The Songpa-gu Sinkhole Evacuee Camp was in utter chaos.

And it was no surprise.

Anyone would be shocked into hysteria after seeing blood flowing like a river, with human skins floating on its surface. If there wasn't a commotion, that would be the truly strange thing.

In the middle of a blood-soaked pool stood the Gray Reaper, surrounded by submerged clothes and personal belongings, creating a uniquely haunting scene.

It looked like the perfect image for a horror movie poster, which was precisely the problem.

Reporters had swarmed in, cameras flashing as they tried to capture as many photos as possible.

The soldiers were doing their best to push them back, but they were overwhelmed.

In truth, no matter how much they tried to stop them, it wouldn’t prevent the story from getting out.

Another ghost story about the Gray Reaper would likely be added to the ever-growing list.

By tomorrow morning, headlines like “Dozens Vanish Overnight... Is the Gray Reaper the Culprit?!” would be spreading like wildfire.

With the atmospheric photos being taken now, the news would spread across the nation.

It was unfortunate that letting the Gray Reaper’s notoriety grow unchecked was actually beneficial for us, and it was even more unfortunate that, despite being in charge here, I had failed to prevent this situation.

If we had just kept the main gate closed and pretended we didn’t know anything, maybe we could have avoided this mess. But the soldiers, spooked by the sight of all that blood, had opened the gates, allowing the reporters to get their shots.

This soldier, who had left his post without permission on the day of the operation, was also the one who had committed the reckless act of opening the gate.

The stress made my temples throb.

Ordinarily, we should have cleaned up this mess before proceeding, but we didn’t have the luxury of time.

With the butterflies spreading from Songpa-gu and the countdown to the missile strike ticking away, we couldn’t afford to waste a single moment.

We had about 24 hours left.

In that time, we needed to secure the target object and begin its destruction.

I left the task of holding back the reporters to the soldiers and led the search team I had called in into the now eerily silent camp.

As we entered the camp, we were greeted by a massive pool of blood.

It was clear at a glance that more than half of the camp's residents had died here.

Judging by the amount of blood and the scattered personal belongings and clothes, that seemed to be the case.

The Gray Reaper, who had caused this carnage, was hopping around on top of the blood.

Through my monocle, it looked like he was stepping on and chasing away butterflies, but to everyone else, he probably appeared to be a mad object gleefully dancing in the blood.

And indeed, except for the blind old man, everyone else seemed visibly uncomfortable.

I clapped my hands to draw attention and then gave my orders.

“Alright, as we discussed earlier, spread out and search for the object. If you find it, fire a signal flare. We’ll be preparing at the center of the camp.”

They were professionals who had been paid handsomely, and as soon as the task was given, they quickly dispersed and began searching their assigned areas.

“Wow, there’s a hole in the wall shaped like the Reaper!”

As we moved toward the center of the camp, my junior called out, having discovered something intriguing.

Following his gaze, I saw that among the signs of destruction, there were some particularly interesting marks.

The wall was pierced with various shapes.

There was a Reaper-shaped hole, a Reaper’s handprint-shaped hole, and even a Reaper’s footprint-shaped hole.

There were various holes in different shapes.

What on earth was the Reaper doing here?

It was a perplexing sight.

The detective had scattered people throughout the camp.

To eliminate the butterflies, certain difficult conditions had to be met.

“Break the Black Mirror.”

The object referred to as the “Black Mirror” was likely the source of the butterflies.

Most of the breeding objects had been like that so far.

If the detective, who seemed smart enough, believed that the “Black Mirror” was here, he must have had his reasons.

Of course, the detective didn’t seem to know whether what he was searching for was a mirror or not.

Whenever he referred to it, he simply called it an “object.”

Without seeing the destruction conditions like I do, it would be difficult to know that the object to be destroyed was a “Black Mirror.”

I watched the detective’s actions with keen interest, waiting for my chance to step in.

In the end, the search failed.

At least, we concluded that there was no object in the camp that could be found through ordinary means.

The search team I had deployed had done their job. Before the old man began his work, I sent them away early.

There was nothing good about having too many witnesses to the old man’s work.

Glancing at Watson in my right hand, I then turned to the old man who had been waiting.

“Old man, it’s your turn now.”

“Alright.”

The old man replied briefly, then opened the bloodstained book and began pulling out the large nails inside, driving them into the ground around him.

The eerie thing was that when he hammered the nails in, blood oozed out of the ground as if the earth itself was bleeding.

After driving the nails into the ground in a circle around himself, the old man closed the book and knelt down.

“Aaaaah!”

The old man’s scream filled the camp.

And then, from his eyes, blood-tears began to pour out like waterfalls.

It seemed as if something had gone terribly wrong.

When I’d seen him do this before, there hadn’t been such an elaborate ritual, nor had he appeared to be in such agony. What was happening?

“Senior… Senior, something’s not right. Is it supposed to be like this?”

At my junior’s concerned words, I looked down at the old man’s feet and saw that the “Book of Prophecy” was starting to burn up like charcoal.

What on earth was happening?

I was at death’s door.

Every day, with every breath I took, I could feel myself becoming more and more of a monster.

The urge to destroy was relentless, and the “Book of Prophecy” kept pushing me toward it.

As I searched for a place to die before I fully turned into a monster, I received a message.

It was from the young man who had been a great help in saving my daughter.

At that moment, I knew.

This was where I would die.

So I came here to repay the favor.

But as soon as I entered this camp, I sensed that something was terribly wrong.

I felt a warning from a presence far stronger than the “Book of Prophecy.”

“Leave now.”

It was a chillingly ominous warning.

I gritted my teeth and ignored it.

At least I could repay my debt before I died.

When the search ended, and it was my turn, I decided to stake my life on this one question.

“Where is the object that’s causing the butterfly infestation?”

The pain from using the “Book of Prophecy” beyond its limits left me unable to speak properly, but the book answered my plea.

If my life was the price, then so be it—take my life, “Book of Prophecy.”

I would lay down my life here.

Through eyes that could no longer see the light, the book revealed a crimson image to me.

It was a mirror.

The object the detective was searching for was a mirror.

Its… its location!

“What?”

I was shocked by the sudden turn of events.

The “Book of Prophecy” had turned to ash, and the nails driven into the ground had all been yanked out in an instant.

The old man, who seemed to have discovered the answer, looked at me and opened his mouth to speak.

But as he did, his neck twisted like a corkscrew, and he died on the spot.

What the hell? Was the object that created the butterflies capable of doing something like this?

“Se-Senior.”

My junior was pale, trembling in fear at this bizarre occurrence.

I hurried over to the old man, but he was already dead.

I had felt that his life was nearing its end, but I hadn’t expected him to go so suddenly.

This was clearly murder.

It didn’t look like a side effect of the “Book of Prophecy.”

The old man had clearly learned something.

Who killed him?

Was it the object that was creating the butterflies?

If that were the case, then stopping the missile strike was even more crucial.

An object capable of such supernatural phenomena wouldn’t be destroyed by a missile attack.

But there were no options left.

If I had more time, it might be different, but with just about 24 hours remaining, there was nothing else I could do.

As I looked around, my eyes fell on Watson in my right hand.

Yes, Watson!

Watson could provide a solution.

I tried to ignore the dreadful premonition that filled my mind and decided to choose my only remaining option.

I raised the lamp high in the air and shouted.

“Watson, tell me what the object that’s causing the butterfly infestation is!”

“Watson, tell me what the object that’s causing the butterfly infestation is!”

“Watson, tell me what the object that’s causing the butterfly infestation is!”

Laughter, light and mocking, echoed from the lamp.

“No.”

“No.”

“No.”

The lamp in my right hand began to tremble violently.

Then it shot up into the sky, casting a shadow.

“That’s cheating, Holmes.”

“Trying to use an object to steal the answer sheet—that’s not Holmes.”

“Asking Watson for the answer—that’s not Holmes either.”

“A fake Holmes must die! Must die! Must die!”

“But Watson is kind, so I’ll give you a chance.”

The shadow cast by the lamp, Watson, spoke with ominous words.

And from that shadow, the scent of blood was overwhelming.