Chapter 45: Hello, Art. Let's Test That Immortality.
The engine of the Fenrir heavy motorcycle let out a predatory growl, and its scarlet headlights cast two long streaks of light on the empty asphalt road. Edward's face appeared particularly grim in the interplay of light and shadow.
He didn't hesitate for a second, speeding directly toward the chicken place.
The easygoing comfort he'd felt moments ago with his friends had long since been replaced by cold, focused intent.
Art the Clown—that name, in another world, represented ultimate cruelty, pure sadism, and madness that defied all logic.
He wasn't just some psycho killer; that was merely his disguise.
Edward knew damn well that beneath that ridiculous makeup lay a true demon, a monster who got off on torment and spreading terror.
Soon, the familiar restaurant appeared in his sight.
The neon "OPEN" sign at the entrance was now dark. The entire place was shrouded in darkness, like a silent predator with its jaws open, ready to devour everything.
Edward parked his motorcycle in the shadows near a dumpster. The Fenrir's engine instantly went quiet, as if merging with the darkness.
He didn't use the front entrance.
He circled around to the back alley. The sweet, greasy smell of fried chicken still hung in the air, but now it was mixed with another scent—thick, nauseating copper. Blood.
The back door was slightly ajar. With a soft creak of hinges, Edward slipped inside.
The kitchen was trashed. Fryer baskets, plates, and various condiment bottles were scattered across the floor. On the greasy tiles, a glaring blood trail led from the back kitchen toward the front counter.
Edward followed the trail. He took one look and then expressionlessly turned away.
The usually cheerful, heavyset owner of the chicken place was now slumped behind the register in an unnatural position.
His eyes were wide open, and the extreme terror of his final moments still lingered on his face.
His body... could no longer be called intact.
Art had, in an extremely brutal and degrading way, turned him into a disturbing "art piece."
Edward felt no emotion. He knew that any unnecessary feeling was a liability when dealing with a monster like Art.
He closed his eyes, carefully sensing the pure malice that saturated the air.
That inhuman stillness and evil he'd felt in the restaurant was like an invisible thread, guiding his perception.
It hadn't gone far.
The aura—intense and blatant—pointed unmistakably toward an abandoned industrial area on the outskirts of town.
Plenty of old warehouses there. Perfect locations for any secret atrocities.
"Gotcha," Edward whispered, then turned and left the bloody scene.
A few minutes later, Edward arrived at the forgotten warehouse district.
Rows of massive corrugated metal buildings cast grotesque shadows under the moonlight, their broken windows like empty eye sockets.
The malice peaked in one of the largest warehouses.
The warehouse's roll-up door was half-closed, dim yellow light flickering from within, and faint, muffled, desperate whimpers could be heard.
Edward dismounted, his movements cat-silent.
He made no sound as he slowly approached the gap in the door.
He crouched down and peered inside through the opening.
Inside the warehouse, the scene was straight out of hell.
In the very center, a lone industrial lamp cast harsh light, illuminating a horrifying stage.
Tara, the dark-haired girl from the restaurant, was bound tightly to a chair, her mouth sealed with duct tape, able to emit only desperate muffled cries.
Her face was covered in tears and snot, and her body shook violently from terror as she was forced to witness the nightmare unfolding before her.
Across from her, the blonde girl Dawn was now completely naked, suspended upside-down by chains in a spread-eagle position.
Her pale skin was covered in small cuts, and blood dripped from her hair, drop by drop, into a rusty bucket below, making a steady "plink... plink... plink"—the only rhythm in this horrific space.
And the black-and-white clown, Art, stood between the two girls.
He had his back to the door, holding a rusty hacksaw.
He wasn't attacking yet, but like a stage performer, was conducting an exaggerated pantomime.
First, he theatrically bowed to the bound Tara, as if saying, "The show's about to begin."
Then he turned to face the inverted Dawn, using his finger to trace along her trembling body, apparently searching for the perfect angle to cut.
He even pulled out a tape measure, meticulously measuring Dawn's waist, then nodded in satisfaction. He raised the hacksaw, its teeth glinting with cold menace under the lamp.
He glanced back at Tara; the painted grin on his face stretched even wider, filled with silent mockery and the ecstasy of an impending feast.
Tara's whimpers became more desperate. She struggled frantically, but it was useless.
Art raised the hacksaw, positioning it at Dawn's midsection. He was going to saw her friend in half, alive, right in front of Tara.
Just as the sharp teeth were about to touch the girl's skin...
Edward moved.
He didn't need some dramatic entrance or heroic speech.
For scum like this, only one bullet was necessary.
With a thought, two exquisitely crafted pistols—one black, one white—instantly appeared in his hands.
Ebony and Ivory.
"BANG!"
A sharp gunshot shattered the frozen horror.
A bullet, moving faster than the eye could track, precisely struck the hacksaw in Art's hand.
"CLANG!"
The tremendous impact sent the hacksaw flying from Art's grasp. After tumbling through the air, it crashed against the far wall with a piercing metallic clatter.
The warehouse instantly fell into dead silence.
Tara and Dawn's crying stopped. They stared in shock at the sudden turn of events.
Art's movements froze.
He slowly, mechanically, turned his head, his ridiculous black top hat tilting to one side with the movement.
His painted face turned toward the door. There was no emotion in his eyes, only emptiness.
He saw Edward standing at the doorway.
Edward slowly stood up, stepping out of the shadows, his twin pistols steadily aimed at the clown's head.
Art looked at him, his head tilting to a bizarre, almost ninety-degree angle.
He wasn't angry that his "performance" had been interrupted. Instead, that exaggerated grin seemed to stretch even wider.
He seemed to have discovered a new toy more interesting than torturing girls to death.
He ignored the two "boring" victims and slowly, step by step, walked toward Edward.
His gait was stiff and unsettling, each footfall like a hammer strike on the heart.
Edward didn't give him another chance to close the distance.
"BANG!"
Another gunshot.
This time, the bullet's target wasn't a weapon.
The flash from Ebony's muzzle sent a round precisely into Art's chest.
The massive kinetic energy erupted instantly. Art's tall frame was hit as if by an invisible sledgehammer, and he flew backward, crashing heavily to the ground, lying motionless.
However, Edward's expression didn't relax in the slightest.
He knew this was just the beginning.
Sure enough, after only two seconds, Art's body suddenly twitched.
Then he "bounced" up from the ground in a posture that defied physics, as if he were boneless.
He looked down at the bullet hole in his chest, from which black ichor continuously oozed, then extended a white-gloved finger, inserted it into the wound, and extracted the deformed slug.
He held the bullet up to his eyes, examined it curiously, then casually flicked it to the ground.
Next, he raised his head again, looking at Edward... that disturbing grin remained unchanged.
[+500 Power Stones = +1 Extra Chapter]
[+10 Reviews = +1 Extra Chapter]
If you enjoyed this chapter, leave a Review!
P*atreon/DarkFoxx (30+ advanced chapters)