Arsa gave a faint nod. "Understood."
The investigation began immediately.
Jenkins and Arsa spent the next hour walking the halls of the mansion, examining the warning letter under a magnifying glass and questioning Lord Mervyn about any known enemies. The only potential threat that stood out was the Aerlington family of Cheshire—a long-standing rival of the Landcasters over a border estate dispute that had nearly gone to court last year. Jenkins jotted down notes, muttering to himself as he made deductions. Arsa remained quiet, observing every detail—the ink, the folds in the letter, the handwriting. Everything screamed urgency, but nothing concrete.
Eventually, one of the maids—a woman in her late thirties—politely informed them that their rooms were ready.
"This way, sirs," she said, leading them up a wide staircase and down a long corridor lit by gas lamps.
When she opened the door, Arsa noted the polished floor, deep green curtains, and a single oil painting of a lake on the far wall. The room was modest compared to the rest of the estate. Two beds stood side by side with clean white sheets and folded blankets.
"I assume this is acceptable?" the maid asked.
"It's fine," Jenkins replied.
After she left, Arsa dropped his coat on a chair and excused himself. "I'll be out for a stroll," he said.
Jenkins waved him off, already lighting a cigarette.
The hallway outside was quiet, the only sound being the soft creak of floorboards under Arsa's boots. As he walked, his eyes landed on a portrait at the end of the hallway.
It was a large oil painting in an ornate gold frame.
The woman in the painting had long, wavy blue hair and crimson red eyes. She wore an elegant white dress embroidered with golden thread, her expression calm and composed. A small plaque at the bottom of the frame read:
"Lady Landcaster – 600–690"
Arsa stepped closer, studying the delicate brushwork. The resemblance to Lord Mervyn's family was clear—same eyes, same striking hair.
As he turned to leave, he bumped into someone.
"Oh!" a small voice said.
Two girls stood before him. One was younger, maybe eight, with a round face and wide eyes—Emma, if he remembered correctly. The older one, Rachel, looked about fourteen, with a sharper gaze and a more confident stance.
"Oh, excuse me," Arsa said, taking a polite step back. He gave a small bow, hand to his chest. "Good afternoon, ladies. Forgive me, I wasn't watching where I was going."
"You talk funny," Emma said.
"That's just how some people talk, Emma," Rachel replied, but she looked at Arsa curiously. "You're the detective from the city?"
"Yes, ma'am. Arsa Ashrith."
"You look like a girl," Emma blurted.
Arsa blinked. "…I've been told that before."
"Your face is really soft," Rachel added. "And your voice is almost like a girl's too. Are you really a man?"
"I am," Arsa replied, calm as ever.
"You're kind of pretty," Emma said.
"…Thank you, I suppose."
Rachel folded her arms. "Are you a Yrlton?"
The question caught him slightly off guard. He nodded. "Yes, I am."
Both girls suddenly lit up.
"Can you use magic?" Emma asked, eyes sparkling.
"I can," Arsa replied. "Just a little."
"Can you show us?"
He looked around. They were in a large enough hallway with no one nearby. "Alright. Just for a moment."
Arsa raised his hand, fingers slightly spread. A subtle current of air swept down the hallway, gentle but strong enough to lift a few stray papers and flutter the edge of a curtain. A featherlight gust twirled around the girls, making their hair sway and their dresses ripple slightly.
Emma gasped. "Whoa!"
Rachel smiled, trying to stay composed, but clearly impressed.
"That's so cool," Emma said. "You can move air?"
"I can manipulate wind," Arsa said. "It's not very flashy, but useful in its own way."
Rachel pointed at the portrait behind him. "Do you know who that is?"
"I was just wondering," he said.
"That's Lady Landcaster," Rachel explained. "Our ancestor. She was the one who founded our house after the old empire collapsed. They say she had the blood of a witch."
"Or maybe a Yrlton too?" Arsa asked lightly.
"Maybe," Rachel replied, "but her magic was different. She could curse people just by writing their names down."
"…Fascinating," Arsa muttered.
Emma tugged at his sleeve. "Are you staying here tonight?"
"Yes. Lord Mervyn asked me and Mr. Jenkins to investigate something."
"Is it ghosts?" she asked, eyes wide.
Arsa smiled faintly. "That's what we're here to find out."
"Well, good luck!" Emma said. "But if you get scared, you can sleep in Rachel's room!"
"Emma!" Rachel hissed.
Arsa chuckled. "Thank you for the offer."
He gave them a courteous nod. "Now if you'll excuse me, ladies."
As he walked away, he could still hear Emma whispering loudly: "He's soooo pretty. He should wear a dress."
"Don't say that!"
Arsa shook his head, lips twitching just a little. The family seemed harmless enough. But the letter, the warnings, the history…
He had the feeling something was watching. And whatever it was, it wasn't amused.
At night.
The night had settled heavily over the Landcaster Estate. Thick clouds loomed above, casting the moonlight into fragments across the mansion's expansive grounds. A sharp chill hung in the air. The kind of cold that clung not just to the skin but seemed to slip into the bones.
Inside the guest room, Arsa sat at the desk, his coat draped over the back of the chair. He flipped through his leather-bound notebook, reviewing the family's history and the letter once more. Across the room, Jenkins—Argus Jenkins—stood by the window, polishing his revolver with a worn cloth.
"You noticed anything off since dinner?" Jenkins asked without looking up.
Arsa looked up from his notes. "Not visibly. But something feels wrong."
Jenkins raised a brow. "More intuition?"
"I'd call it instinct."
A sudden, blood-curdling scream pierced the air.
Both men froze.
Another scream—sharper, closer.
Without a word, both were already moving. Arsa grabbed his coat and sprinted after Jenkins, who had already flung the door open. Boots thudding against the wooden floor, they ran through the corridor, turned a corner—and stopped cold.
What they saw wasn't human.
At the far end of the hall, beneath a shattered chandelier, a maid lay sprawled, unmoving—her blood smeared across the walls in handprints and streaks. And standing above her was a monstrosity.
It had the head of a man—but the eyes were black voids, and the mouth was stretched far beyond what any jaw should allow. Its body was that of a massive, hunched wolf, covered in dark, sinewy fur. But the worst part—its torso was grotesquely malformed, its ribcage split open, exposing internal organs and testicles hanging like tumors from its flesh, glistening and twitching with each movement.
It tore into the maid's body with its fangs, eating in savage, jerking motions.
Arsa's stomach twisted. Jenkins stopped, nearly dropping his revolver.
"What in God's name…?" Jenkins whispered.
The creature looked up. Blood dripped from its mouth.
Another maid—barely alive—lay near the wall, sobbing, paralyzed with fear.
"Move!" Arsa shouted, thrusting his hand forward.
A blast of wind surged across the hallway, knocking the remaining maid out of the monster's reach and behind Arsa. He turned briefly and barked, "Run! Tell the Lord and lady Landcaster and staff to evacuate immediately!"
The maid, trembling, scrambled to her feet and ran without looking back.
The creature roared.
"Arsa, I'll handle this!" Jenkins growled.
His hand ignited with a searing flame, dancing across his fingertips. In seconds, a trail of fire coiled around his arm, and with a shout, he hurled a fireball toward the beast.
The fire struck.
Smoke exploded into the air, engulfing the hallway in heat and ash.
But the creature didn't burn.
It vanished.
Like a shadow breaking under light—it disappeared in an instant.
Jenkins tensed. "Where did—"
Suddenly, a low snarl came from behind him.
"Down!" Arsa shouted.
Jenkins ducked instinctively just as the beast lunged. Its claw swiped through the air where his head had been a second ago.
Rolling to the side, Jenkins drew his revolver and fired. The shot rang out loud, echoing through the halls.
The bullet tore through the creature's shoulder—but it didn't even flinch.
It vanished again.
Arsa turned sharply.
"Front!" Jenkins yelled.
It was already there.
With a burst of wind, Arsa launched himself sideways, narrowly avoiding the creature's lunge. It slammed into the wall behind him, cracking the plaster, snarling with rage.
Arsa skidded to a stop and raised his hand again. "Galeshear!"
A sudden, high-pressure wind blade shot toward the beast. It slashed across its side, drawing dark, oozing blood.
This time, it roared in pain.
Jenkins stood beside him, reloading quickly.
"What the hell is this thing?" he muttered.
"I don't know," Arsa said, his voice low and cold, "but it's not a ghost."
The beast growled again, pacing in a low crouch like a predator playing with its prey.
Arsa's heart pounded, not from fear—but from realization.
This was not just a beast.
This was something else entirely.
Something intelligent. Calculating. A thing that wasn't just killing—it was hunting.
With barely a moment to think, the creature charged again, snarling with unnatural rage. Arsa and Jenkins moved in sync, leaping back into the corridor and drawing the monster further in. Step by step, it pushed them back, and before long they found themselves in the estate's main hall—a grand, candlelit room with arched ceilings, tall windows, and a massive fireplace on one end.
That's when they saw them.
Emma and Rachel Landcaster were crouched behind an overturned table near the wall, eyes wide with terror. Emma was sobbing quietly, while Rachel held her close, trying to keep her calm. Both of them looked up the moment Arsa and Jenkins burst into the room.
And the creature noticed them too.
Its empty black eyes flicked toward the girls.
Then it vanished.
"No—!" Arsa shouted, spinning around.
A second later, the creature appeared behind the table.
Its claws raised—gleaming with blood, ready to come down like cleavers.
Emma and Rachel froze. Their eyes shut tight.
But before the claws struck, Mr. Argus Jenkins lunged forward, placing himself between the monster and the girls. The blow landed across his side—deep, brutal.
"GRAAGH!" Jenkins let out a strangled shout as the claws tore through his coat and into his ribs.
"ARGUS!" Arsa cried, watching it all unfold in a blur of blood and motion.
The girls screamed. Emma clung to Rachel, trembling violently.
Rage flared in Arsa's chest.
He didn't think. He just moved.
With a sharp shout, he raised both arms and summoned a massive gust of wind, spiraling and compressed like a cannon blast.
"Wind Sunder!"
The air exploded forward, slamming into the creature and blasting it several feet back across the marble floor. It crashed against a column with a loud crack, stunned for a moment.
"Take him and run—now!" Arsa shouted, kneeling beside Jenkins for just a second, pressing a hand against the bleeding wound.
Rachel hesitated. "W-What about you?!"
"I said don't worry about me!" Arsa snapped. "Get out of here—go out through the servant's passage and don't stop until you reach the guards!"
Rachel stared at him, eyes wide. Her lips trembled.
"But…"
"Do as I say!"
She swallowed hard. Then, she gritted her teeth, took Emma's hand with one and wrapped the other around Jenkins' shoulders, struggling to support him.
"Come on, Sir Jenkins—we have to go!" she said desperately.
Jenkins groaned but nodded weakly.
"I'll be fine," Arsa said more gently now. "Just get to safety."
The girls disappeared down the hallway, supporting the wounded man as best they could.
And then, silence.
Heavy, suffocating silence.
Arsa stood in the empty hall, chest rising and falling. His heart thudded like a drum in his ears. Blood stained the tiles, the air thick with the scent of iron.
He looked toward the column.
The beast was rising again.
Slowly. With creaking, unnatural movements.
The gash Arsa had dealt it still leaked black-red blood, but it didn't seem to care. It stood tall, hunching forward, its limbs twitching. Its head turned toward Arsa, and it grinned.
"Come on, you damn disgustin' thing," Arsa growled through his teeth, slipping back into his native accent. "You want a fight? Then come 'ave it. I ain't runnin'. You'll 'ave to go through me first."
He reached into his coat, drew a long silver dagger inscribed with glyphs, and raised his hand again, wind curling at his fingertips like serpents.
His legs were trembling—but he didn't take a step back.
He couldn't.
Mr. Jenkins had a family.
Those girls had their lives ahead of them.
If anyone was going to stall this monster—it had to be him.
The creature let out a low, guttural growl… then began to charge again.
And Arsa ran toward it.
[To Be Continued…]