After Mr Uriel asked the servant to hand over the key, I nodded goodbye.
I stepped out of the hotel, squinting at the sun like it owed me money. It was blazing out. Too hot. But kind of perfect for what I had in mind. I didn't stop long. Just enough to weigh my options—then I let my feet take over and started walking toward the villa.
"Sun's in full swing. Noon light. Perfect time for spiritual investigations and other terrible ideas," I muttered. A poor attempt at pep talk.
The idea of a metaphysical body shield seemed more appealing by the minute.
I'm not brave. Not really. Not in the conventional sense. I was just a pretty regular guy in my last life. So walking into the weird, the occult, the maybe-haunted—it gets to me. Rattles something old in my bones.
Still, thanks to that damn Golden Black Rebis, I had a few tricks up my sleeve. Hardened skin. Fast regeneration. Life-saving skills, really. Like slapping duct tape over the cracks in your soul. Not ideal, but something.
The villa wasn't far. I let my feet do the math, retracing the map in my head.
Something about Uriel's face earlier—when I asked if Mrs. Strelling had noticed anything—it bugged me. He looked... off. Stiff. Conflicted.
Yeah, people get confused when they're feverish, but according to Uriel, the fever came and went. Wouldn't there be lucid moments? Time to chat, ask questions?
Maybe he did ask and didn't like the answers.
But nah, maybe I'm just paranoid. These noble types always seem like they're hiding something. That doesn't mean they are.
Right?
I shook the thought out and kept walking.
"Sell newspapers! Sell newspapers!"
"The town of Zavier's been bloodbathed!"
"Sell newspapers!"
"Sir, newspaper?"
Kids. Little salesmen with green canvas bags and sunburnt noses, yelling horror at strangers. I grabbed one by the sleeve before he disappeared into the crowd and gave him a copper Narc's.
He handed me a copy of The Voice of Wagon. National circulation. Smelled like ink and bad news.
Front page: The Havel Tragedy! The Northern Empire in Flames!
The words hit harder than they should've.
I skimmed the article. Zavier Town was just gone. Wiped clean two days ago. Barely any survivors.
It sat uncomfortably close to the Fibon Empire—aggressive neighbors, war-hungry and muscle-headed. A border town like Zavier? Easy prey.
And if this was war... chaos was coming.
Great. Just what we needed.
I rolled the newspaper tight and sped up. The villa was close.
When I reached the iron gate, I paused. Neck craned. Breath shallow.
Then, with the sort of hesitation you'd expect from someone unlocking a crypt, I stuck the key in and twisted. The gate creaked open. I slid inside and shut it quickly behind me.
The path from gate to villa stretched about 200 meters. Dark gray stone bricks paved the way. Smooth, slightly uneven—like teeth in need of a dentist.
Lawns flanked both sides. Neatly trimmed. Sparse. Stone pillars stood like soldiers every few meters, each hooked with a kerosene lamp holder. Like something out of a sketchy postcard.
I gave the place a once-over. Shrubs near the fence. A couple trees here and there, looking depressed and underpaid. The gardener clearly gave up midweek.
But the villa itself? Gorgeous. Fashionably old. Expensive, but not flaunting it.
Funny thing though. The dossier said the Strellings didn't pay much. Bought it for way under market price.
So... why was it so cheap?
Sudden financial trouble? Or something nastier?
Cursed property with a punchline?
Definitely worth digging into.
As I approached the main door, my nerves caught up with me. Heart doing its drum solo. I stared at the house like it was about to blink.
"Okay, Feron. No big deal. Enigmas are just like rats. Creepy but manageable."
That's what I told myself, anyway.
I pressed a hand to my chest. Deep breaths. Real slow. Then I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The hall greeted me with filtered light. Sunlight broke through the windows on the first and second floors, but it didn't bring much warmth. The cold was inside me now. Settled in deep.
I stepped forward. Cautiously. Like the floor might vanish.
If someone filmed me, I'd be a joke. One of those horror movie extras who dies first. Tiptoeing and flinching at shadows.
Still, fear's a hell of a motivator.
No signs of the 'Enigma' in the hall.
I searched everything. Left side first. Door to door. Room to room. I even looked under the beds. Inside wardrobes. Checked behind cabinets. Utensils. You name it.
Nothing.
Second floor? Rinse and repeat.
Same results.
No ghosts. No curses. Just a couple cockroaches with a death wish.
I even used my white crystal detection chips. Nothing triggered.
I stepped outside again. Back to the sunlight. The door loomed behind me.
I stared at it. Thinking.
The Church of the Saltmother had judged this place—declared there was a Enigma. But... where was it?
I was ready to throw hands with a demon. Instead, I found roaches.
Maybe the 'Enigma' had moved. Fled. Unlikely. 'Enigma' types don't do subtle.
Could it be gaseous? No, no... no way. Gaseous forms lack strength. Can't toss people around or scratch your face off.
Liquid? Doubtful. Too messy. They leave obvious signs.
A spirit? Still no. That kind usually messes with your head. Visions, dreams, voices.
So either...
A. The Enigma left.
B. It's hidden somewhere else. Off-property.
C. It's a type I don't know yet. Which is deeply comforting. (It's not.)
D. I'm a bad detective.
Okay, maybe not D. But still.
I rubbed my eyes. Midnight. That's when all the weird stuff happens.
I'd have to come back at midnight.
God help me.
Maybe I could bring Jaden. He's way better at this 'mystery' crap than me.
Not that I'm scared. I'm just... tactical.
Tactically terrified.
Yeah.
That's what I'll tell him.