising both hands, he spoke in a melodic chant: "Ho mon! Ho mon! Ho des paolisoo."
In an instant, the surrounding ruins began to shift. The space transformed into a grand royal palace, a magnificent throne room with a colossal table at its center. At the far end sat a golden-platinum carved chair.
Diablo spoke again, "Ha… then it has been millions of years, since Master's final command."
Sherlock's eyes widened. He stared at Diablo, incredulous. Then, like a child fearing trickery, he asked, "You won't deceive me? Leave me in danger?"
Diablo smiled gently. "No, sir. I am your devoted servant. My life is bound to yours. Have you forgotten? I am your butler."
Sherlock remained thoughtful. "Alright… where exactly are we?"
Diablo looked at him. "Inside your mind."
"Inside my mind?" Sherlock repeated, baffled.
"Yes, Master."
Sherlock turned in circles, surveying the surroundings. Everything seemed strange, alien.
After death, don't people go to heaven or hell? Sherlock wondered. Then… where have I ended up?
The figure before him treated him as a master. Sherlock studied him again—fair, long face, hair full except for a streak of red at the crown.
He approached the grand table and sat on the platinum chair. Diablo spoke immediately: "Master Zero, this is your seat."
Sherlock realized it was the golden chair at the far end. As he sat, the room around him began to transform. Walls shifted, displaying spectacular effects: a meteor falling to the ground, a tree bearing fruits unlike any he had seen before.
Sherlock gasped. "What kind of fruit? What tree is this?"
Diablo's gaze followed. "Master, this is the Power Fruit tree."
"Power Fruit? What's that?" Sherlock asked.
Diablo explained patiently: "Master, a Power Fruit grants extraordinary abilities to anyone who consumes it, regardless of their species. There are four types of Power Fruits:
Type-1: Common among users. These fruits often replicate powers of creatures, called 'Joan Fruits.' Each fruit has levels or sequences, but Joan Fruits do not follow sequences.
Type-2: Metallic or Thematic Fruits. Rare, difficult to find, and have no sequence or levels.
Type-3: Ancient Joan Fruits. Extremely rare. Users wield far greater power than ordinary fruit users, capable of leading entire armies. These have levels and sequences. For example, a Level 9, Sequence 1 fruit allows a user to fully utilize a mythical creature's power, like a Nine-Tailed Fox.
Type-4: God Fruits. The rarest of all, formed only when a god is destroyed by other gods. Only 4–5 God Fruit users exist in history."
Sherlock's eyes widened in disbelief. "So few?"
Diablo nodded.
"Do I possess such a Power?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes… but I cannot currently check your power. I do not have that ability yet."
So… everyone doesn't have powers? Sherlock wondered. He asked Diablo, who replied, "No, only 2–3 users per 1,000 people."
Sherlock chuckled softly. Power Fruits… what a fantastical world. Feels like one of those novels… maybe like One Piece. Except… I'm no Luffy.
Pausing, he said aloud: "Diablo, you know I don't remember much. So… what can I do? How do I leave this place?"
"Master, just think where you wish to go," Diablo replied calmly.
"That's it?" Sherlock asked, astonished.
"Yes," Diablo said simply.
Sherlock thought to himself. This world's story feels familiar… I think I read something like this in a novel once… with a character named Mr. Fool. Tarot conferences, strange events… maybe I can try something like that here.
He turned to Diablo again. "Do I have the strength of a Power Fruit?"
"No," Diablo replied.
---
Elsewhere, in the Borgahn Library:
A woman in her 70s, with grey hair faintly colored with henna, wore a flowing blue gown with cut sleeves. She was the librarian, overseeing a young woman of 20–21, focused intently on a book. The girl wore tight red silk, her features highlighted, golden eyes gleaming, light brown hair cascading gently.
Suddenly, the girl glanced around, noticing the librarian. Smiling, the librarian whispered, "If you wish to continue, take it home. These are private materials—you don't need to read them in public."
The girl smiled sweetly. "Yes, Miss. I'll take it home, then."
Grasping the book, she left the library in a rush, boarding a carriage.
Inside, a tall man wearing a long hat, around 6'4", asked the librarian, "Who is this girl? Which Novek family is she from?"
The librarian glanced back. "Planning an assassination, or Palmer?"
The man, Palmer, wore a wooden-hued watch with bronze mechanisms and a sky-blue blazer. He smiled faintly. "No… I only wanted to know because of that book."
The librarian squinted. "Assassins reading mythology?"
Palmer calmly replied, "Miss Mariana doesn't need to know these subjects—it's better this way."
With that, Palmer departed.
Mariana returned to her thin wooden chair, lifted a glass of water, and began to drink.
Got it, Oni-san! Here's the English, publish-ready version of this chapter:
---
78 Seon Vermis Street
A grand house stood at the end of the street. The entrance was beautifully decorated, adorned with flowering plants that made it all the more enchanting.
Along the path, two or three men in khaki uniforms waited, each holding a pair of shotguns. Suddenly, they opened the gates. Through it rolled a carriage—the same girl who had just left the library. She alighted gracefully and stepped inside the house.
Inside, she was met by an older woman who bore a striking resemblance to her. The woman held a staff and spoke with a firm voice.
"Zynia! Were you in the library again? Let me see what strange book you've brought this time."
Zynia quickly hid the book behind her back. "I… I just felt drawn to it. I went."
The older woman, Skatch Lewin, was Zynia's mother. Zynia, her daughter, made her way to her room and opened the book.
A line caught her eye:
"Man is the unknown"
"Whose knowledge is the unknown"
"Whose thoughts are zero"
"The deity of unknown and zero"
"Who has no birth or death"
"Oh man, embrace the zero"
As she read, nothing remarkable seemed to happen at first. Curious, she looked around, trying to confirm everything was as it should be. But when she moved to explore further, she was suddenly drawn into a dark space.
A massive table appeared before her, at the far end of which sat two figures, one occupying a large golden chair.
Zynia gasped. "So… I'm standing before the great Zero?"
Sherlock, seated nearby, observed her like a slender, fragile presence.
"Who are you? How did you come here?" he asked, curiosity lacing his voice.
Zynia, hearing his words from the far end of the table, lowered her head and held the edge of her slim dress. "I am Zynia Lewin, a member of the Novel Family of the Mahoraga Empire."
Sherlock mused quietly, "Mahoraga…"
His words, delivered calmly, carried weight, yet their tone was serene. Zynia dared not raise her head to meet his gaze.
Today, for the first time, a myth became reality, she thought. Perhaps this is what old Hilbert meant in his work, "The Journey of Iros"—the discarded things often carry the most meaning.
Sherlock, seated with one leg on the grand chair, pondered. This story mirrors a light novel I once read in a past life. Since I've been teleported fully into this world, why not let myself be the hero? It's a fantasy world—I'll take in all my fantastical experiences…
Diablo remained calm beside him, observing everything. Sherlock gestured subtly. "Can this girl see us?" he asked softly.
Diablo replied, "Master, whatever you think here will happen as you imagine."
Sherlock, not one to miss small details, straightened and spoke with authority. "Choose a seat and answer my question."
Zynia bowed slightly. "Yes." She pulled a chair closer and sat. As she did, a sheet of paper appeared in front of her.
She raised her head. "Great Zero! What is this?"
Sherlock smiled faintly to himself. Ah, so this girl is making me a god… no reason to hide my power then.
He spoke calmly. "Since you know my name, you probably know much about me already. And since you've remembered me once, I think including you in my organization won't be an issue."
Zynia blinked. "Organization?"
What should I name it? Sherlock thought. Diablo is just watching silently… Hmm… BNCC? No. Mosic Order? No. Secret Order? Too common… Zero Club… yes, that works. Can always change it later.
Sherlock faced Zynia. She had two pairs of eyes—bright blue on one side, red on the other.
"Zero Order," he said.
He immediately questioned himself. Why did I say that?
Zynia repeated with wonder, "Zero Order!"
Impossible… she thought. I've seen that name on the last page of an ancient book, a record of the Sailber Empire… 7–8 million years old.
Diablo's lips curled in a subtle smile at the name.
Sherlock continued, "The first rule of this organization: secrecy. One member must not know another's identity or background. Even if they do, it's not a problem—if both agree. Hence, code names are mandatory."
Zynia nodded. "Okay. My code name will be Celestial. Since I am a noble."
Sherlock's expression remained neutral, though inwardly, he noted the typical pride of the elite. Not all, but many.
Diablo, who had remained silent until now, spoke. "Miss Celestial, may I ask how you came to be here?"
Sherlock glanced at her from the corner of his eye.
"I have always loved reading," Zynia replied. "Especially books on history. I frequent the library often. Until today, I hadn't found anything about 'Zero.' But today, tucked in a corner, I saw a book bound in leather with the words The Last Man burned onto its cover. I didn't fully understand it, but it piqued my curiosity. Most of the text is in a strange language I cannot read… except for what seems like a spell or poem written in our language:
"Man is the unknown"
"Whose knowledge is the unknown"
"Whose thoughts are zero"
"The deity of unknown and zero"
"Who has no birth or death"
"Oh man, embrace the zero"
Sherlock interrupted softly. "Stop. That's enough."
Diablo, observing with unusual intensity, continued to monitor the scene.
Absolutely, Oni-san! Let's expand your chapter, adding emotional depth, vocal tone, and suspense so readers can feel every character's reaction. I'll keep your story faithful but more immersive and expressive. Here's the enhanced version:
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Chapter Four – Expanded
78 Seon Vermis Street
In front of Zynia's house, Palmer stepped down from a sleek black carriage. His eyes darted around, scanning the meticulously arranged flowerbeds, the stone pathways, and the grand façade of the house. Every detail seemed to whisper secrets—an almost eerie serenity enveloped the place.
Then, as if swallowed by shadows, Palmer vanished from sight. Moments later, he reappeared inside the house, completely unseen, moving silently like a ghost.
Palmer's gaze was immediately drawn to the far end of the vast royal hall. There, seated on an enormous golden chair, was a figure whose very presence sent a shiver down his spine. Two glowing eyes, like sparks of ash, cut through the darkness that cloaked his entire form.
This… is it? Palmer thought, his pulse quickening. The Hidden Ritual the Church warned me about? Have they really sent me here to face it? Or is this being… a God? A Devil? What is this existence?
Determination surged. No matter what, I have to get out of this alive. By any means necessary.
Diablo, standing quietly next to Sherlock, spoke with calm authority, his voice cutting through the tension like steel. "Who are you? And how do you know this girl? From my observation, she does not recognize you."
Palmer felt an immense pressure emanating from the figure in the chair, as though the air itself had thickened with power. So much energy… this being is at least half-God level, he thought, his heart pounding.
Sherlock's voice finally broke the silence, measured and almost indifferent. "Since you have already arrived, Palmer… join the Zero Order."
Palmer's hair literally stood on end. "Zero Order?" he gasped, disbelief echoing in his voice.
The words resonated across the chamber, vibrating through the walls, spreading like ripples in water. Even the shadows seemed to tremble.
Sherlock leaned back in his golden chair, his expression unreadable. "Palmer, what is your role in this organization? I understand you are also a member of the Secret Order."
Zynia's eyes widened, her fingers clenching in disbelief. How insane… he's a member of the Secret Order? Wait… don't panic. Was he following me to assassinate me? Now I understand… How could this punk have even entered this place? And… Lord Zero? He's a being who hasn't intervened in a single incident for millions of years. A secret god.
Sherlock's tone shifted, cold and piercing. "You may join. There is no need to abandon your previous organization. Instead, your presence here will be… useful to me. What do you think?"
Palmer swallowed hard, his voice trembling slightly. "I… I understand."
Diablo, ever composed, produced a sheet of paper and slid it toward Palmer. "Kindly select a code name for yourself."
Palmer tilted his head, confusion evident in his furrowed brows. "A code name? Why… why is this necessary?"
Sherlock raised a hand, his eyes sharp and unyielding. "It is a requirement for the organization. Without it, you cannot be fully integrated."
Palmer's chest tightened. He drew a deep breath, steeling himself. "Alright… then my code name shall be 'A.' Yes… Mr. A."
Zynia couldn't help but smile softly. How fantastic! Such a simple, yet commanding choice…
I chose Celestial for myself, she thought. A, B… or X, Y could have been stronger. But from now on, I will serve an unknown god. The very thought sends shivers of excitement through me. Soon… I will be powerful. Just one Power Fruit away.
Sherlock suddenly shifted, his voice cutting through the tense air. "That is enough for today. Decide when we shall meet next."
Both Zynia and Palmer exchanged hesitant glances, uncertainty and anticipation flickering in their eyes.
Palmer broke the silence first. "How about Wednesday night?"
Zynia shook her head, her voice soft but firm. "No… what time is this? Sunday would be best."
From the side, Diablo's voice interjected, calm and precise: "Between midnight and 1 a.m., every Friday."
Zynia blinked. "1 a.m.?"
Palmer's eyes narrowed slightly. "He means exactly 1."
Zynia nodded, determination softening her features. "Understood. I will attend."
Sherlock's tone was decisive. "Then we are done for today."
As he spoke, the two figures before them began to vanish into nothingness, their forms dissolving like mist. Sherlock leaned back, his thoughts dark and contemplative. I will not work with them… or perhaps I will. I know nothing about their world. How am I supposed to act in this strange void? Is there even a way out?
Diablo's voice, calm yet compelling, responded. "Yes… it is possible. Simply focus your thoughts on leaving this place."
Sherlock's eyes widened. It will work?
"Yes. It will," Diablo affirmed, his tone unwavering.
With a deep, deliberate inhale, Sherlock began to focus. The world around him shattered, fragments flying in every direction. Diablo's form merged with the surrounding smoky void, encircling him protectively.
Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and he sat upright, alert and tense.
Suddenly, a piercing scream shattered the air, drawing immediate attention. Several people burst through the heavy doors, their presence sudden and forceful. Sherlock scanned the room.
It was a blackened chamber, filled with vapor resembling liquid nitrogen. The chill cut into the skin, the temperature hovering at a biting 12–14°C.
A young, feminine voice rang out, trembling with emotion: "Ben! Ben! You're alive?"
The girl clutched Sherlock tightly, her voice desperate. Ben? Who is Ben? And… who is this girl? Sherlock thought, alarm rising in his chest.
Confused, he asked aloud, his voice tense, "Ben… who is Ben?"
The girl suddenly released him, spinning around in a rush to another woman nearby. Her sobs wracked her small frame. "My Ben! My Ben… why can't you recognize me? What's happened to you?"
Sherlock froze, his mind racing. Questions and emotions collided violently: fear, confusion, curiosity… and an odd, tingling recognition he could not place.
The young nurse spoke quickly, her voice trembling with a mixture of relief and disbelief.
"Ma'am… please calm down. Pray to God. We all assumed your husband was gone. For him to wake up at all is already a miracle. But his injuries were severe — it's possible he has lost parts of his memory."
With that, she hurried out of the room like a gust of wind, leaving a trail of cold air behind her.
Sherlock blinked, trying to steady his breathing. What… what happened to me? Where am I?
His eyes darted around the dim space. Cold steel tables. Soft white vapor drifting near the ground. The smell of disinfectant and something metallic.
This looks like… a hospital morgue. Why am I here? Why was I on one of those tables? And she… she called me her husband? Me? A husband?
His thoughts spiraled faster.
Helen… wasn't she my wife? Then who is this woman? And was everything before this—Sherlock's throne, the void, Diablo—just a dream? No… no, it felt too real. Too sharp. Too heavy.
Before he could process anything further, the woman rushed back to him. She didn't hesitate. She threw her arms around him — fiercely, desperately — burying her face against his chest as if afraid he might disappear again.
Her entire body trembled.
"Whatever happened…" her voice was cracking, soft but soaked in pain, "it's all my fault."
She tightened her grip around him as though clinging to her last piece of hope.
"For my mistakes… you suffered like this. From now on, I won't let you out of my sight. Not even for a second."
She pulled back just enough to cup his face in both hands. Tears shimmered at the corners of her eyes, catching the cold morgue light.
"Ben…" she whispered, voice breaking completely this time.
"I love you. I love you so much. Please… don't leave me again."