Chapter 3: Who-Dun-it part 4

We walked slowly through the cobblestone streets toward where the body lay. With each step, the weight of inevitability pressed down a little more. That lifeless body, a silent reminder that everything, at some point, comes to an end.

The townspeople watched us, their eyes filled with a curious suspicion. Just hours ago, they had called us murderers. And now, here we were, walking free—though I still dragged an iron ball behind me. Its metallic clunk against the stones echoed like a never-ending reminder.

In the distance, the hotel lady waved at us with her free hand, still holding her steaming cup of coffee in the other. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was the same cup from yesterday or if she just had an odd obsession with always drinking her coffee piping hot. There was something in her calm smile, the stillness of her gesture, that didn’t quite fit the scene. It was as if no matter what happened in the town, she clung to her cup of coffee like an anchor to her reality.

Some furtive glances were exchanged among the townsfolk, while whispered conversations filled the air. Mi Fan’s ears twitched restlessly, picking up every little detail, probably searching for any signs of hostility. But there were none. Just curiosity. And maybe... something more.

“You know, Mi Fan...” I murmured, breaking the silence as we walked. “This reminds me of an episode of The Simpsons.” I paused, glancing at the curious eyes of the villagers around us. “It’s like when Homer travels to some strange place. Everything’s different, no one gets him, and he feels completely out of place... kinda like us right now.” I grinned. “We’re the Homer Simpson of Hemlock Ridge.”

Mi Fan shook her head, as if she had no clue what I was talking about, but with a small smile on her lips. It seemed like she was getting used to my references, which, at this point, she clearly knew she didn’t understand.

Finally, we arrived at the body. It lay right in the plaza, where the bust of Lassi Mahayan stood. The irony of the scene hit me, and I couldn’t help but laugh quietly to myself. Something in me wanted to believe that maybe her ghost had been the one to kill this poor bear, as some kind of random act of untargeted revenge.

We approached closer and I saw the lifeless body. Dried blood surrounded the bear’s corpse, the scene far uglier than I had anticipated. Mi Fan, of course, tried to move in closer, her eyes sharp and focused, ready to inspect the gory sight.

But before she could get a better look, I swiftly moved my long tail, blocking her view. She didn’t need to see this.

“I know you want to take a look,” I said softly, gently nudging her back with my tail toward a more distant corner, “but this is uglier than I thought.”

I guided her to a spot where she didn’t have to face the chaotic scene in front of us. We could handle it. She didn’t need to. Not yet.

I turned my attention back to the body. The bear’s blood had splattered onto the bust of Lassi Mahayan, staining it like some grotesque tribute. The dark red blood had dried on her stone face, giving her an even sterner expression, almost as if she was pleased with the death that surrounded her.

Around the body, the blood formed strange symbols I didn’t recognize at first. Some looked like words in ancient Maurian. We had seen many things in our lives, but this… this wasn’t something that immediately brought back any specific memory. The mystery was right here, waiting for us.

The bear’s body had a deep wound across its neck, clearly made with a dagger. The carotid artery had been severed with precision, and the amount of blood suggested he had died quickly, on the spot. There had been no struggle. No sign of a fight on his body.

“Oh, Lassi…” I said, letting out a bitter chuckle as I glanced at the bust of our mother. I stepped closer and gave the bear’s belly a soft tap, almost like he was an old friend. “Even in death, you keep getting me into trouble.”

My eyes scanned the body, searching for more clues. There were no defensive wounds on his hands, no marks on his knuckles to suggest he had fought back. His hands were clean, still, as if he had accepted his fate without resistance. This bear had died quickly and quietly. It wasn’t suicide, I was sure of that. There was no sign he had held a knife. He had been taken by surprise, attacked before he even had a chance to react.

We had seen deaths like this before, precise and cold. It wasn’t the work of an amateur.

Something about the scene felt too neat, too clean.

A silent murder.

The wind blew softly through the plaza, stirring my tail with each gust. The gazes of the townsfolk stayed fixed on us, like spectators at a macabre play. And there, between Lassi's bust and the bear's corpse, I felt something deeper watching as well, something I couldn’t see but knew was there.

I pulled out my notepad and pencil, slowly sketching the scene before me. The way the dried blood had formed those strange symbols on the ground unsettled me. Something about ancient Maurian always made me nervous. It was a language I knew well enough to understand but not well enough to write with precision. My mind struggled to recall the correct strokes, the words fading in and out of memory.

Al-hayat al-abadiyya tajidunaha inda ghuroob al-'alam.

The words echoed in my head as I wrote them, the exotic and ancient sound of Maurian heavy, as though the phrase itself carried an invisible weight. As I translated it in my mind, a chill ran down my spine.

"Eternal life is found only at the world's dusk."

I read the phrase softly, letting each word settle in the air. There was something cryptic about it, something I couldn’t quite grasp. The world’s dusk…HMMMMMM

As I continued to examine the dried blood symbols, I realized it wasn’t just ancient Maurian. Around the scene, other phrases were beginning to take shape, as if the blood itself had chosen different languages to tell a more intricate story.

I recognized the language of Rumac (Ruc). It had been a long time since I’d seen that dead language. Rumac was spoken by the original inhabitants of this continent, used in regions like Manipura, Svadhistana, Ajna, and many other ancient countries with a history steeped in secrets and mysticism. The characters were rugged, as though chiseled from stone, but in the blood, they seemed to take on a strange life, as if the earth itself was speaking through them.

Phuyuy chaska llullupi k'uchushqa.

I read the words aloud quietly, the Rumac language had an archaic tone, an ancestral echo that seemed to connect directly with the ground beneath my feet. The phrase translated in my mind:

"Twilight falls when the path widens."

An ending, but not a clear one. Something to do with a path opening—perhaps a decision, a crossroad. I knew the ancient languages of this continent were filled with symbolism. This wasn’t just about a physical path… it was a metaphor. Something larger was at play.

My eyes moved over the next set of symbols, written in ancient Hesperian, not the common form used across the continents today. Hesperian had always struck me as melodic.

Calendarium desinit in rubinum.

"The calendar ends in the ruby." A cycle ending? A sacrifice? The ruby wasn’t just a precious stone; it was also a symbol of blood and power. Something was coming to a close, that much was clear. But the exact nature of that end still eluded me.

I looked around, noticing how the different languages intertwined, telling a story no one else in the town seemed to notice.

This murder… it could only have happened in a place rich in the convergence of three cultures. Mauria, Hesperia, and Manipura. Each brought its own air of mystery, its own secrets and traditions, blending together in this dark corner of the world. The language, the symbols, and the blood on the ground confirmed it. This wasn’t just a simple crime. No.

This was a ritual.