Chapter 312

"Alright, the greatest detective in history, Constantine, has uncovered the result you wanted." Constantine stood in the center of the parlor at Shiler's estate, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

Shiler leaned back on the sofa, reading a newspaper; he lowered it slightly, revealing his eyes, and looked at Constantine. "What did you find?"

"The killer of those two murders—you didn't ask me to investigate that?"

"Then what did you find?"

"The man who beheaded Hawk is Yin Wensi Falcone; the one who sawed open Richie has no known name, but he wore black-and-yellow armor…"

Shiler closed the newspaper, folded it, and set it aside. He pointed to the sofa opposite him. Constantine walked over and sat down. Shiler said, "I assume you went to Hell, found the souls of these two unfortunate victims, and asked them directly?"

"That's what a Hell detective does." Constantine spread his hands. "I told you—the key is Hell."

"I can go straight to Hell and question the dead. There's no case I can't solve."

"... id you even go to school?" Shiler suddenly asked.

"Of course I did. I even attended university in London for a while."

"Then when you took exams, would they give you points if you only wrote the final answer?"

"Uh…" Constantine rubbed his stubble. "Alright, I can reverse-engineer the process from the result."

"I've never met this Yin Wensi, but Falcone is the Godfather's surname—so Yin Wensi must be his son."

"The Godfather's son kills the Godfather's subordinate…" Constantine exhaled smoke, squinting, his tone tinged with melancholy. "Perhaps because the old king has grown weary, and the young lion bares his fangs…"

"To seize the throne, a prince must first sever the old regime's wings. From what I know, the Twelve Families are the core of the Godfather's control over Gotham. If the heir wants to ascend, he must first dismantle these pillars."

"When he visited Hawk, Hawk wouldn't suspect a thing—he was, after all, the Godfather's son. So Yin Wensi lured Hawk into the parlor and beheaded him."

"And Richie's death makes sense too. The man in black-and-yellow armor Richie saw was likely a killer or mercenary—only such people dress like that."

"Yin Wensi hired that killer to murder Richie, further weakening the Godfather's power."

"After I set the stage with Lawrence, the Godfather's heir cleverly seized the opportunity. By using the same method after me, he could pin everything on the serial killer…"

"So it's all a plot by young Falcone—he wants to usurp the Godfather's position, using the serial killings as an excuse to eliminate rivals…"

"... ow's that reasoning?" Constantine looked at Shiler.

"Almost entirely wrong."

Constantine raised an eyebrow. "Not entirely wrong, surely? Even if the process has flaws, the conclusion must be right at least?"

Shiler shook his head. "I must admit—even if your method borders on cheating, it works remarkably well in most cases. Having the dead victim identify the killer is undeniably accurate."

"But this is Gotham, Constantine…" Shiler looked at him. "You've been here for days—haven't you noticed how utterly absurd everything here is?"

"Such a scenario might occur in other cities, other factions—but in Gotham, it's a chaotic sludge pit. Anything irrational can happen."

"So where exactly is it wrong?"

Constantine frowned, rested his elbows on his knees, leaned forward. "The name Yin Wensi Falcone is definitely correct. Hawk told me himself—he's the killer. I'm certain he wasn't lying."

"No, even that name is wrong. The man who killed Hawk isn't Yin Wensi Falcone—he's Alberto Falcone. Alberto is Yin Wensi's older brother."

"Twins?" Constantine's fingertips trembled slightly.

"But I heard the Falcone family only had one son."

"In physical terms, yes—he only had one son. Have you heard of dissociative identity disorder?"

"Oh… that's cheating." Constantine waved his hand. "Who besides a psychiatrist could know he has a second personality? Even the victims didn't know. That's beyond deduction."

"It's difficult, but not impossible. If you'd investigated more carefully, you'd know most people describe Yin Wensi as 'indecisive.' He wouldn't have the resolve to murder his father's subordinates just to seize power."

"At least you can see the Godfather and his son had a decent relationship—their conflict hadn't escalated to the point of open succession war yet…"

"Alright, fine—I didn't investigate thoroughly enough. So swap Yin Wensi for Alberto. The motive and method still hold, right?" Constantine's voice was hoarse.

"Though Alberto and the Godfather did have a poor relationship, and perhaps he did want to replace him, he had no reason to hire a killer for Richie. As you said—he could've killed Richie the same way he killed Hawk. No need to involve someone else."

"Alright, I guess I really wasn't cut out to be a detective..." Constantine spread his hands. "The Hell detective's first case ends here..."

He took a deep drag, thick smoke billowing from his mouth and nose like a mask, obscuring his clenched teeth and twitching lips.

"Constantine, you walk between Heaven and Hell, dealing with cunning demons—even the most terrifying lords of Hell can't touch you."

"Even if the 'Hell detective' isn't about being a detective, you shouldn't have ignored so many details and arrived at such a sloppy conclusion—unless…"

Shiler stood, walked to the bookshelf behind the desk. Constantine smoked one cigarette after another, his hand trembling violently.

Finally, he couldn't hold on anymore. He slumped back against the sofa, as if all strength had drained away.

His face was pale; blood trickled from his lips. Agony made his whole body convulse.

Through blurred vision, he saw Shiler standing across from him, one hand holding a bottle, the other a glass, pouring wine from the bottle into the glass.

When the wine splashed into Constantine's mouth, he jolted upright, dazed, glancing around. Finally, he looked up—and saw Shiler's head had become a slowly rotating globe.

Constantine exhaled. Even in his dream, his fingers trembled. He lit another cigarette and shoved it into his mouth—just a little better.

"Even in the final second before death, a man can dream—or rather, that's the perfect time to dream. The life-review is the finest dream."

"... s that so?" Constantine slowly turned his head toward the window. "... 've never had a good dream."

"But I know…" A long sigh accompanied his words: "... t's not the Dream God's fault."

Amid swirling smoke, Constantine began his tale.

"Before I was born, I had a brother. We were twins, sharing the same space in our mother's womb and the same nourishment."

"One day, inside our mother's womb, I strangled him with the umbilical cord. Before I was born, I killed my own older brother—and took all the space and nourishment for myself."

"That caused my mother to hemorrhage during childbirth and die in labor. At the moment of my birth, I killed my mother."

"My mother died because of me, so my father hated me. After he was imprisoned for his crimes, I was sent to live with distant relatives."

"It was during this time that I first encountered magic. After my father was released, to punish his indifference, I used the magic I'd just learned to curse him. He didn't die—but became weak and wracked with pain."

"Then I began touring the world as a band member, causing more chaos, killing more people. Until one incident landed me in a psychiatric hospital—there, I awoke to the truth of my fate, and saw it all…"

"More importantly, I saw a shadow that had always followed me—my older brother, the one I killed before birth. He didn't die. He became a curse, forever clinging to me…"

"We were twins. I possessed unparalleled magical talent—he did too. His curse, his form, circles me endlessly. Every night, he hides beneath my bed, stealing my dreams. And I know—he wants more than that."

"He exists only to torment me, to break me, and finally kill me."

"This curse slowly corrodes my body—from dreams to soul, then flesh—inflicting unbearable pain, day after day, year after year. I've tried every exorcism ritual. None worked."

"Why?"

"When I killed him, he hadn't been born. His soul became a curse and was born alongside me. We are one being—so no exorcism ritual can work…"

"But I must solve this—he's about to kill me…" Constantine coughed twice, relaxed against the sofa back, almost enjoying it. "The moment I entered your dream space, I was stunned. I haven't felt this at ease in years."

Constantine's smoking slowed. The smoke grew thinner. Shiler asked: "So because of your brother, you came looking for the Dream God?"

"Yes. I realized he seemed to interfere with my dreams, flooding them with nightmares. I thought—perhaps it's connected to the Dream God. Maybe Morpheus has a solution."

"But before I came, I didn't expect much. Last time I met the Dream God, he told me he couldn't give me good dreams. I don't know why—but perhaps he was refusing."

"So I prepared a backup plan."

"What was it?"

"Laurenna Sanchez—a ghost mother who preys on children." Constantine squinted. "The curse Chanraozhewo is shaped like a fetus. Anything related to fetuses, infants, or children falls under the ghost mother's domain."

"Laurenna has been in Gotham for a long time—not because she likes it, but because her grandmother once made a pact with a mysterious faction here…"

"And that mysterious faction is called… the Owl Priests."