CHAPTER 18 - Death Of Joy

The crowd still lingered in breathless silence, as if the mansion itself had forgotten how to breathe.

Isarish's eyes didn't flinch. His body straightened with the elegance of a man who wasn't rattled by death—but welcomed it as a clue.

Then he looked down.

Albert Hall's corpse lay awkwardly, but the expression was what caught the attention of a few nearby—his eyes were wide open in a surprised, horrified gaze, and a thin trail of white foam had bubbled at the corners of his mouth.

Isarish crouched beside the body with quiet intent.

He leaned in, brushing his gloved fingertips over the General's stiff hand, noting its slight curl. Then he brought the hand gently to his face and smelled the fingers—a subtle inhale, refined and precise.

His eyes flicked to the man's branded military suit, the way it creased from the collapse.

A slight smirk touched his lips.

"Cyanide," he whispered to himself. "Nice... but low amount."

A sudden outburst shattered the silence behind him.

"You piece of shit!" a nobleman barked with sharp British entitlement. "Who are you and what the hell are you doing? You don't deserve to touch our General! Call the doctor—immediately!"

Heads turned.

The man's voice was thick with the classic London accent, dripping with superiority, as if offended not by the death—but by who was handling it.

Isarish didn't react. He simply looked at him with the calmness of a man who had seen a hundred such egos rise and fall.

Before he could speak, another voice cut through.

"He is personally invited by the Governor," said Thomas Fitzgerald, stepping forward from the cluster of officers. His voice was smooth, authoritative. "Mr. Carlson himself brought him in. This is Isarish—the man who helped our law enforcement solve the Ishvarashapa case. And sir, I suggest you maintain yourself in this crucial moment."

The outburst died in the nobleman's throat. He turned pale as his own authority withered under the weight of Fitzgerald's word.

Isarish uncrouched slowly, brushing the dust off his coat with almost theatrical care.

"I'm very sorry to tell you, sir," he said with soft finality, "that there's no need to call the doctor. He's already dead."

Then—he turned sharply to the man who had been standing closest to Albert Hall when the collapse occurred.

"You," Isarish said, his tone low but commanding. "Did he drink the wine?"

The man, pale and shaken, looked back with wide eyes. "N-No... He didn't even touch it. The glass was still full."

Isarish's jaw tightened. His eyes flicked to the untouched glass on the table.

Then—

A sharp wail ripped through the silence.

"MY SON!!! MY SON!!!"

A shrill voice. An aged cry—one that could shatter windows or draw pity from stone.

Albert Hall's mother had just arrived at the scene, her steps frantic and uneven. Her silver-blonde hair was half-unpinned, her royal gown soaked in wine from the broken glass she had dropped earlier.

"My son... Albert! My baby!"

She pushed through the crowd like a storm of lace and grief, falling to her knees beside the body. Her hands trembled violently as she reached for his arm.

But the image of Albert Hall was already haunting.

He lay awkwardly sprawled on the marble floor—one leg curled unnaturally beneath him, as if he'd tried to rise in his final moments. His eyes were open, glassy, fixed on the chandelier above with a vacant stare that felt less like peace and more like a question. One hand was outstretched—palm up—fingers half-curled, as though reaching for something that wasn't there. The other rested limply against his side, wine-stained and motionless.

Then—

A stillness.

Isarish stepped forward, blocking her path with quiet force.

Their eyes met.

His were sharp. Her cries halted as if the air itself had thickened between them. There was something about him—his stare, his stillness, the unspoken accusation in his silence—that made her throat close mid-sob.

"Did he eat anything before the party?" Isarish asked.

His voice didn't carry emotion. It carried calculation.

The old woman blinked, the tears still glistening but her expression now frozen—like a mask cracked at the edges.

"No…" she said softly, her head giving a hesitant shake. "He didn't. He said he'd wait for the main course."

The way she said it—measured, too quickly, too rehearsed—didn't sit right.

Not with Isarish.

He didn't respond. Not yet.

He just stared.

Stared until the weight of it forced her to avert her eyes. Her sobs resumed, but softer now—as if uncertain whether they were supposed to continue.

The room shifted. Eyes flicked between the dead man, the grieving mother, and the navy-suited detective who had just taken control without saying he would.

And deep in the silence, something slithered beneath the surface of it all.

This wasn't grief.

This was a performance.

And Isarish had just stepped behind the curtain.

The room breathed again, but only because he let it.

The entire hall, from chandelier to marble, now revolved around Isarish.

Some were afraid—palms sweating beneath gloves and uniforms. Some were silenced—their polished shoes glued to the floor by dread. Some were haunted—seeing ghosts where there was only a corpse. And some were curious—leaning in, not to mourn, but to witness.

But in the middle of it all stood the man none of them could understand.

Isarish.

Still. Cold. But beneath that sculpted calm... he was alive. Not from adrenaline. Not from justice. But from that peculiar thrill only a mind like his could feel—the thrill of a mystery returning his gaze.

"Finally," he thought. "A new toy."

After the suffocating silence that followed the Ishvarashapa case—after that divine riddle slipped from his grasp—he had been starving. Not for violence. Not for closure. But for meaning.

And Albert Hall's death… it wasn't random. It was crafted.