"Corvath, the target just went in. Three o'clock direction, the abandoned meatpacking plant."

The voice did not come from human lips. Instead, it echoed directly within Corvath’s mind—low, gravelly, and carrying the dry, raspy texture unique to a bird.

Corvath stood under the eaves across the street from the factory. He wore a frayed, black trench coat with the collar popped exceptionally high, masking most of his face and leaving only a pair of sharp eyes to fixate on the crooked iron door opposite him. The night wind whipped flurries of snow through the crevices of the brick walls, letting out faint, whistling howls, but he remained entirely unmoved. Slowly, he raised his right hand, covering his right eye with his long, slender fingers.

The moment his palm pressed against his eye socket, a faint, ethereal blue glow emanated from between his brows—the awakening signal of the "Crystal Eye," the magical relic embedded in his right eye.

The mana linked instantly, and Corvath’s vision shifted violently. His level, human perspective was forcefully wrenched up into the sky, transforming into the panoramic view of a magical beast. Night vision, dynamic tracking, and even the residual magical trails in the air all materialized into visible purple smoke, drifting lazily before his eyes like threads suspended in the night.

This was the sight of his partner, the magic crow, Claude.

At that moment, Claude was circling high above the factory. His wingtips barely moved, letting the air currents carry him in a slow glide. Through the shattered skylight, he transmitted every single movement inside the building clearly into Corvath’s mind—the iron chains scattered on the floor, the weathered bloodstains, and a faint, trembling warmth huddled in the corner.

"A low-tier 'Bloodhound Demon,' and... a girl tied to a chair," Corvath muttered under his breath, his voice as cold as ice. "Looks like we're just in time."

He lowered his right hand. As he pulled down the collar of his trench coat, he revealed his right eye—a crystal-clear, deep blue crystal orb completely devoid of human emotion. There was no pupil dilation, no blinking; it held only a constant, haunting glow, like a gemstone set into his skull. Meanwhile, inside his left sleeve, the heavy, rhythmic clicking of mechanical gears biting together echoed faintly—one tick after another, like a dormant heartbeat.

This body was the brand left upon him by that bloody night.

Ten years ago, demons had launched a sudden attack on his home. The screams of that night and the silhouettes of his parents collapsing into pools of blood remained a nightmare he chewed on repeatedly. Even in his deepest slumbers, the stench of charred flesh mixed with copper would wake him right on time. Had it not been for a passing, mysterious mage who struck down the beast, Corvath would have been nothing but dust. Even though he survived, he permanently lost his left arm and right eye.

The mage had transplanted the "Dark-Gold Mana Prosthesis" and the "Crystal Eye" into him, replacing his ruined flesh.

“This is no gift, Corvath,” the mage’s words still echoed in his ears, driven into his memory like a nail. “This is the price of your vengeance against the dark.”

Heavy leather boots thumping against the floor, Corvath pushed open the rotting wooden door of the meatpacking plant. The hinges groaned in agony, shedding flakes of rust onto his shoulders.

Inside the factory, a two-meter-tall, hound-like demon covered in rotting flesh and bone spikes was salivating over the girl on the floor. It let out a low, guttural growl, smacking its jaws in anticipation of the prey it was about to claim. Hearing the door open, the beast snapped its head around. A pair of blood-red eyes locked onto the intruder, its nostrils flaring as it sniffed the unfamiliar scent in the air.

"Demon Detective Agency. Corvath," he said as he walked, calmly unbuckling his left leather glove. His tone was as casual as a simple introduction.

The glove slipped off, revealing not human skin, but a mechanical forearm forged from dark-gold magical metal, its surface etched with intricate alchemical runes. As he stepped forward, the runes flared to life one by one in a dangerous crimson light, emitting a low hum like a roaring beast. The metal knuckles ground against each other, making sharp, clicking sounds.

Sensing the threat, the demon let out a savage roar. Its powerful hind legs slammed into the ground, turning it into a blur as it lunged at Corvath, its razor-sharp claws aiming straight for his throat!

"Too slow."

Aided by Claude's aerial perspective, the demon's seemingly lightning-fast assault was riddled with openings in Corvath’s eyes. Its shifting center of gravity and the tensing of its muscles were traced out in advance by the purple mana trails. He slipped to the side with pinpoint precision. The demon's claws brushed past the edge of his trench coat, violently smashing the wooden crate behind him into a shower of splinters.

Taking advantage of the split-second crossover, Corvath spun around, planting his heavy, mechanical left arm firmly against the demon's underbelly.

The five metal fingers of his prosthesis clenched into a tight fist, the metallic joints popping with a crisp snap.

"Demon-Slaying Cannon—Charge!"

In an instant, the free-floating mana in the air surged wildly into his left hand. Countless runes across the dark-gold mechanical arm erupted in a blinding white light. The temperature inside the factory skyrocketed. The intense energy wave warped the surrounding air so severely that the world looked as though it were being viewed through a sheet of boiling glass.

Realizing the danger at last, terror flashed through the demon's eyes. It tried to wrench itself backward, but it was already too late.

"Goodbye, filth."

A deafening roar shattered the night sky.

The blinding white beam transformed into a torrent of pure destruction, instantly piercing through the demon's torso. The massive shockwave, bearing a magical force that was both holy and destructive, vaporized the demon's flesh and its inner core within microseconds. Not a single drop of blood was left behind.

As the light faded, nothing remained on the scorched earth save for a wisp of rising black smoke. The air filled with a bizarre, sweet scent reminiscent of burnt sugar.

Corvath shook his slightly overheated left arm. With a mechanical click, the gears settled back into silence. He walked forward and gently unfastened the ropes binding the terrified girl. He kept his movements incredibly light, as if fearing that his hand—the very hand that had slaughtered countless demons—would frighten the shivering girl. He adopted a gentle, if slightly weary, tone:

"It's over, miss. Mission accomplished."

Just then, a crow as black as the night flew down through the skylight, landing steadily on his dark-gold magical prosthesis. Claude tilted his head and let out a raspy caw, as if proudly claiming his reward.

Corvath looked out at the night sky through the window with his blue crystal eye. The fog had not yet lifted. In the distance, the heavy tolling of a church bell echoed faintly, striking twelve times.

The demons were far from eradicated. His vengeance, and his life as a detective, had only just begun.