The Return of The Demon Emperor karsu!

The guard extends his massive hand, resembling the gnarled trunk of a dead tree, his voice booming like a boulder cascading through a forsaken valley:

"The invitation... or crawl back to whatever hole you came from."

Karsu slowly arches his left brow, a cold smile slithering across his lips like a scorpion stalking the night. He replies, his tone laced with defiance and disdain:

"You demand papers from me?"

From his pocket, he produces a bronze medallion etched with the emblem of a wingless bird, adding in a voice like the screech of a blade dragged over a tomb's marble:

"This... is my invitation. Do you recognize it?"

The guard scowls, his narrowed eyes scrambling to decipher the cryptic symbol. He barks rigidly:

"No games here... Leave!"

Karsu steps closer, his breath nearly grazing the guard's face, each word frostbitten with menace:

"This medallion belonged to the Lost Prince, who vanished on a night much like this. Do you truly wish to be the last guard to see it before your skin is peeled from your bones?"

A hidden blade glints silently beneath his cloak, its presence sharper than words. The guard trembles, memories of his predecessors' corpses dangling from the palace walls flooding back. He stammers:

"Wait... Perhaps a misunderstanding."

Karsu lowers his eyelids slowly, as though sealing a coffin of secrets, and whispers:

"Indeed... a misunderstanding. You cling to laws as if they'll save you, but to me, they're spiderwebs even flies scorn."

He tosses a forged invitation at the guard's feet:

"Take it... and remember today as the day slavery alone spared your tongue."

The guard snatches the paper with a quivering hand, primal instincts screaming warnings as Karsu slips past the gate like a venomous wind, leaving behind the bitter tang of oil—a scent that floods the guard with memories of scrubbing nobles' knives in his impoverished youth.

Inside the palace, Karso melts into shadows, passing the statue of the assassinated prince towering over gold-filigreed halls. His muted voice carries a vow:

"Worry not... I'll turn your descendants' palace into a theater for their funerals."

A young maid bearing a tray offers a practiced smile, but shivers when her gaze meets his. Her eyes mirror a fragile calm veiling unspoken cruelty, as though glimpsing corpses yet to drown in a lake of blood.

Among the nobles, Karsu moves like poison through a feast. Each handshake conceals a silk-wrapped needle; each honeyed word strokes their vanity, priming them for the eruption beneath their polished facades. Leaning toward a countess preening over her pearl necklace, he murmurs:

"Dear Countess, do these gilded walls not remind you of cages for rare birds?"

Catching her husband's covetous stare at younger women, he adds mockingly:

"Were I a bird... I'd shatter the cage with my ruby-clawed foot."

His lethal smile lingers as his fingers slip a forged love letter into her pocket—a script of false ardor meant to ignite her curiosity and her husband's jealousy. The ensuing chaos would cloak his true aim: stealing ledgers detailing the nobles' black-market auctions.

Yet deeper still, Karsu's eyes lock onto a merchant—a linchpin of the syndicate. Amid the turmoil, a single calculated question would unravel the man's secrets, exposing the auction's underbelly.

Every move was precision, not chance. Karsu, allyless yet sovereign of shadows, wielded human frailty as his weapon. In the cacophony of clinking glasses and whispered lies, he advanced—a blade slicing through the feast's heart, turning their decadence into the stage for their ruin.

Beneath golden chandeliers singing hymns of light, Karsu paused before the assassinated prince's statue. To the world, he seemed an admirer of art. But his whisper to the stone prince betrayed darker truths:

"You remain here... yet they pretend to forget."

A flick of his wrist, and a slip of paper fluttered to the statue's base.

Amid the crowds, where alliances are woven in candlelit shadows...

Having drifted from the statue, Karsu merged into the densest throng, where laughter roared and words clashed like swords to assert status. These nobles were not merely wealthy—they were wolves in gold-embroidered pelts, each hiding daggers behind their backs, unseen until the moment to strike.

Karsu's aim was simple: to become part of their circle... if only for a breath.

He lingered near a small group where Duke "Izmir de Renford"—a man rumored to fund wars with his coffers alone—boasted of his latest financial conquest. The Duke's face brimmed with pride, his booming voice commanding the nobles' attention.

With a neutral smile and a tone smooth as silk, Karsu cast a remark like a gambler laying an unexpected card:

"Yet I've heard your trade empire falters... Does that not jeopardize your future ventures, dear Duke?"

The crowd fell silent.

Karsu needed no proof. Doubt alone was enough to seed unease in a noble who ruled his wealth like his life. And he knew the Duke could not ignore it.

The Duke replied, his smile confident yet strained:

"Merchants' gossip means nothing. Only numbers matter... and numbers never lie."

Karsu, his voice a slow-turning dagger, murmured:

"But those who *manage* the numbers... might."

The Duke's eyelid twitched—a fleeting tremor. Karsu's words were a hidden blade, their sting felt only after the cut.

A young, reckless Count nearby laughed mockingly:

"Ha! We've a man who plays with fire!"

Karsu turned to him, smiling a smile that held a thousand meanings, and replied gently:

"Fire is beautiful, dear Count. What intrigues me is... who survives the blaze they ignite."

The Count stiffened.

Karsu's warning, velvet-clad yet razor-edged, was not for him alone but for all in that circle.

---

Among the servants... where eyes lurk in shadows

Having sown enough doubt, Karsu withdrew like a stagehand exiting a crime scene. He passed servants gliding between tables, eyes downcast but ears sharp.

He knew spies, traitors, and hired killers hid among them. This palace was no mere banquet hall but a battleground for silent wars, won only by those who listened closely.

Pausing before a maid bearing crystal wine glasses—a girl with hazel eyes reflecting instinctive fear—he smiled warmly, as a father might, and whispered:

"Tonight... this hall will witness an event no one will forget."

A shiver gripped her. His voice held no explicit threat, yet its cadence whispered of impending storm.

Before she could respond, he was gone, leaving behind a full wineglass... and something else. A tiny, nearly invisible spark.

---

At the feast's heart, where threads are spun in silence

The wolves' dance continued, none realizing the true predator among them was not one of their own.

Karsu needed no drawn blade or open threat. He worked like oil poured into darkness, leaving a silent spark to smolder before hell erupted.

With measured steps, he exited the grand hall, leaving behind:

- A note at the prince's statue,

- Whispers gnawing at noble minds,

- And a trembling maid clutching a secret she did not yet understand.

But he did not leave.

He waited... for the moment when everything would crumble.

In the dimming glow of endless corridors, far from the cacophony of music and sycophants' laughter, a man waited.

Rinald de Carsov, advisor to Duke Izmir—a man infamous for laundering shadowed fortunes and burying truths meant never to surface—stood cloaked in a pillar's shadow, his eyes darting toward the entrance as if braced for an ambush.

But the ambush had already arrived.

"You seem uneasy, Advisor de Carsov."

The man froze, then turned slowly.

Karsu leaned against the wall, his gaze icy, as though he'd been there all along—a crow perched at the edge of an execution square.

"Wh-Who are you? Rinald demanded, feigning control, though the sweat pooling at his brow betrayed him.

Karsu didn't answer. Instead, he pushed off the wall and advanced slowly, each step a deliberate torment.

"I am the man who knows why you're here."

No further words were needed. Rinald's face paled to ash.

---

In the hall… where the fall begins

As nobles clinked glasses and feigned ignorance of the shadows, a tremor rippled through the feast.

A guard approached Duke Izmir, whispering words that furrowed the Duke's brow.

"Silence the music.

The hall plunged into stillness.

All eyes turned to the Duke, now glaring at a young servant clutching a wine tray, his face ghostly.

"Attempting to flee? the Duke hissed, his voice a blade.

The servant trembled, eyes wild. "I—I've done nothing, my lord—"

A noble stepped forward, plucked a folded note from the servant's collar, and read aloud:

"Some steal nobles' gold. Some bury truths. Tonight… one will fall."

Whispers erupted like wildfire.

The Duke scanned the crowd for his advisor, Rinald—but Rinald de Carsov had vanished.

In that moment, all understood: Tonight would not end as it began.

None yet grasped that the nightmare had just begun.

---

In the back corridors—where ruin's symphony plays

Muffled footsteps echoed through damp, gunpowder-scented halls—a labyrinth of untold stories.

In a shadowed corner, Rinald panted like a cornered rat.

"Damnation… How did they know?!"

He didn't realize his fate was already sealed.

Karsu stood behind him.

"You dislike surprises, don't you, Advisor de Carsov?"

Rinald whirled, eyes wide with primal terror.

"Wh-What do you want?!"

Karsu closed the distance until their breaths mingled—cold as a grave's whisper:

"Do you know? I believe a man only grasps death's inevitability… when he hears his killer's footsteps echo closer."

Silence.

Rinald didn't need to hear more.

His knees buckled. "I-I'm not your enemy! We can negotiate! I can—I can pay you!"

But Karsu hadn't come for coin.

He'd come for something… deeper.

As Karsu's shadows toppled men, the hall descended into chaos.

The Duke, struggling to maintain composure, failed to quell the rising whispers and suspicious glances exchanged among the nobles.

Then—as if the moment had been waiting—

A guard burst in, his face as pale as death.

"My Lord Duke! Advisor de Carsov… He's—!"

The guard froze, words clotting in his throat. Slowly, he raised a trembling hand… and pointed toward the entrance.

All turned.

There stood Rinald de Carsov—alive, shaking… but that was not the horror.

It was the note pinned to his chest… by a dagger buried in his heart.

"Those who steal nobles' gold… do not leave alive."

The words trembled from a dozen lips as his body crumpled like a puppet severed from its strings.

---

In the shadows—where the devil smiles

Far from the torchlight, Karsu watched.

His eyes burned with vision beyond mortal sight.

Rinald's fall was not the end.

It was the first domino.

Tonight, the auction was not the prize.

The chaos sown in their hearts was.

Now… the entire city teetered on the edge of flame.

All he had to do… was wait.

---

In the hall—where masks crumble

A suffocating silence fell.

Blood oozed thickly from the advisor's corpse, clinging to his body as if reluctant to let go. The eyes of the onlookers mirrored shattered glass—grasping, yet helpless.

Even the Duke, for all his power, could not halt the collapse. He knew this was no mere murder… but a message.

A message from someone who did not play games.

Whispers swelled. Pulses raced. Suspicion festered.

"What if another killer walks among us?"

"Was the advisor truly a traitor?"

"Who's next?"

Amid the tension, the Countess rose slowly, as if wading through shards of glass. She approached the corpse, bent low, and reached for the note on his chest—

But before her fingers grazed it…

The hall's grand doors swung open.

---

At the threshold—where the new master enters

Karsu stood there.

Not as a killer, nor a shadowed fugitive.

But as a refined guest, strides steady, as though he hadn't moments ago condemned a man to death.

Every detail was calculated.

His clothes bore no blood. His eyes betrayed no prior knowledge. And his voice?

Calm. Controlled. The sound of a cage door creaking open.

"It seems I've arrived… at an inopportune time."

He raised a hand to his collar, where a small gold medallion glinted.

"Fortunately… I am here now."

---

Calculated chaos—where seeds take root

The crowd reeled.

The Duke, battered by shocks. The Countess, masking dread. Guards paralyzed without orders.

It was the perfect moment.

Karsu knelt by the corpse, plucked the note with silent ownership, and read it slowly. Then he lifted his gaze—a lethal pause—to the Duke.

"It appears a traitor walks among you, my Lord Duke…"

He tossed the note before the crowd, his voice soft yet carrying the weight of a blade at the throat:

"And I believe… I know who it is."

Now, no one thought of the merchant Karsu had intended to target.

No one thought of the auction.

No one thought of anything… but uncovering the truth.

And this was precisely what Karsu wanted.

When he turned calmly to leave, no one dared stop him.

Every man in the hall was consumed by a single question:

"Did he mean… me?"

And so, Karsu exited, leaving behind flames that would never die.

Everything had unfolded as he'd planned.

The palace's chaos drowned all in a storm of suspicion, buying Karsu the time to secure what he'd sought from the start:

The merchants' ledgers.

Every trader, every illicit shipment, every shadowed deal—and all tied to the underground auction.

"The true mission wasn't inside… but outside. In the shadows."

And now?

Karsu didn't need to hunt the auction.

The auction… would hunt him

---

Miles from the city

An old man sat on a wooden chair, trembling as he read a note bearing a single line:

"See you soon at the auction."

His hand shook before he lit a candle and watched the paper burn.

Somewhere in the shadows, Karsu smiled.

The game wasn't over.

It had only just begun.

---

Exhaustion's Weight

Karsu returned to the inn, truly spent. The moment he touched the bed, he plunged into a dreamless sleep. He awoke late afternoon, harsh sunlight clawing through the window.

By his door lay a tray of congealed breakfast and lunch, long cold. He stared at it, picked up a bread roll, and took a slow bite. Hunger outweighed fatigue.

He slid to the floor, back against the wall, eating methodically, eyes vacant. The day wasn't done. What came next demanded preparation.

---

Nightfall – Where the True Door Opens

In a pitch-dark alley, Karsu stood before a splintered door.

Three knocks—soft, deliberate.

The man inside knew: this was no ordinary visitor.

The door creaked open, revealing a cramped room choked with files and crates.

Inside sat a portly man with an unkempt beard, hands trembling from old addictions. He looked up, eyes brimming with fear.

Karsu smiled—a promise wrapped in a threat:

"I believe you have something for me, dear merchant."

**The building was windowless—**

A place untouched by sunlight, forbidden to breathe fresh air. The atmosphere reeked of blood and greed.

This was the black market, but not merely a market… It was a pit where the weak were devoured.

Slaves traded. Banned weapons exchanged. Ancient sorcery scrolls passed through trembling, covetous hands. Dangerous secrets bought and sold like cheap souls.

And at the heart of it all?

Karsu sat among nobles and merchants in a plush seat, as though he belonged.

But his eyes held no greed—only the cold focus of a hunter.

---

**The True Prize – Where Masks Shatter**

***"Gentlemen! We now present the crown jewel of tonight's auction!"***

A hulking man in a purple robe stepped forward, his voice crushing the room like a landslide.

The curtain drew back.

What they saw was not what they'd expected.

Inside the box was no rare artifact… no captive soul.

Only papers.

Papers stained with old blood, inscribed in archaic script—as if exhumed from a centuries-sealed tomb.

But Karsu knew *exactly* what they were.

He'd orchestrated their unveiling.

--- The Ultimate Betrayal – Where All Collapses

A merchant beside Karsu lurched forward, glaring at the documents in furious disbelief:

"What is this? This isn't the treasure promised!"

The hulking auctioneer smiled—a blade disguised as a grin.

"On the contrary, sir… These papers are the rarest treasure your eyes will ever behold."

He lifted a page high, its contents laid bare.

And the room erupted.

Every soul recognized those records.

The auction's own ledgers.

Every deal. Every trader. Every slave sold. Every corrupt official named.

The truth that should never have surfaced.

Now?

It stared them all in the face.

---

The Decisive Moment – Where Everything Burns

"Who did this?!"

"Burn those papers now!"

"Seal the doors! No one leaves!"

But it was too late.

The guards sworn to protect the auction… no longer served their masters.

They now raised their swords… against them.

"What is happening?!"

Then, a single voice cut through the chaos—calm, thunderous:

"I did this."

All turned.

Karsu stood at the room's center, smiling like a match lit in a powder keg.

"Now… burn."

There was no remorse in his eyes.

Because there was nothing to remorse.

He had destroyed the auction.

Not just with fire—

But with truth.

Now, every survivor… would live in endless fear.

Every merchant would doubt the next.

Every politician would dread their name being exposed.

The system had crumbled.

And all of it?

Just a single step in his grand design.

---

The Final Moment – Where Whispers Echo in the Dark

As Karsu turned to vanish into the night, a faint voice hissed behind him:

"If you think this ends here… you don't know who we are."

He paused—but did not turn.

Then, with a ghost of a smile, he whispered back:

"And you… don't know who I am."

Like smoke, he dissolved into the shadows.

Yet deep within the city's heart, the echoes of his flames still burned.

Amidst the scattered ashes and the tendrils of smoke still rising from the ruins of the burned auction, the detective stood motionless. His long coat swayed in the hot drafts, his eyes fixed on the scene with grim resolve. The place was a silent massacre—charred bodies, scorched money, and secrets reduced to cinders.

He lifted his head slowly, his gaze sweeping over the devastation, then whispered in a low, penetrating voice:

"This… is a tragedy."

But he refused to wallow in helplessness. Squinting at the ash-laden ground, he muttered sharply:

"If Aren were here… he'd have solved this without even needing Qazz."

He spoke not from arrogance but from certainty. The world's sharpest detective needed no supernatural gifts to uncover truth. Yet he possessed Qazz al-Basira—the Insight—a power that bent time itself. He could witness events in full detail, as though he'd been present… provided no more than half a day had passed.

He closed his eyes, letting his ability surge. In an instant, the flames vanished. Walls rebuilt themselves. Voices flooded the space. He saw everything… even the truth buried beneath the ash.

---

The Detective's Revelation

"How did Karsu do it?!" a guard stammered, voice trembling.

The detective replied coldly:

"You're shocked? Understandable. But look closer… Every move was calculated from the start."

Step One: Infiltrate the Auction

Karsu needed no "invitation."

*He made them want him inside.

- He handed the guard the Lost Prince's medallion—no ordinary trinket.

- Knowing nobles crave scandal, he crafted himself as a shadow worth watching.

Thus, they let him in, unwittingly.

Step Two: Sow Seeds of Doubt

Once inside, he didn't skulk—he *owned* the room.

- He charmed key figures.

- Whispered to a noblewoman about "gilded cages."

- Planted a cryptic note in her pocket, certain her curiosity would unravel it.

Every word was venom, corroding the auction's fragile trust.

Step Three: Smuggle the True Documents

Before the auction's climax, Karsu replaced the promised "treasure" with the damning ledgers.

How?

The Maid.

The girl who'd seen corpses reflected in his eyes.

Terrified, trapped in this hell, she saw something in him—not kindness, but difference.

When he asked, "Do you wish to burn this place down?"

She didn't hesitate.

As she served drinks, she swapped the items.

Step Four: Unleash Chaos

Karsu didn't fight. He made them destroy themselves.

- Merchants turned on each other, exposed.

- Guards, once loyal, now slaughtered their masters.

- Nobles scrambled for exits… only to find doors sealed.

When Karsu hissed, "Now… burn,"

He meant more than flames.

He meant trust. Even survivors would never trust again.

Final Step: Vanish

How did he escape the inferno?

*He never planned to use the doors.

A hidden tunnel beneath the marble floor—used by the auction to smuggle goods.

Karsu had noticed the flaw:

"Marble this pristine? In a palace of filth? No… It hides something."

With guards too busy killing, no one stopped him.

He slipped out like a ghost… leaving behind unquenchable fire.

---

But Wait—

That voice in the end:

"If you think this ends here… you don't know who we are."

A warning: Someone—or something—survived the chaos.

Now?

Karsu's war just grew larger.

Did he foresee this?

Or was it… his next move all along?

"Damn it… The detective clenched his fist, eyes narrowing. ***"That man… Karsu."

The name coiled in his mind like an unsolvable riddle. His voice simmered with fury and awe:

"A true genius… He *earned* that title."

But then he smirked, cold and defiant, as if refusing defeat even to brilliance. Running a hand through his hair, he vowed:

"But I studied under Aren… I won't relent.

His gaze hardened. I will catch him."

---

In the Shadows

Karsu drifted to a honey shop, investing his last coin in a single jar.

"One jar won't be enough… but it'll do, he murmured, knowing this honey would unlock his next scheme.

Back at the inn, he gifted the hostess a golden ring—part payment, part calculated kindness. Every gesture hid intent; every step advanced his chessboard.

Now, with gems in his pocket and honey in hand, Karsu readied his next gambit.

He reviewed his plans, then lay on the bed…

And slept.