Chapter 151: Showdown!! The Fog City Killer

July twelfth, night, Lower City.

A dense fog swallowed Capital Lucien.

It came strangely—thick, damp, and cold, carrying a faint stench of decay as it silently devoured the entire city.

The sharp outlines and colors of daytime had vanished completely.

Only the street lamps glowed dimly through the fog, casting hazy yellow halos that barely traced the blurred silhouettes of buildings.

Night in the Lower City was already steeped in crime; under this heavy fog, it became even more dangerous and unpredictable.

Jack the Ripper lurked within the shadows.

No one knew of his existence.

Or rather, in any official record of this world, there was no person named “Jack.”

“Jack” was merely a codename he had inherited from a dead Pseudo-Mark Knight.

In truth, he was the illegitimate child of a prostitute—a complete ghost in the system. No name, no family, no friends, no connections.

To this world, he was like a transparent phantom.

The day before yesterday, he and the other Pseudo-Mark Knights had taken part in the raid on the Knights’ Arena.

He was the sole survivor.

The reason he escaped the Judgement Court’s net-like trap was simple—

He was not a Pseudo-Mark Knight. He was a true Crestbearer.

His Bloodline of the Sigil had already mutated under the blessing of the Dark Prince, leaving no traceable origin in any known lineage.

This gift granted him a unique ability: he could see the “death lines” that covered all things like a spiderweb.

With a simple glide of his blade along those lines, he could effortlessly disassemble anything—no matter how solid—including the human body, as if cutting apart a fragile piece of art.

No one would ever suspect it was the power of a crest. They would only assume it was the work of a deeply twisted madman.

That was why, despite committing countless brutal murders, he had never been truly identified by the Judgement Court.

Now, the last of those who knew his identity—his so-called comrades—were gone.

He had become a true lone wolf, a dangerous phantom immersed in his own art of killing.

Tonight, he was searching for prey.

He favored prostitutes. It stemmed from the first sacrifice of his life—he had personally killed his own mother, a prostitute, as an offering to prove his loyalty to the Dark Prince.

From that moment on, he was consumed by an insatiable thirst for blood, especially for those he deemed “unclean.”

He relished the hunt. To him, it was an elegant game of cat and mouse.

He would first instill endless fear into his chosen target. Just when they thought they had escaped, he would deliver the “surprise” of death at the most unexpected moment.

The mixture of despair and terror on their faces in their final moments brought him supreme pleasure.

For him, killing was also an art meant to please the Dark Prince.

He would reassemble the dismembered bodies into grotesque “masterpieces” and offer them to his god.

However, tonight’s hunt encountered an unexpected obstacle.

The once chaotic and dangerous Lower City had developed a new kind of order.

Former gang members wearing red armbands—called the Workers’ Patrol—were tirelessly patrolling the streets, maintaining security.

The prostitutes who once lingered on street corners had seemingly disappeared.

It was said they had joined an organization called the Mutual Aid Association and found a new way to live.

Damn it.

Jack cursed inwardly.

This sense of order disgusted him on a visceral level.

The patrol members were vigilant, seemingly doubling as informants for the Inquisition. The moment they spotted anything suspicious, they would send out a signal.

He had heard from his now-dead comrades that these people were under Allen de Laval.

Allen de Laval… him again.

Jack knew the Dark Prince seemed to favor this “cursed one.”

He was the only one who could remain clear-headed under the Prince’s temptation, even standing on equal footing with someone like Livia von Stern, a favored of the gods.

This man was a natural heretic hunter. The Cult had suffered greatly at his hands.

No matter what, Jack had to avoid him and his forces.

Just as Jack was struggling to suppress his rising urge to kill—almost considering attacking a lone patrol member—his eyes suddenly lit up.

A patrol squad had just passed the corner. Under a dim light across the street stood a young girl.

She wore an ill-fitting cheap dress, her hands nervously twisting the hem as she glanced around timidly.

She looked exactly like a novice stepping out for the first time, too embarrassed to fully commit.

Interesting.

Jack preferred corrupted women—those already fallen in body and soul.

The greatest art was to give such people a glimpse of hope, only to strip it away completely.

But a pure child on the brink of falling into corruption… her soul would have a different flavor.

A change of taste might be nice.

Jack stepped out of the shadows and approached silently.

He sensed something else in the fog—a sticky, decaying malice that made him uneasy.

An illusion?

He dismissed it, focusing entirely on his prey.

“Little girl, all alone? Need some ‘help’?” Jack asked in what he thought was a gentle voice.

Startled, the girl shrank back and answered softly, “Three livre.”

“Deal.” Jack smiled, taking out three silver coins.

The girl accepted the money, lowered her head, and walked into a dark alley.

Jack followed leisurely, as if savoring the prey’s final moments.

But the instant he stepped into the alley, the girl suddenly sped up—far too fast for a frightened child.

Something’s wrong!

Jack’s eyes sharpened as he instinctively accelerated. But at the intersection ahead, a figure blocked his path.

The person wore a bizarre green bodysuit and a mask shaped like a grasshopper’s head, with large red compound eyes glowing eerily in the fog.

A red scarf fluttered unnaturally in the still air.

It’s a trap!

Jack realized instantly. But this didn’t look like someone from the Judgement Court.

A rival predator?

“Who are you?” Jack narrowed his eyes, a small knife slipping into his palm.

He could already see the intricate web of death lines on the opponent.

“I’m just a passing Kamen Rider! Remember that!” the figure struck a ridiculous pose, voice booming. “Didn’t expect to hook a big fish like you! Using a comrade as bait makes my sins heavy… but!”

His tone suddenly shifted as he pointed at Jack.

“Now, count your crimes!”

“Idiot.” Jack sneered, vanishing instantly.

In the next moment, he appeared behind the Kamen Rider, slashing at the clearest death line on the back of his neck.

Die!

But the blade missed.

The figure twisted his body at an impossible angle, barely dodging the fatal strike. The movement was clumsy, almost ugly—but absurdly fast.

Jack was startled. The opponent’s reaction speed far exceeded his expectations.

“Nice speed,” the Kamen Rider said, excitement in his voice. “But too slow!”

Before the words finished, a storm of punches and kicks rained down.

It was a chaotic, brute-force fighting style, yet so relentless that Jack struggled to keep up.

Jack moved like a shadow, weaving through the gaps, his blade constantly seeking those fatal lines.

Yet every attempt fell just short.

The opponent’s evasive ability was unbelievable, as if he could predict every move.

No—not prediction.

Through countless sparring sessions, this Kamen Rider had etched the instinct of taking hits into his very bones. His body reacted to killing intent faster than his mind could think.

Damn it!

Jack grew increasingly alarmed. His proud art of killing seemed like child’s play before this man.

The opponent ignored technique entirely, relying purely on speed and strength to suppress him.

This so-called Kamen Rider was his natural enemy.

“It’s over!”

With a shout, the Kamen Rider leapt into the air, twisting into a textbook flying kick.

The Sun Emblem within him surged like never before, its blazing power turning his entire right leg golden.

The light burned like the sun itself, like a meteor tearing through the foggy night, crashing down toward Jack with unstoppable force.

“Rider Kick!”

In Jack’s vision—the fragile world woven from countless cuttable lines—everything collapsed.

Before that descending golden light, the death lines did not vanish… they were erased by a more absolute, overwhelming force.

Dodge?

The immense pressure pinned him in place. Even moving a finger was impossible.

Boom!

Jack was sent flying, crashing into a wall as every bone in his body shattered.

In his final moment before losing consciousness, he faintly heard a laugh.

It was delighted, cruel, and mocking—from the Dark Prince he worshipped.

So… that’s how it is.

His self-assured hunt, and his twisted soul, had been nothing more than a poor performance offered to a god.

A completely… failed work of art.

“No!”

His final thought roared silently as his soul was swallowed by an unseen darkness.

The alley fell silent once more.

“Boss! Boss! That was amazing!”

The Sparrow-faced Boy, Pierre, scrambled out from the shadows, flushed with excitement. He mimicked the kick awkwardly and nearly tripped.

“That Rider Kick… like that, right?”

His younger sister Nina followed, her face pale, breathing heavily as fear lingered.

Hugo landed, staggering before pulling off his helmet, revealing a sweat-soaked face.

“Whew… finally done.” He leaned against the wall, exhaling. “When Allen talked about the Dragon Slaying Technique this afternoon, I thought—this kind of bait operation counts as mobilizing the masses and identifying enemies, right?”

“Of course!” Pierre said excitedly. “We’re protecting the Revolution’s achievements!”

“But tonight was too risky.” Hugo turned serious, looking at Nina. “You can’t act as bait again. I didn’t expect to actually catch a Cultist.”

“It’s fine, Hugo,” Nina shook her head, her fear replaced by excitement and determination.

“If my sacrifice can bring a monster like that to justice and protect others, it’s worth it.”

She pulled out a notebook and pen, scribbling quickly, eyes shining.

“I already thought of tomorrow’s headline!” She held it up excitedly. “‘Showdown!! The Fog City Killer’—what do you think?”

“Not bad. Very Knight-like.”

Seeing the two youths burning with passion, Hugo finally relaxed and smiled.

But suddenly, a chill ran down his spine—his Sun Emblem’s instinct warning him.

Something terrifying was watching them from the darkness.

He snapped his head toward the deeper shadows of the alley.

“Who’s there?!”

Before the words finished, he dashed forward like an arrow.

But there was nothing.

Only a displaced manhole cover and a dark opening below.

From that bottomless darkness, a thicker, more nauseating stench—akin to the fog but far more putrid—slowly rose upward.