The Endless Balance of an Ancient Sorrow Volume 1 CG Chapter 2 Fraid City's Finest Frank Gavern, the truth seeker

 Copyright © 2025 by Ryan Melrose 

 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the author. 

This is a work of fiction. 

 All names, characters, places, organizations, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, real-world locations, corporations, or institutions is entirely coincidental. If you genuinely believe any character in this book is secretly based on you, you might be reading a bit too deep—or just hunting for a payout. Either way, this story isn’t about you. Maybe talk to someone about that. 

This is the first publication, written and illustrated by Ryan Melrose, and published in Australia. 

The Endless Balance of an Ancient Sorrow Gavern Codex (GC) Volume 1 

 Chapter 2 

Fraid City’s Finest Frank Gavern, the truth seeker 

  

In the Slums of Fraid City not a person insight just the darkness of the night sound so silent its deafening until a Siren a police car speeding in the streets between Allan and Kings Street heading straight for a Warehouse.  

They pulled up and exited the vehicle two Detective a blonde young man in a Detective suit so young he looks like a teenager this is Frank Gavern the youngest detective in Fraid City’s history. His partner Arthur Sinclaire was an older gentlemen late 30’s a little facial hair a seasoned veteran detective . 

The warehouse smelled of dust, rust, and regret. Frank Gavern stepped past the broken glass littering the floor, his sharp eyes sweeping the shadows like they were hiding something just out of reach. Arthur Sinclaire walked beside him, hands in his pockets, chewing absently on a toothpick, the very image of someone who’d seen too much and cared too little. 

They didn’t bother shooing away the homeless tonight—they were here for something else entirely. 

One man had called them in. 

A man in his early twenties his name Aran, stood trembling, his face pale in the flickering light, his grey shirt had blood on it 

“I—I just found her. I swear—I didn’t touch anything, I just—” 

Arthur lifted a hand to silence him. 

“Yeah, yeah. Relax.” His voice was dry, worn. He gestured toward the stairs. “Take us to her.” 

Aran nodded quickly, leading them up, up, up—through the rotting remains of the Skyfire building, an industry long abandoned, now a skeleton in Fraid City’s slums. 

Arthur sighed. 

“Skyfire. Figures. Fraid City leaves the past behind like an ex-wife.” 

Frank didn’t comment. He was already thinking ahead—already dissecting the situation before even seeing the body. 

And then—there she was. 

Top floor. Back room. 

Definitely a former office, judging by the water-stained desk pushed to the side, the empty filing cabinets gutted by looters years ago. 

The woman sat against the far wall. 

Dead. 

Throat slit. 

A strange insignia carved into the top of her head. Frank seemed to have a look of recognition on his face as it looked like the letter Y. 

Arthur exhaled through his nose. 

“Great. Some lunatic had a field day.” 

Frank stepped forward. His gaze flicked over the wound, the markings, the positioning. 

“Not quite.” 

Arthur crossed his arms. 

“Cult nutjob, then.” 

Frank knelt, inspecting the edges of the wound. His fingers hovered near the pentagram—not touching, but observing how cleanly it had been cut. 

“No hesitation in the knife work. Whoever did this was practiced.” 

Arthur rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah? Well, tell me how that helps us solve it, hotshot.” 

Frank ignored him. He was already piecing together the parts, already feeling the subtle unease creeping in—because something about this felt off. 

Not reckless. 

Not random. 

Deliberate. 

His eyes flicked to Aran. 

“How’d you find her?” 

Aran swallowed hard. 

“I—I was just looking for a place to crash. Then I smelled something weird, and when I came up here—she was already like this I tried to help her I got blood on me .” 

Frank let the silence linger. 

Arthur sighed, rubbing his temple. 

“Look, I already know where this is going. We’ll send it to the lab, get a name, see if she has any ties to local nutjobs. Not much else we can do here, Gavern.” 

Frank stood slowly, exhaling. 

“There’s always something else to do.” 

Arthur gave him that skeptical look again, the one he always gave when Frank found things others missed, when he refused to accept the easy answer. 

"Yeah? Well, when you find the miracle clue, let me know." 

Frank didn’t answer. 

Instead, he stepped closer to the body—his gut already telling him this wasn’t just another murder in Fraid City’s slums. Especially with that Y shaped mark staring him in the face. 

It was something worse. 

Something intentional. 

Something that led deeper than either of them wanted to go. 

Frank touched the blood. 

The moment his fingertips grazed the cool, drying crimson, a dull pressure coiled behind his eyes, throbbing, growing, expanding—then splitting. 

He staggered, exhaling sharply, pressing his palm to his temple as the sensation gripped him, tightening around his skull like a vice. 

Arthur barely reacted. 

2 

“There it is again,” he muttered, hands still in his pockets, watching Frank struggle. “One of your damn headaches.” 

Frank didn’t answer. 

Because in the next second—he wasn’t in the warehouse anymore. 

The vision came violently, pulling him in without mercy. 

Sarah Talliga (the victim) was smiling. 

Her phone was pressed against her ear, excitement bubbling in her voice as she paced the dusty, forgotten halls of the old Skyfire warehouse. 

“Thank you so much! I won’t let you down—I promise!” 

She hung up, her grin wide, eyes bright with relief. A new job. A real shot at something better. 

She turned— 

And Aran was already there. 

The attack was sudden, clean, and merciless—his hand snapped forward, fingers coiling around her throat, shoving her back, her head smacking into the wall with a sickening thud. 

Her breath hitched—sharp, panicked—hands clawing at his grip. 

“W-what—” 

“Sorry.” Aran’s voice was calm, almost detached. “This isn’t personal.” 

He pulled the knife. 

The blade flashed in the dim light, catching only a second of the fading sunset before it sank deep into her throat. 

Sarah’s body jerked—the last breath escaping her in a silent, broken gasp—before she slumped against the wall. 

Aran didn’t hesitate. 

The Y carving was precise, practiced—almost like he’d done this before. Frank could see the way he traced the edges, the calculated movements, not reckless, not impulsive. 

But why? 

Cult? No. 

A message? Maybe. 

Then—movement. 

The shuffle of someone approaching. 

Aran reacted instantly, his eyes darting around for a solution, an escape. 

He crouched, flipped the knife, and stabbed it into the bottom frame of the desk, pressing it deep into the wood, letting the frame conceal it perfectly. 

A careless officer wouldn’t find it. 

Aran knew that. 

Then, without a moment wasted—he ran. 

Frank snapped back. 

His breath shuddered, his pulse hammering against his skin, his fingers still slick with the blood from the victim. 

Arthur watched him, chewing absently on his toothpick. 

“Let me guess,” he drawled. “You magically saw what happened?” 

Frank didn’t answer. 

Instead, his eyes flicked to Aran—the hysterical, trembling witness—his body language carefully designed, his panic exaggerated. 

Frank knew the truth now. 

And Aran had no idea. 

Frank didn’t hesitate. 

He reached under the desk, fingers sliding beneath the bottom frame, finding the concealed weapon exactly where he had seen it in his vision. 

A slight pull—then the knife was in his hand, its blade slick with drying blood, gleaming faintly under the weak glow of the overhead light. 

Aran froze. 

The shock hit his face instantly, his pupils shrinking, his breath catching in his throat. 

Arthur whistled low, crossing his arms. 

"Well, damn. That was fast." 

Frank barely spared him a glance. 

Instead, he turned to Aran, holding the knife out like a silent accusation, his voice sharp, unwavering. 

"Tell me again, Aran. How did you find the body?" 

Aran’s lips parted, but no words came. 

"You claimed the blood on your shirt was because you tried to help her." Frank’s tone was patient. Too patient. "Are you sure it wasn’t because you were the killer?" 

Arthur raised an eyebrow. 

Aran flinched. 

"You lived here, didn’t you?" Frank continued, stepping forward, his eyes locked on Aran, pressing into him like a scalpel. "You knew Sarah’s routine. You knew exactly when she’d be alone. You knew the perfect chance to get at her—so tell me, Aran." 

Frank's grip tightened on the knife. 

"Who put you up to it?" 

Aran shuddered, his whole body shaking now, his fingers twitching as if his nerves were frantically searching for an escape route. 

Then, finally, his voice cracked through the tension—quiet, desperate, unraveling. 

"He—he promised everything would be different. I just had to kill her, and all my dreams would come true..." 

Arthur scoffed, shifting his weight. 

"Classic. Empty promises from scumbags, and you actually bought it." 

Aran swallowed hard. 

"I—I had no choice. If I hadn’t done it, he would’ve killed me." 

Frank barely blinked. 

"Who?" 

The name never came. 

Because before anyone could react—Aran moved. 

Fast. Desperate. Reckless. 

Arthur barely had time to unholst the safety strap on his service weapon. 

Before Aran snatched Arthur’s sidearm with a clumsy grab, the barrel jerking upward just as Arthur swore under his breath. 

"You son of a—" 

Arthur’s hand snapped toward his holster, but he was a fraction too slow. 

"Aran, no!" 

The voice wasn’t Frank’s, nor Arthur’s. 

It belonged to someone else. 

An old woman—one of the factory’s remaining homeless, stepping forward from the corner, her frail frame tense with horror. 

Her gaze locked onto Aran, disbelief crumpling her features. 

"You—you killed Sarah?" She shook her head, eyes wide, full of grief and confusion. "How could you do such a terrible thing?" 

Aran’s expression cracked. 

His lips trembled. 

And then—without warning—he grabbed her, yanking her close, pressing the barrel of the stolen gun to her temple. 

Arthur cursed. 

Frank remained still. 

The tension collapsed into raw panic. 

"Alright! I’m getting out of here!" Aran’s voice was frantic, high with desperation. "Don’t follow me! Don’t make me kill again!" 

Frank met his eyes. 

For the first time—he saw real fear. 

Not fear of the police. 

Not fear of being caught. 

Fear of something much worse. 

Aran backed away, keeping the gun pressed to the woman’s skull, moving toward the door, step by careful step, his breath coming fast, shaky, uneven. 

"Step back!" he shouted, voice ragged. "I swear I’ll do it! I will!" 

Frank didn’t move. 

Arthur stayed frozen. 

And then—Aran was gone. 

He disappeared into the night, swallowed by the streets of Fraid City. 

Frank exhaled slowly, lowering the knife. 

 

3 

Arthur clicked his tongue. 

"Well. That’s gonna be a problem." 

Frank exhaled, watching Aran disappear into the night. 

Arthur ran a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath before clicking his tongue. 

"Well, that was a disaster." 

Frank didn’t seem bothered. He turned, giving the old woman a slight nod, watching her slowly back away, still shaken but alive. 

“He let her go,” he murmured, almost to himself. “At least that tells us something.” 

Arthur scoffed. 

“Yeah? That he’s an idiot?” 

Frank didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he flipped the knife in his hand, studying the dried blood on the blade, the weight of it, the way it had been used with expert precision. 

His eyes darkened. 

“No. That he’s scared.” 

Arthur sighed heavily. 

“Oh, here we go—some deep Gavern-level analysis.” He gestured toward the street. “Come on, let’s get back to the precinct before you start writing an entire psychological profile on this guy.” 

Frank tossed the knife into an evidence bag, pocketing it before starting toward the exit. 

Arthur followed, hands stuffed in his pockets, his tone dry as ever. 

"You know what I don’t get?" 

Frank didn’t stop walking. 

"Enlighten me." 

Arthur raised a brow. 

"Why the hell anyone would pay a nobody to kill another nobody." 

Frank’s jaw tightened. 

That was the real question, wasn’t it? 

Aran was just another face in Fraid City’s slums, and Sarah Talliga had been trying to claw her way out of it—she had nothing, no power, no enemies that made sense. 

So why had someone gone out of their way to make sure she never left this place alive? 

Frank’s fingers curled slightly. 

"We need to find out who Aran is." 

Arthur sighed again, shaking his head. 

"Yeah, yeah, I know where this is going. You’re gonna obsess over this until you find some perfect, hidden, barely-there clue that ‘no one else saw.’ And I’m gonna have to listen to you muttering about it the whole damn night." 

Frank didn’t respond. 

Arthur glanced at him. 

"Tell me I’m wrong." 

Frank finally spoke, his voice steady, unwavering. 

"Pull a bulletin on him. We can pick him up anytime." 

Arthur snorted, shaking his head. 

"Called it." 

They stepped out into the street, the warehouse looming behind them, the scent of rust and death still lingering in the air. 

Frank’s mind was already ten steps ahead, dissecting, analyzing, unraveling. 

Arthur just sighed again. 

"We’re gonna be at this all night, aren’t we?" 

Frank’s answer was simple. 

"Probably." 

Arthur groaned. 

"Fraid City’s Finest, my ass." 

Arthur finds his gun discarded just outside and recovers it as he and his partner step into the car and drive back to the Precinct. 

 

4 

Meanwhile, in the dead of night, Aran was running. 

Fast. Too fast. His own shadow stretched unnaturally beneath the dim streetlights, twisting as if mocking his panic, pulling him deeper into the alleys of Fraid City. 

He could hear his own ragged breathing, the sharp thud of his footsteps against cracked pavement. He could hear the alley cats shrieking, fleeing before him—before something else. 

Something unseen. 

Something that had come for him. 

A metallic clang echoed as a stack of rusted cans collapsed nearby, making Aran jerk violently, eyes wild, breath choking in his throat. 

He wasn’t alone. 

Then—the portal. 

Orange. Wavy. Unnatural. 

It rippled open at the far end of the alley, distorting the air, twisting reality itself as something stepped through. 

Tall. Thin. Unnatural in every way. 

At first glance, the Hollow Watcher might have seemed human, if not for his grotesque skeletal proportions, his face fixed in a false, eerie smile—the kind that looked far too normal to belong to something so wrong. 

Ruined, tattered, bloodstained rags clung to his body, hanging loosely, as if they’d been stitched together from remnants of past victims. 

He did not speak immediately. 

He only watched. 

And Aran stood frozen beneath his gaze, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to process the nightmare he had just stumbled into. 

Then—Squilly finally spoke. 

"You did it, didn't you?" 

His voice was strange, layered, like multiple voices whispering at once, shifting between mockery and madness. 

Aran swallowed hard, his body trembling. 

Squilly stepped forward. 

Slow. Methodical. Like he was savoring the moment. 

"Did your job. Did your job well. Yes, yes." 

The creature cocked his head, his grin widening—his teeth too white, too sharp, lurking just behind the normal smile. 

"Perfect. So perfect. Yes, yes." 

Aran stepped back—too quickly, too clumsily—his heel catching on a loose brick, nearly sending him sprawling. 

"W-what—" he gasped. 

Squilly did not blink. 

Did not move with haste. 

He simply tilted his head, watching Aran stumble, watching his fear thicken, watching him realize what was happening was real. 

"But." 

Squilly exhaled. 

The single word hung in the air, dragging out the silence, making it heavy, suffocating. 

"Brought more of these filthy humans into it, didn't you? Yes, yes." 

Aran’s pulse hammered inside his head. 

He didn’t dare respond. 

Would it even matter? 

Squilly’s grin stretched wider, almost impossibly so. 

"Not that it matters." He hummed lightly, tapping his fingers together, his movement oddly delicate, as if he were entertaining some meaningless thought. "Wouldn't have saved you either way." 

Aran’s body locked up. 

Every part of him screamed to run, but his limbs refused to obey. 

Squilly’s hands twitched, flexing, like a creature starving but patient. 

"You humans believe anything." 

He stepped closer. 

"The Entity gives you an offer. Makes your dreams come true." 

His voice was sing-song, almost mocking, each word dragging out too slowly. 

"You believe it. You kill. When someone offers you something better—you do." 

Aran's throat tightened, his breath coming in fast, shallow gasps. 

And then—Squilly sighed, contently. 

"But no, no. Now your use is at its end." 

The air grew colder. 

Squilly’s form twisted, his shoulders hunching, his jaw shifting, stretching—his mouth growing wider than humanly possible. 

Aran stumbled back. 

"Please—" 

Squilly stepped forward. 

"Now I, Squilly, get to eat you." 

His teeth sharpened. 

"Yes, yes." 

Aran tried to run. 

Too late. 

Squilly reached, his fingers curling around Aran’s shoulders, lifting him too easily, pulling him up, up, up—until Aran dangled helplessly, his legs kicking against empty air. 

Aran screamed. 

"No—no—NO! Oh god—please—no—!" 

Squilly’s jaw unhinged—too wide, too deep, teeth gleaming, breath reeking of death and decay. 

And then—he bit down. 

The crunch was sickening, wet, final. 

Aran’s body burst apart, flesh and bone spraying across the alley walls, his existence reduced to a meaningless mess of viscera, his scream cut off as if it had never been uttered at all. 

Squilly exhaled slowly, his grin curling back into something normal—as if he had merely enjoyed a meal, as if he had just completed a simple, expected task. 

Then—he backed away, returning through the portal, his body vanishing into the shifting orange light, leaving nothing behind. 

Nothing but blood, bones, and a city too blind to realize what had just happened.  

 

5 

The precinct was nearly empty now. 

Arthur stretched, yawning loudly, dropping himself onto the nearest chair like a man who had survived far too many long nights. 

"Gavern, you still digging through that database?" 

Frank didn’t answer immediately—his fingers were moving quickly over the keyboard, cross-checking names, scrolling through records, dismissing irrelevant cases and narrowing the search. 

Arthur watched him work with half-amused skepticism, tapping his fingers against the desk. 

"I already know how this goes—you’re gonna comb through arrest records like a damn bloodhound until you miraculously find something that no other detective would’ve bothered checking." 

Frank exhaled sharply through his nose. 

"I told you before, Arthur. It’s not miraculous." 

Arthur smirked. 

"Nah. But it sure as hell ain’t normal either." 

Frank ignored him. His eyes flicked between mugshots, cross-referencing data, scanning names—until he paused. 

A name stood out. 

Aran Har-Grace. 

Frank clicked the file open. 

A mugshot stared back at him—sharp-eyed, gaunt-cheeked, unkempt hair pulled back just enough to reveal something strange beneath the exhaustion. 

It was him. 

The same Aran who had called them to the crime scene. 

Frank read further. 

Arrested for possession of methamphetamines and other dangerous substances. 

His history unfolded before Frank like a story of squandered potential. 

A surgeon prodigy, headhunted for Fraid City’s elite medical institutions, his career fast-tracked to become one of the top specialists in the city. 

But then—the cracks. 

The pressure. The weight of expectation. 

Drugs. 

Addiction. 

Aran’s life spiraled violently until he was forced out, his future burned to the ground, leaving him homeless and forgotten, living among the ruins of Skyfire’s factory. 

Frank exhaled, rubbing his temple. 

Arthur glanced over, chewing absently on his toothpick. 

"Let me guess—our guy’s got some sob story?" 

Frank tapped the file, turning the screen slightly so Arthur could see. 

Arthur skimmed the report, muttering under his breath. 

"Surgeon? Man, that explains why he could handle a blade." He leaned back, shaking his head. "Shame. Coulda been someone. Now he’s just another addict turned killer." 

Frank stared at the mugshot again. 

No assassin. No professional hitman. 

Just a desperate man who took the Entity’s deal, believing it would save him. 

It hadn’t. 

And now—someone had found what was left of him. 

The phone rang. 

The precinct was silent enough that the sound felt louder than it should have, cutting through the dim atmosphere like a knife. 

Arthur groaned, motioning toward it lazily. 

"Ain't my problem, Gavern. You’re the only sucker still working." 

Frank didn’t even look up as he grabbed the receiver. 

"Fraid City PD." 

A woman’s voice—nervous, breathless, uncertain. 

"I—I don’t know who else to call. There’s... there’s so much blood. In the alley—near the factory district. I don’t know if—if it’s human, but—" 

Frank was already standing. 

"Address." 

She stammered, rattling it off quickly. 

Arthur looked up, raising a brow. 

"You actually leaving for this one?" 

Frank didn’t respond. He grabbed his coat. 

Arthur sighed heavily. 

"Gavern, buddy, whatever mess you’re heading into—it’s gonna be bad." 

Frank paused just long enough to meet Arthur’s gaze. 

"It already is." 

The alley was still alive with movement. 

Paramedics. Officers. The blond woman being interviewed, her hands fidgeting nervously, shifting from wringing her fingers to rubbing her forearms, clearly deeply unsettled by whatever she had found. 

Frank stepped past the officers, his sharp eyes sweeping the scene, ensuring that nothing had been disturbed, that the blood—if it was human—hadn’t been tampered with yet. 

The woman noticed him. 

Her eyes flicked up, catching his approach, and she swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably as he stopped before her. 

"You were the caller?" 

She nodded quickly. 

"Y-yes." 

Frank's gaze didn’t waver. 

"What exactly did you see?" 

The woman exhaled, steadying herself, trying to organize her thoughts. 

"It was just—so much blood. It—it's everywhere. It doesn’t look normal, it looks..." She hesitated, biting her lip. "I don't know how to explain it. It doesn’t look like an injury—it looks like... like something was torn apart." 

Frank’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers curled slightly at his sides. 

"You didn’t see a body?" 

She shook her head too quickly—almost relieved that she hadn’t. 

"No. Just... the mess." 

Frank exhaled slowly. 

He already had a feeling. 

The case was starting to shift, slipping from a standard homicide into something else entirely. 

Arthur would call him paranoid. 

Frank called it instinct. 

His eyes flicked to the scene once more, taking in the blood, the unnatural spray across the walls, the way it pooled strangely, almost deliberately. 

This wasn’t normal. 

This was deliberate. 

The woman shifted again, watching him carefully. 

"So, uh... can I go?" 

Frank glanced back at her. 

For a moment, he considered pressing her for more details—but what more could she give? She wasn’t involved. She had simply been unlucky enough to stumble upon the aftermath. 

And right now, he needed to be alone. 

His fingers twitched. 

The blood was calling him. 

Not literally. 

Not supernaturally. 

But instinctively. 

Because he knew what he’d see if he touched it. 

Finally, he gave her a nod. 

"Yeah. You’re done here." 

She didn’t hesitate, turning quickly, stepping away, eager to put the entire thing behind her. 

Frank took in a breath. 

The scene around him felt different now—almost like the city itself had momentarily fallen silent, waiting for his next move. 

He stepped forward. 

Lowered himself. 

And touched the blood. 

The moment Frank touched the blood, his mind shattered into visions. 

Aran running, fleeing in terror. 

The alley cats scattering, their instincts sensing something unnatural, their fear mirroring his own. 

Then—the portal. 

Then—Squilly’s eerie presence, his voice dripping with twisted satisfaction, mocking Aran’s desperation as he prepared to consume him. 

Frank saw everything—every word exchanged, every gut-wrenching scream, every grotesque crunch as Aran’s body burst apart beneath Squilly’s bite. 

And just like before, the vision faded, leaving Frank standing once more in the cold reality of the alley. 

He exhaled sharply, shaking off the lingering echoes of Aran’s death. 

“The Entity.” 

The word felt heavy in the air. 

Frank’s eyes darkened. 

The creature that had manipulated Aran into murder—the agent of the Oblivarge Dimension—had already started poisoning this world. Frank remained in the Alley after everyone else had left for he knew one thing. 

The Watching Hollow always returns for another meal. 

The portal shimmered behind him. 

Squilly reemerged, stepping out of the swirling abyss, his unnaturally long limbs unfolding as he stood tall, his face still locked in that horrific, hollow smile. 

"This is where I come in." 

Frank did not move. Did not flinch. 

Squilly tilted his head, studying him. 

"Another human. Another treat. Yes, yes." 

His fingers twitched. 

"Delicious, delicious. So much energy. So much life. You will taste—" 

Frank smirked. 

The shift in his expression was subtle—but enough to make Squilly pause. 

"You have no idea who you’re dealing with." 

Squilly blinked—his grin faltering, just slightly. 

"Oh?" 

Frank stepped forward, slow, deliberate. 

"You think humans don’t know the truth?" His voice was calm, measured. "You think we stumble through existence, blind to the war that rages beyond our perception?" 

Squilly said nothing. 

Frank’s smirk deepened. 

"The Oblivarge Dimension. Seraphel. The HP Threnody. Vitrias." 

Squilly twitched—his unnatural form stiffening, his pupils shrinking as the names were spoken aloud. 

Frank continued, his words slow, sharp, unforgiving. 

"Warriors of chaos. Pretenders of divinity. Architects of corruption." 

A golden energy crackled at Frank’s fingertips. 

"You think humans are weak." 

The charge grew stronger, the alley flickering with unnatural light. 

"You think we are blind." 

Lightning surged, dancing along his skin. 

"But you fail to understand the truth." 

Squilly’s grin twitched. 

Frank exhaled. 

"I was forged by the wars you think we cannot see. Your destruction. Your arrogance. Your endless battles for dominion." 

The golden light burst—consuming him, unraveling his disguise, revealing what had been hidden beneath the flesh of the detective. 

And Squilly? 

He stepped back. 

For the first time—he hesitated. 

Sorrow stood before him now. 

His cape unfurled like molten red flame, his skin encased in smooth, shimmering like blue latex, energy flickering in violent bursts across his form. 

The spell books upon his shoulders cracked open, their pages illuminated by raw arcane lightning, casting golden sparks into the dark alley. 

The mask settled over his eyes, glowing with cosmic power, the weight of countless war-bound energies pulsing through his very form. 

"You were doomed the moment you showed your face." 

Squilly snarled, but his voice no longer carried amusement—no longer held mockery. 

There was fear. 

Sorrow raised his hand, the lightning condensing, swirling, merging into a mighty electronic power ball, golden light pulsing with furious intensity. 

Squilly took another uncertain step back. 

Then—Sorrow threw it. 

The moment it hit, Squilly screamed, his body contorting violently, his limbs thrashing, his entire form warping, twisting, cracking apart as the energy ripped into him. 

Frank’s voice was cold. 

"Tell the Entity he’s next." 

And Squilly? 

He didn’t even have time to answer. 

His body collapsed into nothing, his existence torn apart, erased, annihilated from reality itself—vanquished in an instant. 

And then—the alley was silent. 

Sorrow stood amidst the remnants of destruction, his form still crackling with power, his eyes still locked on the fading embers of what had once been a Hollow Watcher. 

This was only the beginning. 

The war was already here. 

And Frank—Sorrow—was ready.

Next Chapter coming soon