The fog had yet to lift when the carriage halted before the palace gates.
The morning was bleak, silent, and cold—like a corpse buried without prayer.
Charles stepped out of the carriage in silence, his white coat fluttering in the wind.
Behind him, Vespera followed with calm elegance, donning a black velvet hat and silk gloves.
The palace guards stepped aside wordlessly.
They knew exactly who he was.
And waiting beyond the towering bronze doors—
was the Queen.
---
The throne room was stripped of unnecessary ornaments.
Only a single golden chair stood at the far end of the hall, occupied by a figure colder than any stone statue.
The Queen stared at Charles for a long moment before speaking.
"Five victims in a single month.
All left in public, brutally mutilated.
The people are calling it... the return of Jack the Ripper."
Charles gave a slight bow. "I've heard the rumors."
"This is no longer rumor," the Queen said, handing him a red dossier. "These are royal orders."
Charles opened it slowly.
Names of victims.
Photos of mangled corpses.
Reports from investigators.
And on the final page—her handwriting:
"Capture this man. Jack the Ripper must be stopped before this city becomes a slaughterhouse."
Charles let out a quiet sigh.
"If I may speak frankly, Your Majesty... I don't believe this man can be captured."
The Queen raised an eyebrow.
"He's no ordinary criminal.
He has no discernible pattern, no motive… other than blood."
"Then?"
Charles closed the dossier. His eyes were calm—but his smile was faint... and dangerous.
"Give me time. I'll make him come to me."
---
Inside the carriage, Vespera sat across from him.
"So you truly plan to catch Jack?"
Charles gazed out the window.
"Jack's done enough for me. But this is where it ends.
I'll give him the finest farewell before sending him back to Hell."
He turned to Vespera, and for a moment... their eyes met.
Darkness met darkness.
"But what they don't know is... Jack already works for me."
Vespera rested her head and briefly closed her eyes.
"Find a pawn, and discard it as you please…"
---
Elsewhere, in his grimy underground lair, Jack unfolded the fourth letter.
"Next target: A corrupt judge who hides rapists behind titles and coin."
Jack chuckled softly.
"Ah… now we're talking."
He kissed the letter, then picked up his favorite blade.
"The circus master... I'm really starting to love this toy."
And on the wall behind him, a new painting began to form from blood—
This time, it wasn't of a victim.
It was a man in a white coat… standing beneath the shadow of a crown.
---
That night...
Judge Corven sat alone in his study.
The candles were nearly out.
His desk overflowed with documents and tiny gold coins.
As he turned to the next page—suddenly, his neck went cold.
A knife sliced the air beside his cheek.
Jack stood behind him, silent as a ghost.
"If you enjoy hiding beasts... why not become one with them?"
A muffled scream.
Jack slammed Corven's head onto the desk, binding him to the chair with the judge's own ceremonial robe belt.
Corven struggled. "P-Please! I have money! I can pay—!"
Jack drew his curved blade.
"Justice may be bought... but not the end it brings."
With one motion, he slashed through Corven's groin.
The scream pierced the stone walls.
Blood gushed.
Jack leaned close to the trembling man's ear.
"A man who hides rapists… doesn't deserve a cock."
Then—Jack carved out the judge's testicles and penis, tossing them onto the desk like meat in a butcher's stall.
Corven convulsed. But he wasn't dead.
"Don't die yet," Jack whispered sweetly. "We're not done."
With slow, meticulous hands, he opened Corven's abdomen.
A sharp, rotten stench burst from within.
Jack inhaled the scent like a man admiring fresh-cut roses.
"Ahh… your heart's still beating. Good."
He pulled out two meters of intestine, then patiently began stuffing it back into Corven's mouth.
"I wonder... can you swallow every one of your sins?"
Corven gagged. Vomited.
Tears and blood mixed into one.
Jack let out a low laugh.
"London Bridge is falling down… falling down…"
He sang the nursery rhyme, dancing around the dying judge.
"Falling down, my fair lady…"
And at last... the final breath slipped out, like a candle's flicker.
---
By morning, Corven's body was discovered in a grotesque state inside his office.
No trace of the killer.
Only a single message scrawled in blood across the wall:
"A NEW JUSTICE"
And Charles?
He sat quietly in a small clinic on the city's edge, a cup of tea in hand.
"Next... Baron Wightworth."
---
Midnight.
Baron Wightworth was soaking in his marble bathtub, accompanied by a bottle of vintage wine and the strains of a string quartet from a dusty gramophone.
His smile was smug.
His mind filled with images of the girls he kept locked in the cellar.
Suddenly... the gaslight flickered out.
The water turned cold.
Wightworth turned his head.
"Who's there?"
No answer. Only the sound… of boots against marble. Slow. Menacing.
Jack emerged from the shadows, half his face masked in white.
"Baron Wightworth," he said, as if reading from scripture. "God is calling for you."
Wightworth tried to rise—
but the blade had already pierced his shoulder.
Jack shoved him back into the tub.
"You like keeping women in cages, huh?"
Jack poured scalding water over his face from a kettle.
Wightworth screamed like a slaughtered hog.
"Ever wonder what it feels like to be trapped with no escape?"
Jack dragged his burned body to the wall.
With iron chains, he hung the baron like meat in a butcher's stall.
Then, with a handsaw... he began at the ankles.
"Nice and slow... so you have time to regret."
One bone. One tendon.
Slice by slice.
Blood formed ritual-like circles beneath him.
After both legs were gone…
Jack peeled the baron's face off—while he was still breathing.
"So the world can see the true face of a nobleman."
As Wightworth writhed in final agony, Jack whispered a tune.
"Build it up with wood and clay... my fair lady…"
And when it was done, Jack sat beside the mangled corpse.
He dipped a finger in blood and wrote a single sentence on the floor:
"EVERY PALACE IS BUILT ON BLOOD."
The next morning, at Wightworth's estate,
a sheet of human facial skin was nailed to the front door.
---