Uryuu Ryūnosuke was inexplicably irritable today—though, to be honest, he'd been stuck in that state for a while now.
He could feel it in his bones: his art was simply too far ahead of this era. Too perfect. So perfect that it clashed violently with the mediocrity around him, to the point where even breathing felt… out of sync with the world.
The theater's air-conditioning couldn't cool the heat on the screen. What was playing was the newest ultra-violent B-movie.
Blood sprayed. Limbs snapped and scattered. In that world of light and shadow, gore blossomed freely—this should have been the moment for him to sink into the aesthetics of slaughter.
Instead, it was torn to shreds by the constant noise around him.
"God… that scene was way too scary!"
"Seriously. The way that mushy meat stuck to his face was disgusting. If I'd known it was this gross, I wouldn't have followed the trend to see some freak show movie. Who even likes this stuff?"
Those little murmurs drilled into his ears. A faint scoff slipped from Ryūnosuke's throat, and the irritation inside him only swelled. He muttered under his breath, eyes fixed on the backs of several couples in the front row as they hurried out.
"Scenes like this—blood and 'art' flying everywhere—are rare treasures in this world. Sure, they're nowhere near as dazzling as my art… but why can't these weird people understand? It's such a headache…"
Lowering his head, he complained quietly for a while, then narrowed his eyes and memorized the loudest voices. Somewhere deep inside, an impulse rose—sharp enough that it nearly spilled over.
Truth be told, he didn't particularly like these kinds of bloody films. Watching could never compare to the tactile reality of doing it himself. Still, once in a while, they were fine for killing time. Sometimes they even sparked a special kind of inspiration.
But now, that search for inspiration had been ruined by these noisy, grating pests.
So, in his growing agitation, Uryuu Ryūnosuke genuinely wanted to pull out the knife he kept hidden on him—drive it straight down into the thinnest, weakest part of their throats—and watch the gorgeous fountain of blood erupt.
He wanted to peel their skin away.
He wanted to reach inside with his own hands and pull every organ out cleanly—
and use their blood and bodies to paint a perfect masterpiece across the spotless floor.
The thoughts flooded his mind, frantic and demanding, pushing him to act.
But in the end, Ryūnosuke forced them down.
He clutched his head, shook it hard, and made himself abandon that ill-timed fantasy.
"No…"
He whispered to the air. The feverish light in his eyes slowly settled into an almost obsessive calm.
"Slaughter that crude… isn't good art."
In his eyes, true art required preparation—everything arranged before the curtain rose. He didn't know these people's backgrounds, their relationships, anything. To strike blindly would only shatter the beauty he pursued into ugly fragments.
Killing on impulse was, at best, a second-rate release.
Only by planning with meticulous precision—polishing every detail to perfection—only by making death bloom into an exact shape under his control…
Only then did it deserve the word art.
And that was what he sought: the absolute, ultimate—
Cool.
Uryuu Ryūnosuke was a genuine killer, through and through, though he preferred to call himself an obsessive artist. And a murderer who'd committed dozens of crimes across the Far East without being caught couldn't possibly be sloppy—he had his own logic, his own method.
Every kill involved scouting in advance. Refining details. Preparing carefully. Choosing the most fitting way for them to die.
Then, only then, would he immerse himself completely in the joy of ending them.
Dismembering them right in front of their eyes—using those miserable screams to compose the finest "notes"—
That was the art Uryuu Ryūnosuke pursued.
And tonight was a crucial night.
He'd already prepared the instruments for tonight's work.
About a week ago, the horrifying family massacre in Fuyuki City—
that had been his masterpiece.
In a single night, he'd killed a family of four with ease. And in front of their family portrait, he'd made the two children watch as he used their parents' corpses to complete his grand creation.
Surely they'd felt honored, right?
But even the most "artistic" process became dull if repeated too many times. Ryūnosuke felt it keenly—he was approaching a bottleneck.
So after finishing that masterpiece, he didn't bother to keep creating with the two children.
Instead, he captured them and brought them back to his home, saving them for some later, significant moment—
when he would turn them into something even more brilliant.
Leaving the theater, he bought a drink with loose change he'd found in a victim's house. Sitting on a bench, he flipped through a curious book he'd recently discovered at home.
Even the greatest artists suffered droughts, and while his inspiration was stuck, this strange book had become one of his few remaining pleasures—
and his source of sparks.
After all, over the years he'd killed dozens—fifty-plus. He'd tried every "interesting" method he could think of. The novelty was gone. That was why he'd ended up bored enough to watch the kind of bloody films he used to despise.
He'd originally planned to return to his rural hometown and "settle" for a while, hoping the old place might stir new ideas. But after so many years, his parents were long gone. All that remained in the countryside was an older sister who'd waited for him for five years—
an older sister whose face had already changed with time.
This return home didn't play out like some movie about a washed-up artist rediscovering passion. He still felt hollow, and that disappointment gnawed at him.
But while cleaning, he'd been unbelievably lucky: buried in a mountain of junk, he found a book that caught his eye—
the very one in his hands now.
Its material was unusual. Not ordinary paper. It felt like some kind of leather.
A normal person might have assumed it was a notebook made from cowhide.
But Ryūnosuke—someone who'd handled skin countless times, who knew that texture intimately—
recognized it immediately.
There was no mistake.
With an artist's eye, he could tell: this was human skin.
And not just any—thin, delicate skin from children.
He'd peeled it himself before, for his "painting."
Finding something this interesting made even Ryūnosuke's heart race. He had a premonition: inside this notebook lay something he'd been missing—
a completely new kind of inspiration.
So he studied it seriously.
Most of it was nonsense to him—records of sorcery, strange tales, absurdities. While reading, he nearly tossed it aside as the ravings of a lunatic.
But in the second half—especially the parts about Satan, angels, and offerings to some wicked god—
his interest was hooked again.
And when he saw the line that said—
At the proper time, in the proper place, draw the correct magic circle, offer the finest sacrifice, and you can summon an ancient, powerful, terrifying existence…
His brain grew hot with excitement.
Sure, it read like a joke—like a cheap novel.
But for Ryūnosuke, who'd never "performed" that kind of art before, it was undeniably a new attempt.
Maybe it would lead him to something new.
So, following the book's description of ley lines, he made his way to Fuyuki City—planning to turn it into the grand stage for his next art.
He didn't understand what a ley line even was. He didn't know why the region had to be Fuyuki.
But for the sake of ritual and atmosphere—of terror—he would reproduce the sacrificial ceremony exactly, one-to-one, as written.
Come to think of it, recently he'd already killed four people in Fuyuki City.
Each death had been carefully controlled.
But compared to the thrill of the first time he recreated the book's "death," these recent killings had started to feel bland.
So tonight, he decided to sacrifice the two remaining children—finish the condition the book demanded:
six lives.
He still didn't understand why it had to be six. But according to the book, the number six symbolized demons in the West—something "the demon" loved.
That was why he had to complete six deaths.
And he'd heard that Western priests and demons both had a taste for little boys, so he'd kept the final two as the night's grand finale.
"Heh heh… it's time to call you, little guys. Hurry up and come out~"
Ryūnosuke dragged the two small boys out from the basement, their hands and feet bound. He'd thoughtfully sealed their mouths with tape so they couldn't attract the kind of "righteous people" he found annoying.
Then he tossed them down beside a few bloody organs laid on the floor—near the hearts and brains taken from their parents—
and began the final sacrificial rite.
"Right… what was the summoning chant again? Oh, yeah—this."
He glanced down at the book again.
"Fill… fill… fill… yeah, that sounds right. Next is… 'Only by abandonment, and at the moment of fullness, at that time, the Holy Grail shall descend.'"
"Holy Grail? What's that? Whatever. Just keep summoning."
Humming a little tune, chanting the strange lines, he used a brush soaked in the mixed blood of six victims to paint the diagram on the floor exactly as the book described.
Maybe out of boredom, he also kept "chatting" while he drew—enjoying the terror on the children's faces.
"Hey, brat. Do you think Mister Demon will answer me?"
"Mm—mmph…"
The boy, gagged, could only choke out helpless, desperate sobs, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes.
"Ahhh… why are you crying? This is such a fun moment. Shouldn't you be smiling? It's so interesting."
"Mm—mmph… mmph…"
The two children cried harder.
"Ahh…"
Ryūnosuke didn't care. He continued, pleased with himself.
"This is such a headache… looks like you think I'm the bad guy, huh? You know what's funny? There are billions of people in this world, right? And in all these years, I've only killed fifty-three."
"If you do the math, that's not even a rounding error compared to a war or a natural disaster."
"The Middle East, Europe, everywhere—when powerful countries start wars, tens of thousands die. Compared to them, I, the artist, am basically the greatest saint alive! People die anyway. Better to die beautifully in my hands—becoming art—than die worthless and meaningless."
"That's what it means to 'give yourself to art,' right?"
He finished the ritual circle and looked at his work with deep satisfaction.
Then he suddenly leaned in close to the trembling child, grinning, voice bubbling with excitement.
"Hahaha—oh right, your mouth's taped shut, so you can't answer. But I know you're excited too, yeah? You're about to become my artwork—just like your parents."
"And whether demons are real… we're about to find out. Because I'm summoning a real demon right now!"
"Just wait. Maybe you're lucky—you'll get to witness Mister Demon's true face with me~"
"Oh, and you're probably wondering why I didn't kill you right away—why I saved you for now, right? Duh. You're my gifts! When you meet someone for the first time, you bring a present."
"And since this is my first time meeting Mister Demon, I have to bring what he likes most~"
"I just don't know if Mister Demon likes them alive or dead, so I kept you. He can decide when he gets here. So…"
"You two lucky little guys—when Mister Demon shows up, you'd better help me welcome our guest from far away, okay? …Huh? Why does it suddenly smell like piss?"
He sniffed, then looked at the two children in disgust.
"What the hell? You wet yourselves? This is a solemn ritual! What if Mister Demon dislikes you because of this?!"
"Tch, whatever. It's too late to find new sacrifices. If Mister Demon isn't satisfied with you… then I'll just take him out with me to find more."
"Alright… here we go."
Everything was ready.
Ryūnosuke stretched his hand toward the blood-drawn magic circle.
Hmmm—!!
In the next instant, blinding light erupted—along with a sharp stab of pain on the back of his hand.
"Hiss—damn, that hurts. What is this?"
He pulled his hand back.
Three markings—transformed from the omen's scars—had appeared as Command Spells.
His eyes lit up with delight.
"Did you see it?! Did you see it?!"
"It appeared—really appeared! The demon's mark! That book was true!"
"Mister Demon answered me! This is his mark!"
He shouted in manic joy.
A fierce wind suddenly swept through the room, arriving with the glaring light. The crimson magic circle underfoot shone with a spiritual glow.
Ryūnosuke grew even more exhilarated.
"Look, brats! Mister Demon is coming!"
"This is seriously… so, so… Cool!!!"
Then, as the spirit-particle glow faded—
"Servant, Berserker—Gilles de Rais. In accordance with the Holy Grail's will, I have answered your summons. You are—"
A melancholy young man stepped out: he carried a fleur-de-lis banner-spear, wore silver-white armor, and had long black hair.
But before he could finish speaking, the reeking stench of blood—and the hellish scene before him—hit him like a hammer.
The silver knight's eyes widened.
Then a thunderous roar burst from his throat.
"—A demon?!!"
Join here to read ahead.
In Star Rail, Ultra-Beast Armored — Have I Caught "Equilibrium"? l (Chapter 80)
Uma Musume, But I Only Have Five Years Left to Live (Chapter 80)
Zenless Zone Zero: I'm a Doctor, Not a Bangboo (Chapter 80)
Ben Tennyson Wants to Join the Justice League (Chapter 80)
TYPE-MOON: Redemption Beginning with the Holy Grail War (Chapter50)
Yu-Gi-Oh! — Transmigrated into the White Dragon Girl (Chapter50)
"Is this chat group even serious?" (Chapter50)
I, Lord Ravager, Utterly Loyal! (Chapter50)
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