"I was just joking," Riku said, brushing off his concern with the same casual air he used to wipe his hands. His gaze, however, drifted past her, toward the decrepit shack behind her shoulder.
"You see what's inside?"
Mirai didn't flinch.
"Even if I said no," she replied evenly, "you'd think I was lying anyway, right?"
Riku didn't answer. He just looked at her. Not coldly. Not kindly. Just long enough to make his meaning clear.
"I didn't kill anyone," he said, voice flat as dry stone.
Mirai exhaled softly and gave a tired little laugh.
"Heh. Figured. If you were the killer, you wouldn't be standing here having a polite chat with me. You'd have made sure I shut up permanently."
And just like that, she knew.
Whoever was behind the mess in that shack—the bloodstains, the scattered limbs, the reek of death, it wasn't him.
A real murderer wouldn't pause for conversation. Wouldn't explain himself.
He would've ended her the second she got too close.
But Riku?
Riku just stood there, calm as a man at a bus stop. No urgency. No fear. He didn't even care if she ran or screamed.
Still
She squinted at him. "Then why the hell do you look like that?"
Blood clung to his shirt like fingerprints.
In his left hand, he held a heavy plastic bag, sagging at the bottom with pale, bloated meat. An arm, stuffed with lime, torn and reattached like some grotesque craft project.
If her legs hadn't turned to lead, she might've run the second she saw him.
"I dug it out of the swamp by the lake," Riku said, as if he'd just pulled a lost wallet from the mud.
But it hadn't been simple.
That place was wrong. Thick with something unseen. A breeding ground for hatred.
The air twisted with spiritual residue, restless, ancient, starved. The kind of place where spirits didn't just haunt, they congregated. They clung to each other's pain and merged into something larger. Something with too many hands.
Even for Riku, handling that thing had taken everything.
But it paid off.
A cold flicker swept across his vision.
[Lake Ghost Hand retrieved — Advanced Vengeful Spirit acquired. Skill points gained: +2.]
[Total skill points: 5.]
Then, the next update rolled in.
[Chain Mission: Ongoing (2)]
[A brutal, highly skilled killer is active in this city. Cold. Surgical. Hidden in plain sight. Could be anyone—a classmate, a neighbor, even a trusted cop.]
[Mission Objective: Identify and eliminate the suspect.]
[Completion Reward: Spiritual Dagger.]
Riku narrowed his eyes.
So this wasn't random. The creepy forest, the ruined shack, it wasn't just bad luck. It was the next stage.
The second node in the chain.
And not only had he survived it, he'd earned two more points. Enough now to unlock the dagger branch, something that would finally let him go toe-to-toe with spirits on even ground.
No more raw fists against ghosts.
No more bleeding knuckles against things that didn't bleed.
With the dagger, the odds shifted.
But even now, he held off.
He never spent skill points unless it was necessary.
Because not all skills had to be bought. Some could be earned.
Take his boxing.
He hadn't unlocked it from a panel. It had grown, organically, an offshoot from Unarmed Combat, refined by hours of training, muscle memory, and instinct.
Years of drills in the military had carved those patterns into his bones. And this new body, fast, strong, adaptable was syncing faster than expected.
Skills built through sweat were smoother. They clicked in naturally. No lag. No learning curve.
And that's why Riku rarely wasted points upgrading something he could grind out on his own.
He had five saved. Five he might need for something else. Something bigger.
Because somewhere in this city, a monster was still out there.
And he wasn't planning to face it empty-handed.
Basic Instrument Use: 2 skill points
→ Unlock Branch: Military Dagger Technique (3 skill points)
Riku stared at the tree, then at the skill panel hovering faintly in front of his eyes.
He usually saved his points, only spent them when there was no other way forward.
But this mission's reward was too good. A spiritual weapon? It would be suicidal to claim it without the proper skill branch open.
While he debated, the phone he'd dialed earlier finally buzzed in his hand.
Under Mirai's curious gaze, Riku picked up the call, completely unbothered.
"Police?" he said calmly. "Yes, this is Riku Fukuda. I'm at the lake park beneath Nakamura Shrine, Nakama District. Multiple female bodies have been discovered here... Also, if you could bring a change of clothes when you come, I'd appreciate it."
He didn't lower his voice.
He didn't hide a thing.
Mirai heard every word, and he let her.
When he hung up, she stepped closer, eyes sharp with something between amusement and suspicion.
"Riku," she said slowly, "you just keep getting more and more interesting. Who are you, really? A private investigator? Some undercover cop?"
"I'm just like you," Riku cut in, barely glancing at her. "An ordinary civilian."
Mirai narrowed her eyes, lips pressing into a pout.
"Wow. You've really redefined the word ordinary."
Riku ignored the bait. He turned and walked up to the locked door of the shack, raised his foot, and drove his heel into the rusted blue steel plate.
Crack. The lock snapped clean.
He stepped inside. Mirai followed before she could stop herself.
Then she saw it.
And froze.
The air inside was different.
Dead.
The stench hadn't risen yet, cold kept it down, but everything else was already screaming. Rows of female bodies, some fresh, some long dead, arranged with sickening precision on crude wooden racks.
Muscle tissue gleamed white under dried, cracking blood.
Most of the heads had been cracked open.
Blunt trauma. Wide eyes. Frozen terror.
Mirai staggered, her hand flying to her mouth.
"Oh God…"
Her stomach twisted. She nearly doubled over. If Riku hadn't been in the room, she might've vomited on the spot.
What disturbed her wasn't just the brutality, but the intent. The way the corpses stared. As if their souls were still watching her.
She started to sweat. Cold, prickly dread spread through her chest, up her arms. Her palms were slick.
But Riku
He didn't even blink.
He'd seen worse. Had died in worse. War made sure of that.
And after two months trapped inside this system-bound body, horror was more or less background noise.
Still
One body caught his eye.
The girl on the ground. Legs soaked, chest bare, arms gone. But not torn—cut. Cleanly. Deliberately. The stumps had been covered in lime, likely to block blood flow before the limbs were removed.
He crouched. Looked closer.
The killer hadn't mutilated the rest. Only the arms. Just like the others.
It wasn't sexual. It was ritual. A fixation. Every dismembered girl had been tossed aside after the arms were claimed, no postmortem desecration, no other trophies taken.
The room was still cold enough to preserve everything.
But soon, with spring creeping in, the rot would start. And the killer? He'd vanish.
Riku stood, stepped out of the cabin, and breathed in sharp winter air.
Then his phone rang again.