Canon of Beastie Detective (VIII)Mr. Ashveil's strange affliction flares up violently from time to time.
He makes everyone stay clear of the scene before we hear the violent shaking of the refrigerator, followed by sounds of tearing and gnawing, muffled howls, and sinister shadows cast upon the blinds.
Once it passes, he crawls out of the refrigerator, exhausted and drained, sweeping away the blood and sweat frozen into frost, carefully reinforcing the nails on his wrists.
So he often jokes:
"If I were in a detective novel, I'd definitely be suspected of being the culprit."
There are indeed many suspicious signs pointing to this.
First, according to my incomplete statistics, Mr. Ashveil has moved countless times. Second, he always avoids meeting old friends who are looking for him.
However, as his assistant, I feel obliged to clarify the truth to all readers.
Mr. Ashveil is a sentimental soul who treasures mementos from ages past in his old luggage.
A bloodstained bullet, even after ten Amber Eras, still carries blood that blazes with crimson fire.
A rusted arrow, snapped in two yet still quivering, as if yearning to fly toward some distant destination.
...
And a dim Memory Bubble, said to come from the ancient battlefield where an Overlord fell.
The moment I touched the Memory Bubble, I felt like I'd lived through a similar dream...
The blazing roar of Voidrangers, faint whispers of comrades freezing to the bone, and the cold fear churning in his throat.
"Don't lose focus. Keep your eyes on the target." A familiar figure swallowed blood with their back turned to their comrades.
Countless meteors rushed in from all directions, only to be consumed like moths by the flame of Destruction.
"Will we win?"
"Do all these sacrifices mean anything...?"
A despair more terrifying than the surrounding darkness lingered in everyone's mind.
On that brutal night, the man was pierced through by his own oath.
"If we cannot find the light, then let us devour the darkness with an even deeper darkness."
Shadows spread from his arms, transforming into pitch-black sin, drowning the battlefield, himself, and all his comrades alike. And from that moment on, it became a curse that clung to him like a festering wound.
Truth be told, Mr. Ashveil wasn't a criminal, but a patient. And his ailments went far beyond arthritis and aching joints.
But he'd already written his own prescription:
"Detective's Code, Rule 3: The sacrifices made in the long night are the price paid for tomorrow."