Ashveil

He takes cases on a whim, cracks them with hard-core logic, and solves the strangest crimes on sheer instinct.

With a monkey for an assistant and his heart set on retirement, the detective sleeps in a refrigerator, waiting for the bait to catch its willing prey.

Under the light of the Phantasmoon, the vile beast howls. How will he draw the net on this hunt?

<align="center">Canon of Beastie Detective (I)</align>

"Dedicated to my friend, Ashveil. He has no talent for prose, so I am happy to continue serving as his 'Narrator' through this book."

To outsiders, my friend is extremely eccentric. For example:

1. His pocket watch is always delayed, but he refuses to replace it①.

2. He talks in his sleep frequently②.

3. He has a habit of sleeping in the refrigerator③.

4. He enjoys being rude while others are trying to write, and even goes so far as to snatch away their feather quill... like right now.

Due to these oddities and his total lack of deductive skill, my friend tried the following to become a "real" detective:

Monday: Brought home a stack of deduction guides and studied them for five whole minutes.

Tuesday: Bought clothes for disguises, but they were too garish to be of much use.

Wednesday: Dressed as a gentleman to join a high-society banquet, but was kicked out for poor table etiquette.

Thursday: Spent the afternoon disguised as a friendly old lady, but the police were called when he revealed his male voice while digging for info.

Friday: He landed a client. His career finally seemed to be going somewhere.

Saturday: Slept all day on his deduction guides.

Sunday: Day off.

Monday: No clients. Another day off.

This endeavor ended in a total, if temporary, failure.

Now Mr. Ashveil is the "Ashen Detective" of Planarcadia, running the most secluded detective agency in Dovebrook District and leading his loyal employees with bananas.

Reflecting on the time he spent in what I call "Beastie Roleplay," he had this to say:

"Don't believe a word of Mister N's nonsense. It wasn't that bad."

He didn't even blink as he spoke, wearing a perfectly natural smile.

It seems those experiences really did improve his acting.

From this, I draw a simple conclusion:

"Detective's Code, Rule 1: Act like a detective long enough, and you'll practically become one."

(Notes added at my friend's request:

① Ashveil is not an idiot who doesn't know how to set a watch.

② Ashveil's sleep-talking is not funny.

③ Ashveil is a human, not a bear in hibernation.)

<align="center">Canon of Beastie Detective (III)</align>

The great detective doesn't work alone. Take a look at the agency's group photo: The monkeys are all smiles, squeezing the detective (second row, third from the left) into the center of the frame.

He gazes into the lens with an expression of blissful despair. That's the same look he wears when reviewing his bills, emptying his pockets for bananas, or seeing the utilities cut off at the end of the month.

He really worries about his companions. Due to severe regression, they can't think or talk as fluently as I can.

As the boss of the monkeys, he has to warn them over and over:

"Archer, this city isn't a laboratory. Don't let the noise scare you, got it?"

"Nana?"

"Ploos might be yellow, but they're not bananas."

"Nana?"

"You can't eat the mechatron either, Poet. That's the second time I've told you."

"And that goes for you too, Musician. No more stealing snacks."

"Nom nom!"

He sometimes tells me their stories: how Archer lost their hands in the crossfire while covering for their companions; how the mute Poet used to be so witty; how Musician wielded a man-sized hammer to carve a path through the carnage...

According to Mr. Ashveil, the "First Fang" has a duty to help every member in the pack. Those who couldn't make ends meet were all carefully relocated to star systems where they could rest and recover.

With everyone pitching in, the detective agency actually managed to crack all sorts of bizarre cases that Madam Pearl threw their way over the past year, though minor hiccups like entrapment operations and aggressive interrogation tactics are... well, another story.

Of all the cases he'd worked, the one that haunted him most was a revenge killing between gangs in Dovebrook.

To hunt down an enemy from over a decade ago, the man sacrificed his partners, his family, his children... Yet at the end of that failed revenge, all he found was the moon's reflection dyed crimson with blood.

After that case wrapped up, the detective lingered by the river for quite some time.

Did he see his own reflection, too?

No one knows that sometimes this detective can turn dark and unfathomable, like a whirlpool.

Fortunately, he still had his daily banana budget to earn, and there are plenty of other mundane little tasks to distract him from the loneliness.

"Detective's Code, Rule 2: Treasure your companions, even if they're just a bunch of monkeys."

<align="center">Canon of Beastie Detective (VIII)</align>

Mr. Ashveil's strange affliction flares up violently from time to time.

He makes everyone stay clear of the scene before we hear the violent shaking of the refrigerator, followed by sounds of tearing and gnawing, muffled howls, and sinister shadows cast upon the blinds.

Once it passes, he crawls out of the refrigerator, exhausted and drained, sweeping away the blood and sweat frozen into frost, carefully reinforcing the nails on his wrists.

So he often jokes:

"If I were in a detective novel, I'd definitely be suspected of being the culprit."

There are indeed many suspicious signs pointing to this.

First, according to my incomplete statistics, Mr. Ashveil has moved countless times. Second, he always avoids meeting old friends who are looking for him.

However, as his assistant, I feel obliged to clarify the truth to all readers.

Mr. Ashveil is a sentimental soul who treasures mementos from ages past in his old luggage.

A bloodstained bullet, even after ten Amber Eras, still carries blood that blazes with crimson fire.

A rusted arrow, snapped in two yet still quivering, as if yearning to fly toward some distant destination.

And a dim Memory Bubble, said to come from the ancient battlefield where an Overlord fell.

The moment I touched the Memory Bubble, I felt like I'd lived through a similar dream...

The blazing roar of Voidrangers, faint whispers of comrades freezing to the bone, and the cold fear churning in his throat.

"Don't lose focus. Keep your eyes on the target." A familiar figure swallowed blood with their back turned to their comrades.

Countless meteors rushed in from all directions, only to be consumed like moths by the flame of Destruction.

"Will we win?"

"Do all these sacrifices mean anything...?"

A despair more terrifying than the surrounding darkness lingered in everyone's mind.

On that brutal night, the man was pierced through by his own oath.

"If we cannot find the light, then let us devour the darkness with an even deeper darkness."

Shadows spread from his arms, transforming into pitch-black sin, drowning the battlefield, himself, and all his comrades alike. And from that moment on, it became a curse that clung to him like a festering wound.

Truth be told, Mr. Ashveil wasn't a criminal, but a patient. And his ailments went far beyond arthritis and aching joints.

But he'd already written his own prescription:

"Detective's Code, Rule 3: The sacrifices made in the long night are the price paid for tomorrow."

<align="center">Canon of Beastie Detective (Epilogue)</align>

Writing this far, I've finally pieced together some scattered fragments of the past: Before I became a primitive creature in Vonwacq's rainforests, Mr. Ashveil's name had already been appearing frequently in our conversations.

"Survival rules? Do we even have that?" Robin Hood the Archer once asked me this by the campfire.

"Try playing the hero, and you won't be far from becoming a real one. That's rule number one. You guys have pretty much nailed it." I said.

"Don't tell me you're making these up on the spot?" Cole the Poet teased.

Coria the Musician was laughing away, chomping on a steak, while the young couple Lina and Chris were singing songs they'd collected from across the cosmos.

"He also said rule number two... Treasure your companions, even if they're a bunch of jerks." I said.

"What about the boss of jerks? Wouldn't that make him the biggest jerk of all?"

"Looking for another round of hellish training?"

"Have mercy..." Robin Hood threw his hands up. "We've got a tough fight tomorrow."

A moment of silence.

Cole looked up at the pitch-black night sky. "Want me to write everyone's biography after all this is over?"

"Make sure you include this," I patted his shoulder. "Survival rule number three: The sacrifices made in the long night are the price paid for tomorrow."

"I'll remember that. How about using it as the ending?"

"Let's wait till he comes up with rule number four. If he's still alive."

Those weren't just detective tricks for cracking cases, but principles he taught us to live by.

See? Even after all these years as a detective, traces of his past still linger.

Therefore, I have revised the notes for section one as follows:

① He sincerely hopes the pocket watch will tick slower, as his vow of revenge remains unfulfilled.

② He often relives the past in his dreams to remember his companions who sacrificed themselves.

③ Sleeping in the refrigerator eases the phantom pain each night, as he waits for the chance to slay the monstrous beast.

Perhaps all along, he's been doing the same thing, pursuing the darkness in the name of justice, until punishment rains down upon the guilty.

Now, he lives because his enemies have yet to die.

Ashveil is the beast that refuses to kneel before fate and races down the narrow path toward death...

"Survival Rule No. 4: Chase the future along the trail of time, until you've done enough to make up for the past."