I created the Old Gods and Outer Gods in America.

"Fuck, how many is this? Do serial killers have KPIs now?"

Chief Roberts stood at the door on the second floor of the apartment building, covering his nose with the back of his hand.

He's been in the job for so many years, working his way up from patrolman to bureau chief, and he thinks he's seen it all, but this is a scene he's never seen before!

A headless male corpse lay on the sofa in the living room. The head was missing, and the cut at the neck did not look like it had been cut by a sharp weapon, but rather like it had been crushed by some kind of enormous force. The walls and ceiling were covered with splattered blood and brain matter.

The other body was in even worse condition; he had to fight his way through it all himself!

After examining the body for ten minutes, the forensic doctor could only manage to utter one sentence: "I cannot confirm the cause of death, because I cannot even confirm whether this is a complete body."

"How many cases have there been this month?" Roberts sighed and asked his deputy beside him.

"Case number 37."

Roberts was silent for two seconds.

In less than two weeks, 37 murders occurred, resulting in 73 deaths! These incidents have spread throughout the Columbia District!

What does this mean?

There has never been a killer with such high efficiency in the history of the world!

What's even more outrageous is that these 37 cases all involved different methods of committing crimes. In cases where the crime scene was violently crushed, it was still considered relatively good, as there were at least some clues. However, in some other cases, the crime scene contained nothing but a few puddles of water and a fishy smell.

The surveillance footage also yielded no clues. All the surveillance footage near the crime scene was completely obscured, as if it were shrouded in some murky liquid.

The thought of all this gave Roberts a headache.

"Boss."

A voice came from behind.

Roberts turned his head and saw the person standing at the end of the corridor, Kevin Morrison, a 25-year-old detective from the Major Crimes Unit. He thought the man was exceptionally talented and was a promising junior colleague.

He has no problem with his abilities, but he talks too much.

"What is it?"

Morrison walked over, holding a document in his hand. After hesitating for a moment, he said, "Boss, is it possible that these cases are actually related to the recent decrease in homeless people?"

After hearing this, Roberts looked at Morrison with a puzzled expression.

"Morrison, how many times have I told you, stop with these conspiracy theories." Roberts lowered his voice, his tone unfriendly. "Homeless people are a mobile group; they're here today and there tomorrow. They just move around. How could they possibly be related to these cases? Do you expect those skeleton-like homeless people to break into people's homes and cause this kind of damage?"

After Roberts finished speaking, he pointed to the pieces of meat in the room.

Morrison scratched his head after hearing this, looking somewhat embarrassed; he truly couldn't refute it.

"Morrison, you are young and very talented. As long as you don't do these nonsense things, your future achievements will definitely not be lower than mine."

Roberts patted him on the shoulder, his tone a mix of admonition and helplessness.

Just then, a commotion came from downstairs. Several black SUVs stopped outside the apartment building, the doors opened, and several people in dark suits got out.

The leader was a white man in his forties with short hair and an expressionless face; the ID card hanging around his neck reflected the light under the streetlights.

FBI!

"Chief Roberts, we need all your investigative materials regarding this case."

The FBI agent in charge spoke softly, but every word carried a sense of oppression that made the local police instinctively uncomfortable, as he showed his identification while speaking.

Roberts frowned. The other party's condescending tone made him want to refuse firmly, but judging from the identification the other party had produced, it seemed that the other party's official position was not something he could refuse. He forced a smile and said, "Of course, Morrison, go and take this agent to see the detailed file."

……

Washington, D.C., in a privately-accessible meeting room.

Eleven people sat on either side of the long table. Each of them was a figure who could influence the direction of this country.

"So you're telling me that building was destroyed by a burst water pipe?"

The white-haired old man sitting in the main seat took off his glasses, slowly wiped them, and chuckled, "A water pipe pierced through two concrete slabs, shattered the steel bars into fragments, sheared half of the entire building off, and incidentally crushed a few people? And thoughtfully left behind a few corpses without any wounds, is that what you mean?"

"The explanation given by the engineering department so far..."

"I don't want explanations, I want the truth."

The meeting room fell silent for a few seconds.

A middle-aged Black man who looked like a general spoke up: "If we rule out all conventional factors... then the only possibility is some kind of power that we have not yet mastered."

"Superpowers? Are you talking about comics? Are you planning to shave your head, put on an eye patch, and apply for a department that specializes in handling these kinds of things?" another person sneered.

"I'm stating the facts. I've already had satellite images of the area retrieved. The water column was over forty meters high and lasted for less than three seconds. After that, the image seemed to be affected by something and became completely blurry." The general's tone remained unchanged. As he spoke, an image began to play on the conference room screen.

The atmosphere in the meeting room changed.

Just then, the door was pushed open, and a high-ranking FBI official entered, bringing in a file folder.

"Gentlemen, this is a file that just arrived from Columbia District."

He spread the photos and reports from the file bag out on the table one by one.

Photos of the crime scene and death statistics.

"I'm sure you're all aware of the recent serial murders in Columbia, but I won't go into details."

"Let's review the recent events in Colombia and look at the timeline. First, the water column appeared, and then the number of homeless people began to decrease unnaturally. Of course, if it were just a decrease in homeless people, it wouldn't be a problem. But the problem is that at the same time as the decrease in homeless people, a series of murders began to occur in Colombia."

"As you can see from the photos, after our detailed investigation, we can say with certainty that these crime scenes are completely beyond our current scientific explanation."

"Take this recent case for example. Besides the body of a Black man, there were various sizes of human flesh found, but these pieces of flesh..."

The people present listened to the explanation while carefully flipping through the files.

As they flipped through the pages, the expressions on everyone's faces gradually changed, showing confusion, fear, and...excitement!

Fear and the world they had lived in for so long suddenly turned out to be different from what they knew.

What's exciting is... its extraordinary nature!

If the extraordinary truly exist, then wouldn't these superior beings be...

"Initiate maximum resource mobilization! Keep a close watch on the Columbia District! Report any further suspected paranormal activity immediately!"

……

At the same time.

Inside a residential building, Creel sat on a sofa, holding a smartphone he had "borrowed" from a gangster.

A short message was displayed on the screen.

Tomorrow, a serious offender named Marcus Wilson, nicknamed "Black Sheep," will be transferred. The procession will pass through our area, so everyone behaving themselves tomorrow.

The post also included a picture of a middle-aged white man with a scarred face, his eyes cloudy but fierce.

When Creel saw the text message, he frowned. He knew Marcus, but not through the news.

During this time, Kriel also talked with other veterans who had been transformed into fishmen, and that's when he heard the name Marcus.

Marcus was once a member of an elite commando unit, but during a black operation abroad, the government, in an effort to cover up a diplomatic scandal, cut off their retreat route and fire support.

The squad suffered heavy casualties, and the "Black Sheep" who survived did not receive the medals he deserved. Instead, he was accused of treason and arms smuggling and imprisoned in a dark and secret prison, never to see the light of day again.

"Another person chewed up and spat out by this country."

Kriel turned off his phone screen.

Behind him, hundreds of bulging eyes gleamed coldly in the darkness, silently awaiting instructions.

The personal feud is over, and all debts have been repaid.

Kriel looked up at the brightly lit prison on the other side of the city.

It's time to settle accounts with this country.