Sheriff Duke was crouched by one of these holes, pulling aside some broken boards.

Karen walked over, then froze.

Inside the hole lay a naked male corpse.

The body’s hands were symmetrically spread out at a forty-five-degree angle, palms facing up, with two nails driven into the middle fingers, holding them in a double middle-finger gesture.

Moreover, in the corpse’s belly button, a white plastic flower had been placed.

The area around the belly button showed signs of stitching, suggesting that this flower wasn’t just a decoration—it was a potted plant placed inside the abdomen.

The corpse’s face was heavily made up, with exaggerated lipstick extending downwards from the corners of his mouth, forming a grotesque “smile.”

A book lay across the corpse’s chest, with the title *The Song of the Soul*, which was the Berry religion’s equivalent of a Bible.

Karen remembered Aunt Mary once complaining that Mr. Mossan’s children had pretended he was a Berry follower just to save on funeral costs.

According to Berry doctrine, the body should be cremated and returned to nature. The more the body was decorated or given a grand funeral, the greater the desecration to both nature and the faith.

Yet, here was this body, altered and adorned far beyond anything that would honor their teachings.

Additionally, judging by the corpse’s bluish-gray skin, he had been dead for some time, though there were no visible signs of decomposition.

It was hard to imagine that the stage had come down on him, killing him, and that someone had then taken the time to undress and pose him like this.

Sheriff Duke’s face grew serious.

The dance hall incident had been an accident. In cases like this, his duty was to maintain order for the rescue efforts. But this corpse—this was different.

Biting down on his cigarette, Sheriff Duke muttered to himself,

“If not for this accident, we would never have discovered this murder.”

“I don’t think that’s the case.”

“Oh?”

Sheriff Duke turned, looking at the handsome young man beside him.

“What do you think it is?”

Karen pointed at the corpse in the hole.

“I think the killer deliberately orchestrated this ‘accident’ to display his ‘artwork’ to us.”

"Did the killer do it on purpose?" Duke asked, puzzled.

But what really caught his attention was another word Karen had used: *artwork*.

A young man had just described the victim's body as a "work of art." Even though Duke knew this was Karen putting himself in the killer's perspective, he couldn't help but feel a little taken aback at how naturally and quickly this young man had managed to slip into that mindset.

Nonetheless, he wanted to hear more, so he pressed, "How did you come to that conclusion?"

"It's obvious this wasn't a crime of passion."

Duke nodded.

Crimes of passion, as opposed to premeditated murder, are those committed without initial intent, where the perpetrator loses control due to provocation or some immediate trigger.

But this body had been arranged and adorned with such detail that it was far beyond the realm of a crime of passion; the killer had evidently undertaken a series of careful post-mortem steps.

Duke twirled his pipe thoughtfully and asked, "What made you reach that conclusion, especially since we haven’t conducted a thorough investigation yet?"

Karen hesitated briefly before replying, "It’s just a feeling."

"A feeling?"

"Yes, the feeling I got when I saw the body."

"You’re basing this on intuition?" Duke raised his hand slightly. "No, I want to hear more about this feeling. Can you elaborate?"

"The killer hid the body beneath the stage…"

Duke interjected, "So the killer is very familiar with this place. Adding to what you said before—that this was no accident but a staged 'incident'—it would imply that the killer is either an employee or, at the very least, a frequent visitor here.

Oh, sorry, I interrupted you. Please, go on."

"I can only follow my instincts, Chief," Karen explained again.

"That’s fine. Please continue."

"A dance hall is a lively place, crowded and noisy. Generally, when a killer disposes of a body, the main goal is to hide or destroy it. But here, it’s different.

The killer put the body here and took great care to arrange it, with the purpose of revealing it eventually…today, specifically.

It’s as if he were an artist, covering his work with a red cloth, waiting until the moment the guests were all gathered, then unveiling it for everyone to see.

Moreover, placing it under the stage…I believe there’s another layer of meaning to that."

"Another layer?"

"Although this wasn’t a crime of passion, there’s clearly a deep resentment involved."

"Don’t worry, we’ll investigate the victim’s identity and examine their social network for anyone with conflicts or grudges."

"No, no, you misunderstand me. The kind of resentment I’m referring to is different from what you mean."

"Different?"

"It doesn’t stem from a grudge with coworkers, relatives, neighbors, or friends, not from any everyday social circle where grudges could build up into motives for murder.

This resentment is on a different level altogether.

You see, the killer’s treatment of the body is so meticulous, filled not only with religious symbolism but also with an artist’s emotional expression."

"I understand the words you’re using, but altogether…it’s a bit…"

"Please, come with me."

At that moment, Uncle Mason had already left with the others, taking the severely injured man with them, so only Karen and Duke remained in the room.

Because neither Karen nor Duke had screamed when they discovered the body in the hole onstage, in the earlier commotion, no one else had even noticed the presence of another body.

Karen walked down from the stage toward the seating area. The layout of this dance hall resembled a theater, as, in fact, it had been one before it became a dance hall in Roja.

So, walking toward the "auditorium"—now a lounge area—meant moving up some steps, with each row getting higher, creating an effect similar to an arena.

Karen kept walking until he reached the middle section and stopped.

There were tall little tables here, only big enough to hold a few drinks, with no chairs nearby. If someone wanted to sit comfortably, they would have to pay extra for a booth at the front.

These tables were mainly for holding a drink while chatting, though women were free to join others at the tables up front for a drink or conversation.

Unlike Uncle Mason, who had retired long ago, Ron was a regular here. This area was his main territory because it didn’t require a minimum spend.

A song only lasted three minutes—three minutes for 5 lubies. Although Ron made a decent income, his expenses were high, so he couldn’t afford to dance freely with the hired dancers.

Most of the time, he would sip on a beer, scanning the crowd for a “lightly dressed” beauty. He would wait until he spotted someone he truly liked, invite her to dance for a song or two, then quickly pay the dance fee before retreating to his spot, savoring his beer as he looked for his next partner.

This was all information Ron had proudly shared on their way here—he took pride in extending his enjoyment to the maximum for the minimum cost.

Karen turned around, and Duke was standing behind him.

"Chief, please turn around."

"Alright."

Duke turned, standing on the step and facing down toward the stage.

Karen’s voice came from behind him.

"Please, Chief, use your imagination. This isn’t the dance hall where the stage recently collapsed. Right now, it’s a dance hall in full operation.

Listen, the music is already playing—a lively tune, *The Spirit of Roja*."

This tune was indeed lively; Aunt Mary often played it in her studio as she worked.

"Look, the lights are dimming, the guests have chosen their partners, and they’re stepping onto the stage.

See? In the middle of the stage, there are hundreds of couples, all holding each other as they dance.

On the outer edges, there are some couples trying their best to waltz, their dance steps somewhat unrefined but close enough to formal.

But in the center, male patrons and their hired dancers are pressed tightly together, hands sliding to forbidden places, fingers lingering where they shouldn’t.

Listen to the sound of hormones, the unrestrained laughter and murmurs swirling across the stage;

Observe, Chief, the spectacle before you. It’s a pure embodiment of human desire, a place where everyone clings together, stripping away pretense to seek a thrill in the open.

Look up now—

The glass ceiling above offers yet another provocative view.

Morality, ethics, modesty—all of it is abandoned. Money and raw desires dominate, and what should be hidden is now brazenly displayed here, on this two-level stage."

As Karen narrated,

Duke seemed to witness the scene unfolding before him, with light and shadow intertwining in mesmerizing patterns.

"Now, Chief, direct your gaze down to the stage…centered on the stage, slowly going down…take your time, finally reaching under the stage.

Now, tell me, what do you see?"

Duke replied, "A body. A corpse with a Holy Bible on its chest, arranged in a mocking pose."

"Then, Chief, tell me—what is its posture?"

"Lying down."

"Oh? Is that so?"

"Is it not?"

"You’re standing here, so please look again carefully. Is he…really lying down?"

Duke’s gaze sharpened, and because of his position, as his perspective shifted further, he gasped.

"No…he’s not lying down; he’s standing. And the people dancing on stage—they’re actually lying down!"

Suddenly,

Sheriff Duke clenched his fists tightly,

because he suddenly realized something:

this position—it was the position of an observer, no, more precisely, a spectator.

Sheriff Duke slowly turned his head to the left,

and in his “sight,” it was as if a black figure appeared, standing right there beside him, with a faint smile on his lips, admiring this dynamic scene before them.

He… was the killer!

Sheriff Duke instinctively reached out to grab him;

but the moment his hand touched the shadow, it dispersed, along with all the light and shadows around them, returning once again to the chaotic reality of the scene.

There were no other sounds, except for his own slightly heavy breathing.

Sheriff Duke turned back to look at Karen and spoke, “That person takes pleasure in killing; he’s enjoying himself.”

This… was serious.

Accidents—no one can predict them, and accidents cause death and injury, which brings grief to friends and family;

But a deranged serial killer is different. His existence could plunge the entire city of Loja into fear.

“He doesn’t even see himself as a killer; he thinks he’s creating art.”

“The Berrey cult Bible, the flowerpot on the belly, the middle finger, the naked body—these…” Sheriff Duke frowned slightly. “These seem… to seem…”

“Sheriff, are you saying that these things seem to have lost their significance?”

“I… I do have that feeling.”

“Because the visual effect is enough; no, more accurately, it’s because these arrangements are mere accessories to enhance the sophistication of the ‘canvas.’”

“So, whether it’s the flowerpot, the middle finger, or *The Soul’s Song,* investigating them actually lacks meaning; it’s not the killer’s intentional expression but rather his casual arrangements.

It’s even very likely that this person—whose identity I still don’t know—this corpse here, may not even be a Berrey cult member?”

Karen nodded, but still reminded him, “But the Berrey cult worships nature, and nature is an instinct.”

Sheriff Duke: “Yes, some members of the Berrey cult enjoy hosting wild, hedonistic gatherings; they view this behavior as a natural expression, which, coincidentally, aligns with the scene on the stage here.

So, the killer isn’t a member of the Berrey cult, nor does he hate it. His hatred comes from this attitude, no… what he hates is something opposed to what the Berrey cult advocates.”

“You’re right, Sheriff. Art without an outlet for emotion is merely an empty pile of refinement; it can’t bring joy to its creator. Hate, too, can bring a twisted joy, and that joy requires immersion.

This corpse wasn’t punished here; he wasn’t the killer’s object of punishment, but rather the vessel through which the killer projected himself.

When the killer stood here, looking at this whole scene, he could imagine himself standing there, with the men and women dancing filthily on stage as the objects of his hate and ridicule.

He stood, while they lay; he was like a god, looking down at the depravity below. It’s a hate that goes beyond the usual meaning.”

Sheriff Duke nodded, then shook his head: “I feel like I’ve caught on to something, yet there’s no clear lead. The killer… immersed himself, meaning, it’s possible there’s no grudge between him and the victim… they may have even been very close, very intimate. Only then could the killer project himself onto the victim…”

Karen smiled and said, “So he could feel a deeper connection.”

Sheriff Duke tapped his head with his pipe,

and let out a self-deprecating chuckle:

“Ha… ha…”

Then,

he exhaled deeply and said, “I feel like everything you just said is baseless, all imagination and fabrication, but somehow it still makes sense.”

“I’m just doing my duty as a good citizen, to maintain the kindness and order of this city.”

“In the next investigation, I’ll pay close attention to the people close to the victim. The closer they were, the more attention I’ll pay.”

Karen said nothing.

“You’re part of the Inmerres family? What’s your relation to Mason?”

“He’s my uncle.”

“Oh, I knew it. You don’t look like a mere servant of that family. With such a handsome face, you don’t need to haul corpses to make money. You could just stand here and wait for the ladies to pay you to dance.”

Sheriff Duke laughed at his own joke.

Karen only gave a polite, faint smile in response;

he was getting used to it. This world had its own kind of malice against people with attractive looks.

“I’m Duke Marlow. You can call me Duke ‘The Pipe.’”

“Karen Inmerres.”

“How old are you, Karen?”

“Fifteen.”

“Hmm, Mason has quite an impressive nephew. What we just experienced was a first for me in all my years of investigating.”

At that moment, other officers began entering.

“If there’s any progress in the case… no, whether or not there’s progress, I’ll come find you again. Main Street… number 13, right?”

“Yes, Sheriff.”

Sheriff Duke turned to the officers who had just come in and called out:

“There’s a corpse of a murder victim under the trapdoor in the center of the stage. Secure that area and call for backup.”

He continued descending the stairs while muttering to himself, back turned to Karen:

“An unusual nephew, with an unusual connection to a deranged killer.”

After walking down a few steps, Sheriff Duke suddenly stopped and looked back at Karen:

“One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“When I checked the body earlier, I noticed it had been somewhat preserved. And with it being winter, the decay would be slower. The killer could have continued enjoying his immersion in the pleasure—or let’s call it hate.