We were dropped outside the fence which marked the border between the main town and the farmland, and the ride moved ahead. Bigger motors were not allowed inside; there were horses, horse-carts, small motors, even the recently made two wheeled motors-they call it fast running, engine bicycle-but not the big motors.

We walked inside. I walked ahead, holding the letter in my hand, my eyes looking for the number on the letter boxes, trying to match it with one on the letter while William walked some steps behind me.

After a knock and some time of waiting, a fairly old, healthy person opened the door, looking at us with curious eyes.

"Mr Gilmour," I had a questioning tone. He wore his glasses and glanced at me, then glanced behind me recognising the person. "Yes," he nodded. "George Watson," then looked at William, "And Mr William Von."

"Just William."

"Yes, Mr William. A pleasure." he said, William sighed and I controlled my chuckling.

I touched my hat and we were welcomed. William wasted no time on unnecessary formalities, we rested ourselves in what looked like a living room with almost empty bookshelves and he started, "You sent us a request."

The man nodded, sitting in front, "Yes. I shall admit, I do not know the complete scenario. I visited his place in the morning, three days back, to see the farm around his house burned, and his house still burning in some parts."

"About your brother."

"He was on the doorsteps, with a long knife pierced across the stomach of his then-lifeless body. There was blood around him."

"You did not live with him?" asked William. "He was your brother."

"After the king gifted the farmland to him, in return for his help, considering I was his brother, he gave some part of it to me," the man said. "But then, he changed and we seperated. We often met and maintained a good relationship, but it was better to live separated."

"He changed, you say. What do you mean?"

"As if he mentally separated himself from me," replied the man. "Now that he had his name on the biggest farmland in the Zora, we were no more one, but two separate sides, living under the same roof. He was my small brother, I couldn't bear seeing him change like this. So, we seperated." He smiled for a moment, "Sense of independent possession and power changes people."

And I subconsciously said to myself, people do not change. When they are in power, they show their true self which they had buried behind the chains of limitations.

William said after some time, "Can you describe everything, what you saw and thing. From the beginning."

He nodded, "We had this meeting arranged where we used to meet every set of days, 4 times in a single moon cycle. That was 3 days ago. I completed my work and was heading to his place with booze when my eyes caught sight of flames around his house. The bottle dropped from my hand and I rushed to the scene. The crops around his house were burned, it was harder to walk inside with heat waves and the area was deserted. Shouting his name, I walked inside his house to find him on the floor, half naked covered in his own blood. There were no slaves around."

"If you did not see them, then how did you accuse a slave of killing your brother?"

"That slave was bought around a year ago," he replied. "And from the beginning, I could see his rebellious face behind that innocent mask. His body figure, his eyes, his moves . . . there was no way he could have been a slave. He never got along with my brother and once attempted to attack him in the past."

"You still did not see him on the day of your brother's killing."

"No. But there's no one else who could even dare," he protested, losing his patience. "These slaves, all of them, are all filthy, illiterate, wild scumbags . . . They eat from masters, and then betray them."

A being always seeks comfort. That is the nature of living. Whether it be direct comfort or something equal to what fits in their definition-like getting appropriate payment for their efforts. It is human nature to seek freedom; even though humans are not meant to be. But I didn't bother explaining it to the man.

"Do you not have any slaves?"

"I freed them some days ago," he replied. "My lands are not that vast. I can buy labor or do it myself."

"Who else lived in the house?" asked William. "The killer slave and a female slave," replied the man. William stood up, "very well. We shall visit the place and check in person."

"Thank you, Detectives-"

"Not the detectives," William interrupted. "We are just the investigators. Far from being detectives. The only thing we do is see for the obvious clues, connect them and question them. Like a normal troop cop, but much better. And we charge fees, so relate us with the bounty hunters." Then I touched my hat.

The man nodded, kind-of showing he was not interested in the details of what we do, then bowed and we walked out of his house. The sight of the incident was clearly seen at distance without asking for directions. A house of once-premium wood, now covered in the layer of black by the flames and the most crops around it, burned to ashes.

"I was not expecting for the person to be so kind and polite. The wealthy people, at least the one I came across, don't usually have a reputation in the field of- well, politeness."

William smiled, "I think it is natural to act kind and polite with the saviors, when you are against a demon. They're not known for being polite, but this man is scared to the core. Because he knows he is the same, in many ways, like his brother. He knows he might be the next one."

We walked on the road which took us to the burned house; a burned creation of wood. While walking, William's eyes went on the border of the burned farm, noticing a layer of soil, spread neatly beyond the burned crops; as if breaking the chain of burning.

We removed the upper layer of our clothes and cautiously walked in, struggling against the remaining heat. We looked around but there was nothing left behind. William's eyes went on the broken bed at the corner of the room and he imagined the slave attacking the man in his sleep. Then his eyes went on the ropes tied in a braid, lying in the corner and sever ropes tied to the wall-considering there also was a female slave, William didn't want to image anything. And we walked out of the house.

"Nothing is left."

"I will not say that is unexpected." William replied.

"There are other farmlands, and their owners nearby," I said. "We should ask around. Maybe we would find different things, different views on the case."

"Presumably."

William wore back his outer clothes and looked back, "I will go for those houses," he pointed toward the houses at a far distance in the southwest. "you check the other part. And you may leave after you are done. I might take some time."

I did not oppose.

After wasting some time, trying to come up with a way to part away in the most fluent way-and failing in it-I touched my hat for the 100th time, out of my habit and we parted away.

A faint door knock.

The door was opened by an old lady, "Who am I speaking to?"

"People call me George Watson," I replied. "I am with the investigator William-"

"Ah-!! It is you two he ended up contacting," she said while turning around. "I knew it would come to this. I told him he would fail to find the killer of his brother on his own, but his ego (just like his late brother's) was standing strong. Come in, I'll make something. And close the door when you enter, will you."

"There is no need, ma'am," I replied. "I appreciate it, but our meeting will be brief, kind ma'am. The man accused is still out there, and might possess a potential danger."

She turned back and I assumed she understood what I meant to say. "The man he blamed was one of his slaves. And now, he is gone missing, or is on the run. He only had many workers for me to assume who he meant. I know who he is talking about and I know that person."

"You knew the accused in person?"

"I can say I did," she nodded. "He helped me sometimes when his master was not home. He was a big man, broad chest, heavy arms. He had marks on him, of wounds and scars. I presume his master was not very kind to him. But I saw in his eyes, whenever he helped me, he can not commit what he is accused of. He was cold, but a kind man."

I said nothing further.

I knocked some more doors and most refused to talk about the incident while some hesitated to a point I thanked them, cutting the conversation. It was soon evening. The sun was half submerged behind the hills nearby and I called it a day.

I walked along a small path between two farmlands when I noticed a person in what I assumed his farmland. He released the tools from his hand and stood, looking at me while his body shone with the yellow rays of the setting sun.

"The farmland sure don't look in a good condition," I said.

"All thanks to the gods of rain," he replied. "It was pretty good before the recent unusual snowfall which showed up out of nowhere. I need to clean up as much as I can, or the seeds will be wasted."

"That looks like a lot of work."

"Am I too bold to assume you are one of the investigators who were called by him?"

"It is not bold," I replied.

"Any luck?" I shook my head to his question and he laughed to himself, "I assumed so."

"What do you mean?"

After pouring a jar of water over his body, making his muscles shine, he carried the tools out of the field. He dried himself and wore his shirt. "Follow me."

"I was about to head back."

"It will not take much time," he smiled. "You want to know about the man, don't you?"

I sat outside his small house near his farms, looking at the person's field and enjoying the smell of the wet soil carried by the winds toward me. He was busy inside, with his wife. He walked out dressed, adjusted the flames in the glass lamp with a manual knob and sat on the wooden stool in front of me

"No special reason was needed for people in the farmlands to know about him."

"You speak riddles."

"Are you not a detective?" And I replied, "Just an investigator. There is a difference."

"His master presented himself as a strict, often angry, low tempered man. Not an ideal master."

"I heard the slave was big, strong."

The person shook his head, "It is different when you are a slave. Masters own your life and everything in it. You are but an object-no matter how strong. They say bark, you bark. They say die, you die."

"Are you, perhaps, advocating the slave?"

"I do not intend to do that," he replied. "I'm just saying he was a slave of a not-so-good master. And I do not say because he once was my partner, my comrade. He was a loyal servant, a man of his words . . . He was a warrior, after all. A Jomking. Warrior from the far east. But I also believe he might have killed his master."