Blind Alley

{ ONE WEEK BEFORE ATTACKING PRINCE MIRAC… }

It was March 30, 1415.

"Professor Shirkenn", as he did almost every Sunday, set out in a royal carriage towards the capital of the Kingdom of Ardorya: Magam.

There was nothing casual about the choice of his destination or the nervousness that seeped through his gestures, even though he tried to hide it.

He didn't venture into the heart of the bustling city, with its crowded squares and lively markets. No, as always, he headed towards the outer areas, to the edges of the walls that surrounded the capital, Magam.

There, where the low population density left space for solitary alleys and forgotten streets, Klark nurtured his usual hope: to find someone alone, away from prying eyes, and vent his anger on them!

He didn't care who they were, nor why they were there.

Each time, he walked those deserted streets in vain search of any victim, someone to kill and pour out the repressed rage that consumed him from within.

But what had reduced him to this was the nightmare of having lived under Carmen's relentless threats for almost a whole year!

That constant oppression had forced him to suppress emotions that now boiled up to the surface, ready to explode at any moment.

In the last eight months, committing murder had become almost his weekend pastime, so much so that the rumor of the feared "Sunday Killer" quickly spread throughout the capital.

Therefore, by now, after spending so much time in Magam, Klark could recall all the main features of the city by heart.

For instance, the sloping roofs of the houses that stood out against the clear sky, a succession of dark tiles that seemed to blend with the clouds. The facades, a skillful blend of exposed bricks and half-timbered wood, bore the marks of time and the weather.

The windows, numerous and of varying sizes, were adorned with colored glass that reflected the sunlight in iridescent fragments. Refined wooden carvings framed the glass, while flowerpots hung from the sills.

The houses overlooked cobbled streets, made shiny by a thin layer of moisture.

Few passersby moved slowly, a slight sense of anxiety accompanying them, yet still enjoying the peace of that Sunday morning.

Despite the rumors circulating about the feared "Sunday Killer," some still walked those streets, either indifferent to the stories about the dreaded murderer or feeling secure in pairs or small groups, confident they could face any danger.

"Shit!" Klark muttered through gritted teeth, drawing suspicious glances from a few passersby.

Of all people, Klark stood out significantly.

He was walking with determined, almost furious steps, his face tense, and his hands nervously gripping the strap of his black bag.

"I'll kill her! I'll kill her! I'll kill her!" he repeated, like a mantra he could no longer contain.

It was just then that, all of a sudden, Klark felt a presence watching him in silence.

From the left side of the street, at the end of a dead-end alley shrouded in shadow, an imposing figure stood out in the dark.

He was hooded, the face hidden under a black cloak that seemed to swallow up any trace of light. His large frame, still and threatening, exuded an intimidating aura, as if the darkness itself had taken shape around him.

Klark stopped abruptly. His heart was pounding in his chest, but not out of fear.

Instinctively, he grabbed the knot of his tie, ready to loosen it and pull it off his neck.

It was his way of preparing himself, of bracing for his enemies.

In fact, if that figure had posed a threat, Klark would simply have tightened the fabric to stiffen it and transform it into his usual sword-tie, using it to fight.

"Who are you?" Klark barked, his voice harsher than even he had expected. There was no fear in those words, only a rage sharp as a knife.

The hooded figure stood still for a moment. Then, it took a step forward, allowing the dim light to faintly outline the contours of the hidden face.

When he spoke, his deep and grave voice seemed to echo against the narrow walls of the alley:

"It's been a long time, Klark…"

Those words, spoken with chilling calmness, were enough to freeze the man in place.

Klark's eyes widened, and the tension in his hand loosened, releasing his grip on the tie knot.

"C-Captain Dilven?" Klark asked, almost breathless.

The figure remained silent. No sign of confirmation, no gesture to dispel the mystery.

He only made an almost imperceptible motion with his head before turning towards the interior of the alley.

"Follow me…" he commanded, with a voice that left no room for objection.

Klark didn't hesitate for a second.

He gritted his teeth and followed the figure into the darkness of the dead-end alley.

As they neared the end of the short dead-end street, the heavy silence surrounding them grew even more oppressive.

The twilight played with the shadows, making it difficult to distinguish the boundaries of the walls and the road. The air was thick, as if the alley itself were holding its breath, waiting to listen to their words.

The man named Dilven stopped just before the rough stone wall that blocked the passage. Then, he turned towards Klark, who was following closely behind.

Klark, without hesitation, took the initiative to speak. He lowered his voice, both to ensure no one could hear them and out of the reverence he felt when addressing the Captain.

"Captain, I've been trying to contact you for over a year!" he said, with a note of frustration. "Where the hell have you been?"

Dilven, the imposing man who seemed to occupy all the available space in the alley, responded in a hoarse, deep voice:

"You know well, Klark. We've been busy with preparations. The organization doesn't move without a plan. Moreover, we sent practically all our men to other secret associations like ours to spy on them and gather the information we need. But anyway, now let's talk about you!"

Dilven took a step forward, intimidating Klark, who instinctively stepped back.

"I see you've killed many people in these last few months. I mean… you're the Sunday Killer, right?"

Klark barely nodded his head.

"As I thought…" said Dilven, with an almost imperceptible breath. "Frankly, the Boss doesn't care who your victims are, as long as they don't interfere with his plans. But clearly, you were so caught up in having fun in the city that you forgot about this detail, as well as your mission and the real reason you're here! So, let me ask you directly, Klark: why haven't you killed Prince Mirac yet?"

Klark bravely took a step forward, rage burning in his eyes.

"That's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about," he began, in a lower but tense tone. "There's another spy in the royal palace besides me."

Dilven raised an eyebrow beneath his hood.

"And so? What's the problem?"

Klark stared at him incredulously, almost hurt by the response.

"The problem," he emphasized, "is that this woman already knew everything! The first day I arrived at the castle, as soon as I stepped into the entrance hall, that woman immediately recognized me and showed that she knew my name, our plans, and even the name of the organization!"

Dilven stiffened.

"She already knew about the Last Storm?" he asked slowly, as if his mind were sifting through all possibilities.

Klark nodded firmly, his face rigid.

"Yes, and not only that: this woman is part of the Demonic Womb!"

At those words, a spark of concern flashed in Dilven's gaze.

"The Demonic Womb, you said?" he repeated, with a note of disbelief.

"Exactly," Klark confirmed. "So, as soon as she told me that, I immediately thought there might be a spy in our team as well! There's no other explanation for how she knew every detail!"

Dilven took a moment to reflect. His eyes narrowed, as if trying to peer into the darkness beyond the alley.

"Alright," he finally said, in a grave tone. "Once I return to the secret base, I'll inform the Boss about this matter immediately. However, everything you just told me still doesn't explain why you haven't completed your mission yet, Klark!"

Klark snapped like a spring, moving towards Dilven with a weak but sudden motion, his eyes full of desperation.

"Yes, it does! Because this is exactly where the root of the problem lies!" he exclaimed, his voice cracking with frustration. "That woman…!" He paused for a moment, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists to contain a wave of anger. "That woman said that the Demonic Womb has taken my family hostage!"

Dilven remained still, his gaze becoming cold and analytical.

"Your wife and daughter?"

Klark nodded slowly, his hands barely trembling.

"Yes, Lois and Petra! At first, I thought it was just a bluff. But then, when she revealed that she was part of the Demonic Womb, and considering that her hair is as red as blood and she already knew everything about me, I realized she wasn't lying!

"The same day I arrived, she also told me," Klark continued, his voice broken by repressed anger, "that she would harm Lois and Petra if I didn't follow two rules: the first, don't kill Prince Mirac. I don't know why they want to protect him, but clearly, they're getting something out of it. And the second rule…"

He paused for a moment, once again clenching his fists until his knuckles turned white.

"The second rule was to provide her, whenever she asked, with information on other secret organizations like ours. And I had to obey both rules, Captain Dilven! I didn't kill the young Prince because I absolutely couldn't risk putting my wife and daughter's lives in dange-!"

"KLARK!" Dilven's voice abruptly interrupted his subordinate, the tone so menacing it resembled a thunderclap.

Dilven's already imposing figure seemed to grow larger, taking on an almost otherworldly presence.

"YOU'RE A COMPLETE IDIOT!" he finally roared, his voice as fierce as the growl of a beast.

Klark instinctively stepped back, raising his hands defensively.

"C-Captain Dilven, you can rest assured!" he stammered, desperately trying to appear calm. "I didn't tell her anything about the Last Storm, I swear!"

"That's not what I mean!" Dilven thundered, cutting off his protests with unrestrained fury. "Klark, your family was never held hostage by anyone!"