Chapter Ten: The Death of the Murderous Fiend

Ryunosuke Uryu considered himself an artist.

He possessed an unquenchable passion, a cheerful and optimistic attitude, and an insatiable curiosity and thirst for knowledge. Only one thing troubled him: society’s prejudice. For the art he pursued was death, and in this realm, he displayed a fanaticism that went far beyond the ordinary. Despite the enduring popularity of blood-soaked, violent films among the masses, he wondered—didn’t people find such diversions too monotonous? To gaze upon fictional death from the safety of distance, then use reason to conquer this diminished terror—was that truly satisfying?

From a young age, Ryunosuke possessed a preternatural sensitivity to the distinction between real and contrived death. No matter how celebrated, death rendered in fiction brought him no pleasure at all. Death was a thing one could never truly experience while alive; even if he prolonged the process as much as possible, compared to the span of a human life and the teeming billions on earth, it all seemed painfully insignificant.

To experience the essence of death firsthand, to feel the agonized cries of the victim in their final moments of pain and despair, Ryunosuke Uryu became a murderer. Nothing revealed a person’s truth more than bringing them to the brink himself. Unlike the nameless millions reduced to mere statistics, the deaths he caused carried value—they were creation, transcendence, the art of death itself.

Yet even now, he found himself mired in the artist’s perennial affliction: the waning of passion. Though he had retrieved from his ancestral home a book purporting to contain records of demon-summoning rituals, his initial experiments—whether due to an incomplete circle or a mispronounced incantation—yielded no results. Still, out of curiosity for legend and a certain trust in his forebears, Ryunosuke resolved to stay in Fuyuki City until the time for summoning, as recorded in the book, had passed.

As if favored by fate, while scouting locations and taking his morning stroll, he encountered that man.

There was an air about him—something missing, as if he stood apart from society, indifferent to all things. He maintained a mechanical discipline, yet seemed to pursue nothing. It was just too cool.

Ryunosuke was filled with curiosity: was this man’s inner self as striking as his outward demeanor? He wondered—when faced with death, what kind of experience would such a person provide? Would he, like those who feigned stoicism only to break down and beg for mercy after a few moments of pain, ultimately collapse into pleas and tears? Or would he, even in the face of death, maintain that calm gaze, watching the approach of suffering and despair with tranquil eyes?

At this thought, Ryunosuke’s creative urge surged.

Thus, unable to restrain himself, he extended an invitation.

“Senior Roland, care to grab a drink after work?”

There was no response. Roland lounged casually in his chair, clipping his fingernails with measured precision, his expression so focused it seemed as though he weren’t tending to his nails, but rather dismantling a bomb that might detonate at any moment.

Only after snipping the last nail to satisfaction did he sigh contentedly and reply, “No, I always go straight home after work. Rain or shine.”

And as if on cue, at the very moment he finished, the manager’s voice came from outside, announcing they were free to leave.

Only then did Roland’s face show a faint smile. Rising to his feet, he departed swiftly.

“Just one drink… Senior Roland!” Like a hopeless pursuer, Ryunosuke chased after him, but Roland didn’t even look back.

“So cold…” Ryunosuke muttered, crestfallen as he watched Roland’s retreating figure. The manager approached and, with the air of someone who’d seen it all, remarked, “You’ll get used to it. Roland’s always been like that—never causing trouble for anyone. Since that’s the case, we shouldn’t expect too much from him.”

“Is that his philosophy of life? Cool!” Ryunosuke was now certain—coming to work here had been the right decision. This man possessed a value far greater than ordinary people.

He had to have Roland.

Ryunosuke set his resolve.

“So, Ryunosuke, are you free tonight? Want to grab a drink with me?”

“Well, I could…” Ryunosuke scratched his head, a little embarrassed. “But actually, I only have free time right now. I left a pile of chores undone last night, so I have to clean up tonight.”

“I see. That’s too bad—maybe next time then.”

After the familiar exchange of pleasantries, Ryunosuke left the convenience store as well.

But from the shadow of the wall, a pair of cold, watchful eyes followed Ryunosuke, who strolled along humming, looking the very picture of harmless good cheer.

Targeted by a deranged killer? Luckily, so am I. Otherwise, I’d really be in trouble with this guy.

Unlike Kirei Kotomine, Ryunosuke Uryu was a dangerous time bomb, a threat best eliminated before he could bring harm. For the sake of peace, he had to be erased.

Drawing on the experience of Yoshikage Kira, Roland kept a discreet distance—close enough to follow, but far enough to remain unseen.

Before long, Ryunosuke reached a secluded house in a quiet neighborhood. He fumbled with a ring of keys, finally opened the door after several tries, and stepped inside.

“I’m home!” he called out, with the exuberance of a traveler returning after a long journey.

But the room was shrouded in darkness; the lights were off, and no answer came. Groping for the switch, he illuminated the living room—where a grotesque tableau of two corpses, twisted together, stood at the center.

“They were still alive this morning…” Ryunosuke sighed with genuine regret and began the arduous task of cleaning up, erasing any trace of the artist himself and leaving only the purest form of his creation. This, he believed, was the philosophy that had kept him outside the law’s grasp for so long.

“Better start with the cleaning tools,” he muttered, carefully setting about his work. Then, by chance, he glanced up—and noticed a narrow gap at the entryway. A slender, elegant hand pressed against the other side of the door, preventing it from closing.

A chill swept through Ryunosuke. He realized with horror that he’d been followed, and he’d never even noticed.

With only the light of the living room, the entryway remained swathed in gloom, like the maw of some beast lying in ambush.

But Ryunosuke didn’t hesitate. He seized the bloodied knife he’d intended to clean and charged toward the entryway.

Whoever it was, he had to deal with them. For Ryunosuke, the prospect of rotting in jail, unable to wield the tools of his craft, was far more terrifying than death.

Like his beloved cheetahs, his seemingly slight frame exploded with astonishing speed. He reached the entryway in a flash—and just as fate had choked the life from artists he admired, he found his own throat caught in an unyielding grip.

Something invisible, yet undeniably real, squeezed his neck and slowly lifted him off the ground. Ryunosuke struggled helplessly, his face turning ashen, the force so great that distinct finger marks appeared on his throat.

What… is this?

No matter how wildly he slashed with his knife, he could not wound this unseen monster. With a single hand, it lifted a grown man as if he weighed nothing.

Who could wield such a force?

As his consciousness ebbed, Ryunosuke’s eyes bulged in desperation, straining to see the figure behind the slowly opening door.

Fortunately, the intruder made no effort to hide. In the same cold, distant tone as their first meeting, he spoke:

“Hello, Ryunosuke. My apologies for intruding again so soon after you helped me the other day.”

Gazing at the man suspended in midair like one about to be hanged, Roland continued calmly, “But this time is different. What I want to do to you is the same as what you wanted to do to me. So, surely, you have no complaints.”

He ended the conversation with a smile, not waiting for any reply. Killer Queen raised its free hand, and a swift, precise chop pierced Ryunosuke Uryu’s heart.