CHAPTER 24: CRIME SCENE

The chief led them to the murder scene. His cane struck the cobbled street with a steady rhythm.

Beside him walked one of his soldiers, a broad man with a sword strapped to his hip. Edward followed close behind, with Aeris at his side, her steps light and purposeful. The deeper they pressed into the eastern quarter, the more the city seemed to change around them.

The district was alive—almost too alive.

Even at this late afternoon hour, the air buzzed with voices, laughter, and drunken songs echoing from every corner. Taverns lined both sides of the narrow streets, their doors thrown wide, torchlights and lamplights spilling out across uneven stones.

Men stumbled shoulder to shoulder with women dressed in bright silks, mugs of ale sloshing over their hands. A fight broke out by a doorway, two burly drunks crashing into the street, cheered on by a small circle of onlookers.

The air reeked of roasted meat, spilt beer, and sweat. Edward wrinkled his nose but kept his pace, studying the chaotic scene. It reminded him of the worst kind of nightlife back in his world—the kind where trouble found you even if you weren’t looking for it.

"This is the eastern quarter," the chief said over the noise, his voice gruff. "Merchants come here to drink their profits, soldiers come to forget their battles, and peasants visit to find pleasure. Not many places in the kingdom are louder than this."

Aeris glanced sidelong at Edward, though she said nothing. He could tell she was gauging his reaction, wondering if the sights unsettled him. He ignored it, his eyes already searching for the reason they’d come.

Soon enough, the streets grew quieter. The shouts and drunken songs faded behind them as they stopped before a large tavern at the end of a narrow lane. Its wooden sign hung crooked, paint flaking, and its door shut tight.

The contrast struck Edward immediately. Every other tavern was alive with noise, yet this one stood in silence, its shutters drawn.

The chief gave a curt nod to his soldier. The man stepped forward, fumbling briefly with a ring of keys before fitting one into the iron lock. The bolt scraped free, and with a push, the heavy door creaked inward.

Inside, the tavern was dim. Only a few lanterns burned, their weak glow casting long shadows across overturned chairs and sticky floors. The scent of ale lingered, but beneath it lay something sharper—coppery and metallic.

Edward recognised it instantly.

"Blood..."

The chief’s expression hardened.

"It happened after hours," he said quietly. "The tavern was already closed. No signs of anyone breaking in. We’ve no idea how the killer got in."

Edward’s gaze swept across the room. It didn’t take him long to find the body.

A man lay slumped against the wall behind the bar. He was broad, with a thick brown beard matted dark with blood. His chest was a ruin—his shirt shredded, skin torn through in seven distinct places. The wood behind him was painted with spatter.

Edward stepped closer, his mind shifting into clinical focus.

He crouched, studying the stains.

"High-velocity spatter," he muttered under his breath. "The kind you’d expect from a bullet wound, not a blade."

The soldier frowned at him, clearly not understanding. But Edward continued his assessment, speaking more to himself than to the others.

"The pattern... fine mist, small droplets scattered outward. And the wounds—" he leaned closer to the fat man’s chest, fingers hovering just short of touching. "Clean entry points, round and consistent. Almost like a gunshot from a high-caliber rifle. Definitely not from a sword or spear."

He straightened slowly, frowning.

"But that makes no sense. If it were bullets, there’d be castings all over the place. And as far as I know, there aren’t any firearms in this world," he thought to himself, questioning his knowledge of this world once again.

He began counting aloud, his voice flat. "One, two, three..." His eyes moved from wound to wound, following their grisly path across the man’s torso. "...seven. Seven hits in total."

Edward’s lips pressed into a thin line. Whoever had done this hadn’t just killed. They’d annihilated that man.

"Brutal," he said softly.

"Why strike him seven times? He would’ve been dead after the first or second hit."

The chief folded his arms, staring at the corpse. "So you think it was personal?"

Edward’s eyes lingered on the ruined body before flicking up to meet the chief’s. "Yes. I believe so."

The chief regarded him with something between respect and unease. "You seem to know what you’re doing. Chief Thoren was correct in his assessment of you."

Edward waved off the compliment, his mind already elsewhere. There was still the question of how. He raked a hand through his hair, considering every possibility. Firearms were out of the question. Blades didn’t leave wounds this small or this clean. Some strange weapon, only familiar to this world.

And then the thought struck him. He almost laughed at how obvious it was. Something so simple, yet so foreign to him, he’d overlooked it.

"Magic," he said, barely above a whisper.

Aeris tilted her head. "What?"

"The killer used magic," Edward repeated, more firmly. "Small projectiles. Fast and precise. The attacks came at high velocity, too fast for a blade. Perhaps wind-related ability or—"

"Ice," Aeris cut in.

Edward looked at her, one brow raised. "Ice?"

She nodded, her gaze steady. "I’ve seen wounds like these before, though never so small. Ice magic can pierce flesh as cleanly as steel. If shaped into a sharp projectile... this is what it would look like."

He studied her face, trying to gauge if she was certain. But Aeris didn’t waver.

"Ice magic," he echoed under his breath, tasting the words.

The idea felt absurd, even ridiculous. Yet the evidence lay bleeding in front of him. What was absurd wasn’t the theory—it was the fact that magic was real in this world. He needs to keep that in mind if he is to make any progress in catching killers who can use it.

Edward exhaled slowly.

"Then I suppose we are looking for someone who can use ice magic."

The chief gave a low grunt, clearly unsettled, and turned toward Edward. "But... how do we go about finding the suspect?"

Edward’s gaze flicked back to the fat man’s lifeless face. His brown beard, his broad frame—he had once been full of life. Now he was riddled with holes, discarded like nothing more than trash. Edward’s jaw tightened.

"Any family?" he asked suddenly.

The soldier shifted uncomfortably. "A wife. She’s... devastated. We just told her the news of his passing earlier today."

"Soon..." Edward thought grimly. Questioning his wife so soon after she just found out her husband had died might be too harsh. But Edward knew that in murder cases, time was of the essence. The killer might be on the run, and if they want any hope of catching him, they need as much information as they can possibly get.

"I’ll need to speak with her," he said aloud.

The chief’s brow furrowed. "What could she possibly know?"

Edward gestured at the body. "It’s personal. Seven wounds when one would have sufficed. That speaks of anger, or perhaps resentment. It might’ve been someone close. She might know if he had enemies... or she could’ve seen something unusual. Any information will be of use."

The chief considered his words, then slowly nodded. "Very well,"

Edward took one last look at the corpse, committing the details to memory—the wounds, the spatter, and the sheer violence of it all. Then he straightened, his mind already turning toward the next step.

"Let’s not linger here any longer," he said. "Let’s speak to the wife."

The chief glanced once more at the ruined man before signalling to his soldier. Together, they left the tavern, the night air greeting them like a wave. Edward followed, with Aeris beside him, the echo of his own thoughts pressing in.

Ice magic. A weaponised element, which can be sharper than steel and faster than a bullet.

He wasn’t sure what disturbed him more—that such a thing was now his reality, or that someone out there had used it with such calculated brutality.