Preston cleared his throat. "Mr. Irving, we already have Axel's confession. But given your… prior acquaintance with Mr. Vernon, we've arranged for another Undead Guide to assist—a Level 2. He'll serve as witness."

Irving gave a thin smile. "Good. But I'll need to question everyone again once it's done. The soul's memory can be brief, and distortions are common. We'll compare what you each recall afterward."

He turned toward the others. "Focus on the conversation between Axel and Vaughn—especially the final hour. The details must align exactly for the results to hold up as evidence."

Everyone nodded. A Level 5 Undead Guide was rare—beyond rare—and most city lords would've bowed when addressing one. But Preston was a Kensington, and that still counted for something.

Irving inclined his head politely. "Don't worry, Mr. Preston. Mr. Vernon and I aren't close. My work depends on neutrality. If I don't uphold fairness, my reputation's worth nothing."

Preston exhaled, visibly relieved, then motioned to the younger Guide. Skye, Walter, and the rest stood farther back near the police line, their breath misting in the freezing air. Every eye was fixed on Irving as he knelt and pressed his palm against the snow-stained ground.

Two thin threads of gray light pulsed between his fingers. His pupils dilated, then darkened entirely—turning bottomless black.

"Axel," Vernon muttered, pacing behind the tape. "Your lies are about to burn away."

Farther up the hill, Wesley crouched behind a drift of snow, watching through a pair of fogged binoculars. Vince and Rosaline were tucked into a makeshift shelter behind him, calm as statues.

Wesley muttered. "Aren't you afraid the truth might screw him over? If Axel really did it, Charles showingup won't save shit."

He wasn't even part of Axel's old squad, but he looked more nervous than any of them. Vince didn't answer right away. He was busy turning a small spit over a portable burner, the smell of roasted rabbit cutting through the cold.

The meat was golden and crisp when he finally spoke. "As long as they give him a fair shake," Vince said quietly, "that's all that matters."

Rosaline nudged the cooked rabbit toward Wesley. "Stop whining. Eat."

Wesley blinked, then chuckled and sat down beside them. "You two are nuts."

Vince took a bite, chewed thoughtfully. "Maybe. But sometimes you've got to trust the process."

Wesley sighed, staring down toward the flickering police lights in the valley. "Yeah, sure," he said under his breath. "As long as you think it's okay." If things went south, Vince and Rosaline wouldn't stay calm for long.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the police set up a makeshift command tent beside the ruined cabin. Cold wind whipped through the clearing, rattling the yellow tape that marked the scene. Inside the tent, the air was thick with tension.

After what felt like hours, Leonard—the younger of the two Undead Guides—finally opened his eyes. His face was pale, his breathing shallow.

"Mr. Preston…" he began, voice hoarse.

Preston raised a hand. "Not yet. We'll talk when Irving wakes."

Leonard hesitated, then nodded and sat quietly, rubbing his temples. Vernon's eyes flicked toward him—sharp, probing. Leonard felt the weight of that look, clenched his jaw, and turned his gaze toward the snow outside.

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Nearly three hours crawled by before Irving stirred. His eyes, which had been solid black, slowly regained their color, and sweat dripped down his lined forehead. The fatigue in his posture spoke louder than words.

"Mr. Irving, how is it?" Vernon was on his feet in an instant, voice trembling with impatience.

Fletcher shot him a look. "Calm down. We'll take statements separately."

With Preston supervising, the process went quickly. Irving went first, head bowed, following Preston into a smaller military tent. Ten minutes later, he emerged, visibly drained. Leonard went in next. His debrief took barely two minutes.

When Preston finally stepped out, his expression was grim. Vernon, Fletcher, and even Walter and Skye hurried over, drawn by the tension.

Preston took a long breath before speaking. "After comparing both accounts, the results match perfectly. Mr. Irving—please share your full statement."

A click echoed as someone turned on a recorder. Vernon's breathing grew heavy. All eyes turned to Irving.

The Undead Guide straightened his rumpled collar, his tone even and deliberate. "Here's what I saw. Vaughn was trapped inside the cabin by Axel. During that time, Axel begged him repeatedly—said he'd let Vaughn go if Vaughn swore not to kill him afterward. But every time, Vaughn attacked him again. Axel knocked him out more than once, but he kept waking up and fighting."

Irving paused, his gaze sweeping the room before continuing. "The last time Vaughn regained consciousness, Axel had collapsed from exhaustion. Vaughn swallowed some kind of elixir, then drove a blade straight into Axel's heart. Wounded and desperate, Axel fought back—and killed Vaughn."

A heavy silence followed. The wind outside seemed to die.

Vernon's face went white, then red. His lips trembled. Even Fletcher looked stunned. "That's impossible," Vernon said hoarsely. "That's bullshit! He murdered my son—you expect me to believe that?"

He surged to his feet. Power exploded from him—a Level Five Awakener's force crashing over the tent like a wave. Several officers staggered back. Preston's face twisted under the pressure. But Irving didn't move. His own presence flared in quiet defiance, steady and cold.

"Mr. Vernon," he said evenly, "you were the one who called me here. I don't know Axel. You think I'd risk offending you—and the entire Brighthelm family—just to protect a stranger?"

His words carried weight, but also a subtle barb. Some of the officers exchanged uneasy glances.

Walter's fists clenched at his sides. They could feel Axel's desperation in it—the humiliation of begging a noble for mercy after winning fairly.

Vernon saw their reactions and trembled with rage. His mind spun—back to Axel's calm eyes in the interrogation room, that quiet, steady look that had made him feel mocked.

Then it hit him like lightning. "He did it for you! For all of you! He planned this—every goddamn step!"

Even Fletcher winced. "Vernon—" he began, but Vernon shoved past him, his temper breaking loose.

He lunged forward, grabbed Irving by the collar, and roared, "Can't you see it?! That smug bastard wasn't begging for mercy—he was playing you! He wanted you to see his little act, to twist the story in his favor!"

The tent lights flickered in the wind. Vernon's voice cracked under the strain. His eyes were bloodshot, his grief curdling into madness.

Irving let him pull at his collar for a moment before calmly prying Vernon's hands off.

"Mr. Vernon," he said, voice like ice, "you're free to speculate. I'm not here to interpret emotions. I only report what the soul revealed. If there had been deceit, I'd have said so. I don't hide what I see."

He straightened his coat, brushed off the wrinkles, and stepped back. The authority in his tone silenced the tent.

Vernon looked around wildly. His breath came in ragged bursts. Every face he saw—Fletcher's, Preston's, even Walter's. No one believed him anymore.

"Why?" he shouted. "Why the hell won't any of you see it?"

No one answered.

Preston followed procedure and uploaded both Undead Guides' statements into the system.

The truth was now laid bare. Through cross-checks and witness interviews, they'd learned plenty about Vaughn's hostility toward Axel—especially from Sergio, Terrence, and others who'd seen his attitude firsthand.

Even the taxi driver's account made things clear: Vaughn had come to Axel spoiling for a fight.

And since Axel's confession matched what the two Undead Guides had independently witnessed, the case was settled. Vaughn's presence—and his intent—were undeniable.

Not far from the cabin, Skye wandered off toward a snowbank, unzipped, and relieved himself. When he was done, he flicked open a cigarette and took a slow drag. Watching the half-collapsed cabin, he exhaled a ribbon of smoke into the cold.

"Man," he muttered under his breath, a crooked grin forming, "you just keep getting better, don't you?"

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