"Do you not wish to wake from your slumber, Detective?"
A voice pounded against Renoir's ears. He couldn't identify its source—couldn't even respond. His body felt frozen, as though bound by unseen restraints, his eyes sewn shut by a thin thread that denied him sight.
"You will not leave this place until you know your sin."
The instant those words reached him, Renoir's eyes flew open. He gasped sharply, breath uneven, swallowing hard as he looked around, trying to grasp where he was.
Fog surrounded everything.
A massive table stood at the center. There were no walls. No ceiling. Only a vast sky above, stars drifting and shifting unnaturally.
"What is this place?!"
"Can it even be described as hell… or something worse than that?"
Anxiety crept into his expression. He gripped the edge of the table tightly—then heard a feminine voice to his left.
"Renoir, it seems you've seen everything… except the one seated on the main chair."
Slowly, cautiously, Renoir turned his head.
A black shadow writhed like burning flames, crimson eyes staring straight into him.
"There's no need to tell me who you are," he said coldly.
"But I think I already know."
She closed her eyes, smiling faintly from within the shadows.
"Sharp as ever, Detective.
But you are no longer a Detective."
He stared at her, confusion and suspicion filling his gaze.
"What do you mean by that?!"
"I mean you've been given a new profession," she replied calmly.
"A Sinner who kills monsters… and Sinners as well."
"Sinner?!"
His voice came out low, as though his tongue resisted the word.
"There are too many questions. First—who are you? And why did you kill me?!"
"To spare you the trouble," she answered with icy indifference,
"I won't answer any questions. If you want answers, carry out the tasks I assign you. Only then will you obtain everything you desire."
Her words pressed down on him with absolute authority.
A quiet laugh escaped Renoir as he covered his mouth, warped and bitter.
"Foolishness," he scoffed.
"Do you really think I'll obey you? Over my filthy corpse."
In an instant, she appeared behind him.
Her hand seized his cheek.
A crushing aura engulfed him—an energy that could annihilate him at will.
"Renoir," she whispered,
"you are in no position to choose. You are bound by chains… chains you cannot see."
She released him and reappeared in front of him, sitting atop the table, her tone sharp and unforgiving.
"You are nothing but a slave to fate.
And you will uncover the truth only through the missions I give you."
She moved forward, passing straight through the table, heading toward a tall-backed chair.
Renoir stared at her, stunned.
"And if I complete your missions," he asked quietly,
"will I get answers? Will I be able to return to my world?"
"The answers you seek exist within the world itself," she replied.
"Specifically—within the missions. You are a Detective. You know how to gather clues and solve riddles."
Renoir lowered his gaze toward the table.
Reflected upon its surface was the face of a young man—handsome, with chaotic white hair. A mocking smile formed on his lips.
'What's happening to me feels like one of those cheap webnovel stories…'
'Except twisted into something horrifying.'
'Even my appearance—seventeen at most.'
'The real question is… why me?'
'What did I do for her to call me a slave… a Sinner?'
He lifted his drowsy gaze toward her. She smiled and waved casually.
'I don't know who you are,'
'but I'll do anything to cut off your head.'
"Then," he said aloud,
"could you at least tell me your name?"
She smiled, her calm unsettling.
"Call me Eleanora.
And your next question would be about your mission."
"It seems you've accepted your fate," she continued.
"The world we are in is dying. And Sinners must prevent that by killing the Paintress."
"Paintress?" Renoir narrowed his eyes.
"And who are they?!"
Eleanora folded one hand over the other.
"Simply put… they are individuals who turn ordinary cities into nightmarish ones."
"And your task as a Sinner," she went on,
"is to stop that cursed art from spreading across the continents."
Renoir snapped his fingers lightly.
"And how is someone ordinary like me supposed to stop them? They sound like disasters—wherever they go, chaos follows."
She laughed softly, pulling her hair back.
"In your previous life, you were skilled with both sword and gun. You brought down countless criminals—most notably, the Renegade. That is what this requires… along with other abilities you will discover along your journey."
"You know quite a lot about me," Renoir said with a cold smile.
"You sound like a secret admirer."
"Not necessarily," she replied as she walked past him.
"Then when do we begin the killing, Lady Eleanora?"
She turned to him, hands clasped behind her back.
"Now. But there will be a guest accompanying you."
Renoir's expression shifted into irritation. He hated working with others.
"A companion? Just another useless doll."
Eleanora placed her index finger against her lips.
"You need every hand you can get to survive in this world.
Try to restrain your arrogance."
She snapped her fingers.
A door appeared on the far side of the table, opening slowly with an agonizing creak.
A foot stepped through.
Then a young woman emerged—messy brown hair held back by a headband, gray eyes watching calmly.
She smiled at Renoir, sat down, and spoke in a gentle voice:
"It seems this nightmare of a journey won't be boring."
Renoir stared at her as if he'd known her for a long time.
She was disturbingly beautiful.
He leaned back slightly, studying her.
"Strange," he said.
"Why would a beautiful girl like you dive into this hell?"
She raised her hand, pointing to a mark etched on the back of her palm—a vertical line crossed by a fractured horizontal slash.
"This world forced me," she said quietly.
"And I'm sure you understand why."
Renoir looked at his own hand.
Nothing.
She looked surprised.
"It seems you haven't acknowledged your sin yet.
The mark only appears through confession."
'Another piece of information she didn't explain…' Renoir thought.
'But what sin did I commit to end up here?'
'How does someone who enforces justice become a Sinner?'
'I have to uncover the truth.'
He offered a faint smile, flexing his hand.
"Confession?"
"There's no need for that."
She pointed at him teasingly.
"What a handsome Sinner."
Eleanora struck the table sharply, then interlocked her fingers, producing a crimson paintbrush shaped like a sword.
"Your liberation of this world," she declared,
"will also be the liberation of yourselves."
She swung the brush.
A violent wave surged toward them—
—and both vanished from the hall.
Eleanora remained seated alone, resting her chin on her fist, murmuring softly:
"Do you truly not wish to confess your sin… Fated?"
———
Renoir opened his eyes.
A girl was standing before him—staring straight at him, specifically into his gray eyes.
He smiled as he rose to his feet. She was slightly taller than him.
"It seems I'm lucky," Renoir said with a mocking tone.
"To have someone who can fight at my side."
The girl flicked her wrist.
Crimson cards appeared, etched with intricate symbols, gripped firmly in both her hands. She stepped closer, pressing the sharp edge of one card against his neck.
"Do you know what's better than killing monsters?"
"Killing Sinners as well."
"And am I on your kill list?" Renoir asked calmly.
She pulled the card away from his neck and turned her back to him.
"…"
Renoir muttered to himself as he reached for his coat:
'The way she drew those cards… that's a weapon-summoning technique.'
But instead of mimicking her movement, Renoir felt something stir inside his chest.
He placed his palm over it.
His hand sank inward, as if his body were a liquid pool. From within, he pulled out a sword—its blade razor-sharp, its hilt adorned with a black skull mask, laughing.
Renoir stared at the weapon, his gaze fixed on the skull. His expression was unreadable.
"A skull is the symbol of death…
So I suppose I can call myself the sword of death."
He lifted his head and looked around.
The place was a ruined tavern, blood soaking parts of the floor and walls.
What caught his attention, however, was the exit door.
A crimson aura surrounded it—faces floating within the glow, writhing and whispering, preventing anyone from leaving.
Renoir stood beside the gray-eyed girl and said:
"There are two things I want to know.
Your name… and what this cursed door is."
She brushed off her shirt as she looked at him.
"Liora.
And I assume you're Renoir. I heard your name from a lady called Elianora."
She walked toward the door and reached out to touch the aura.
A crimson hand burst forth, trying to grab her—but she flipped backward effortlessly and landed beside Renoir.
Renoir was stunned.
This was the second thing he had witnessed that defied logic—after the paper that revealed messages only to him.
"There must be something," he said firmly.
"If we uncover it… the curse on that door will be lifted, and we can leave."
Liora rested a hand on her waist, asking curiously:
"And what do you expect it to be?"
Renoir scanned the area.
His eyes narrowed as he focused, half-closed—until he noticed something beside the bar counter.
A massive music machine.
Black energy was leaking from behind it.
Renoir smiled.
He walked toward it, grabbed it, and hurled it violently to the ground, shattering it completely. He stared at his hand in disbelief.
"What strength…"
"It seems you found something, Detective Renoir," Liora said.
Renoir lowered his gaze from his hand and looked at a giant black sword mounted on the wall.
Liora stepped closer.
"Is that the solution?"
Renoir swung his sword.
The black blade split in half.
The entire place shook violently—then fell silent seconds later.
That was when the walls began to warp.
Crimson vortices opened, spewing forth monsters, one after another.
Liora looked into Renoir's gray eyes, her expression cold.
"It seems your eyes were the ones that found the answer."