Chapter Twenty: Frozen in Time

At this moment, under the heavy influence of adrenaline, Mulan’s muscles still trembled slightly. He steadied his breathing and gazed at the lifeless body of the deranged killer sprawled on the floor. Only after crouching down and confirming repeatedly that the man was truly dead did Mulan finally let out a deep sigh of relief.

From the very beginning, Mulan had harbored no intention of capturing this madman for trial; he had resolved to kill him outright. After all, being targeted by a lunatic like this was simply too dangerous—there were countless stories on television where such men were captured, only to escape and seek vengeance.

He reached out and picked up the revolver from the floor, checking once more to make sure there were still three bullets in the chamber. Judging by the killer’s last reactions, he hadn’t been able to use the gun; it seemed the revolver truly possessed a will of its own.

Mulan then retrieved the silver-handled cane sword and turned his gaze back to the corpse at his feet. When he focused his attention, he could vaguely see a black, smoke-like substance swirling around the body. As he tried to observe it more closely, a shadowy darkness seemed to settle over the attic.

A sharp, chilling scream seemed to sound near the corpse—eerily distant and close at once, filled with terror and so uncanny it made one’s skin crawl.

Mulan shook his head, and the vision faded like an illusion; the corpse was still just a corpse, the attic unchanged, blood slowly seeping from the madman’s body.

He suspected what he had just witnessed was no illusion, and his thoughts immediately turned to the existence of the Inner World, recalling the priest Irwin’s warning:

Do not observe the Inner World—not yet, at least.

Footsteps echoed up the stairs, slowing as they neared the attic. Detective Valentine and the officers, guns drawn, climbed cautiously, tension etched on every face.

The attic had fallen silent; no one knew what had happened.

“Mr. Jonster... Sir Jonster, are you there?”

“Mulan?”

On the attic, Mulan composed himself, calming his heightened nerves. He rose slowly and addressed the anxious officers at the stairway in a level, steady voice.

“It’s over. The criminal has been shot dead. You can come up now.”

Hearing Mulan’s voice, the officers—who had dared not climb the last few steps—breathed a collective sigh of relief. Detective Valentine led the way into the attic.

When they saw the crazed murderer lying in a pool of blood, everyone finally relaxed completely.

He was a slightly gaunt man, prominent cheekbones, a stubbled chin, long, powerful fingers, dressed thinly for such cold weather.

Even with a gaping wound in his forehead, even in death, the killer’s eyes remained wide open, refusing to close—a sight so unnerving that, even confronted with his corpse, the officers still felt a chilling sense of oppression.

Terrifying, cold-blooded, cruel, deranged...

Such were everyone’s impressions, and rightly so.

And the man who had faced down this monster—a criminal worthy of case studies—stood just a step away from the corpse, holding a pistol in each hand, a silver-handled cane tucked under his arm.

Though it had been perilous facing such a formidable foe, now that it was over, Mulan, hardened by the brutalities of war, felt little turmoil as he handed the black pistol to the cautious detective entering the attic.

“This is the handgun he used. There should be a rifle left in the house where I was first attacked today, and his knife—I kicked it away, it may have fallen onto the street outside the window.”

The detective cautiously took the pistol, then looked Mulan over—his shoulder showed a bullet hole, fresh blood trickled from a cut on his face.

“Sir Jonster, how are your injuries?”

With the adrenaline fading, the euphoria ebbed and the pain intensified. Mulan’s left shoulder throbbed, burning, but he knew it was just a graze, not a serious wound.

“It’s nothing, just needs a little bandaging. I suggest you dissect this killer—his physical strength was unnaturally great!”

He spoke as he thought aloud, unaware the detective glanced at the corpse and then at Mulan, swallowing nervously and thinking, You’re not much different yourself!

Had Mulan heard the detective’s thoughts, he would have explained that his marksmanship had put the killer under immense pressure and that the injuries each had sustained were not comparable.

But now Mulan wanted to say nothing more. He was exhausted—he only wished to return home, have a meal prepared by Old Buck, and rest.

Thunder rolled outside—the rain was still pouring, and lightning flashed, illuminating the attic and casting the killer’s face in a more grotesque light.

“All right, I’ll leave this to you. I’m going home.”

“Uh, Sir Jonster—”

“I need to tend to my wound. If you have questions, send someone to my house or wait until tomorrow.”

Seeing no objection from the detective, Mulan stepped over the corpse and made his way downstairs.

Downstairs, more officers waited, but with the killer dead, they had relaxed noticeably. By the time Mulan reached the ground floor, the male homeowner was still unconscious, while the woman would never wake again.

Mulan glanced at the woman, her dress soaked in blood, closed his eyes briefly, and offered a quiet, local blessing.

“May the Holy Light redeem your soul.”

As he walked through the house, every officer instinctively stepped aside, watching him with a kind of awe. Mulan paused at the doorway, looked out at the driving rain, glanced at his wounded shoulder, pulled up his raincoat hood, and stepped into the storm.

The moment he emerged, a reporter from the Valentine Daily—ever desperate for news—had already arrived outside with incredible speed.

The earliest of the reporters had spotted Mulan from afar. Seeing him about to leave, he tore off the rain cover from his expensive camera, ignoring the risk of water damage, and snapped a photograph.

In the sulphur-scented mist, the flash went off, capturing forever the moment Mulan pulled up his hood and stepped into the rain. Mulan gave the reporter a brief glance, hurried away, and pondered his original reason for coming here.

Where had those two boys gone? And the woman who might have been a siren?

Shortly after Mulan’s departure, several officers began searching outside for the killer’s boning knife. But with water flooding the streets, it proved a difficult task.

A man in gentleman’s attire appeared, holding a black umbrella. He bent down, his gloved hand rifling through the water, and picked up a sharp boning knife.

“Officers, are you looking for this?”

“It looks like it... Yes, that’s the one, isn’t it?”

“It should be!”

The officers, not entirely certain, took the knife—its appearance matched Mulan’s description. The gentleman, having handed over the weapon, quietly departed, seemingly unnoticed by anyone apart from this brief exchange.

“Mulan Jonster, was it?”

The gentleman murmured to himself, a faint smile appearing on his lips.