Chapter 3: Detective

The Price of Disappearance

The weight of the stolen gold pressed against my palm as I ran. Each step against the uneven cobblestone sent a dull ache through my legs, but I didn't slow down. Speed was my only ally now.

The streets of Leopold stretched before me like a labyrinth of Victorian architecture and shadowed alleyways. Every turn was a decision, every passing face a potential witness. My heart pounded against my ribs, adrenaline surging through my veins as I replayed the events in my mind.

A bar fight. A man's furious accusations. A knife, a struggle, a body slamming against the counter.

And now, gold clenched in my grasp like a lifeline.

I took a sharp turn, my breath steadying as I merged into the moving crowd. The people of Leopold were too busy with their daily routines to pay much attention to me. A lone man walking briskly was not enough to warrant suspicion.

But I couldn't take chances.

Not when I was a stranger in this world.

Not when I had just assaulted and robbed someone who was likely a man of wealth and influence.

Ahead, a wooden sign creaked against the wind, its faded paint marking the entrance to an exchange house.

A perfect place to disappear.

Gold for Paper

The inside of the exchange house was modest yet refined, a space filled with men in tailored suits and cold expressions. Wealth hovered in the air like smoke, unseen yet suffocating.

I approached the counter, placing the gold before the exchanger—a middle-aged man with thinning hair and the sharp eyes of someone who had spent years assessing the worth of others.

He examined the items briefly, his fingers brushing over the golden chain and ring. There was no hesitation, no questioning.

To him, I was just another man looking to turn metal into currency.

He reached under the counter, retrieving a small black pouch and placing it in front of me.

"Fifteen thousand pieces," he said simply, sliding the bag forward.

I nodded, picking it up and feeling the weight of my new fortune. Fifteen golden coins.

Each coin worth one thousand pieces.

In a matter of minutes, I had gone from being an impoverished student in an unknown world to having enough money to survive for months.

The exchanger barely glanced at me as I walked away. To him, I was just another transaction.

And that suited me just fine.

A City in Celebration

As I stepped back into the streets, the atmosphere around me had shifted.

Banners stretched across buildings, bold and unapologetic.

"HAIL EMPEROR ARTHUR!!"

The letters were massive, painted in deep crimson against ivory fabric, fluttering in the cold morning breeze.

The city was preparing.

In five months, Leopold would officially come under the rule of Emperor Arthur Augustus of Morgana.

The people had mixed feelings—some whispered in excitement, others in uncertainty. A foreign ruler meant change, and change was always dangerous.

But it was not my concern.

My concern was survival.

And survival meant disguise.

Clothing & Accessories

Ahead of me stood a shop, its Victorian-styled sign as straightforward as its name:

"Clothing & Accessories."

Practical. Simple.

Exactly what I needed.

The bell above the door chimed softly as I stepped inside. The air was filled with the scent of fine fabric and polished leather, the store neatly arranged with suits, hats, gloves, and various accessories displayed in orderly rows.

Despite the elegance of the place, I was only here for two things.

A hat.

And a cane.

The Fedora

The hat section stretched along the right side of the shop, shelves stacked with bowler hats, top hats, and flat caps.

But my eyes were drawn to a black fedora.

Simple. Sleek. A gentleman's hat, yet modest enough to avoid standing out.

I reached for it, brushing my fingers along the fabric before placing it atop my head.

It fit perfectly.

The reflection in the polished mirror confirmed what I already knew.

The hat changed everything.

Without it, I was just another man in a suit—just another face in the crowd.

With it, I looked the part of a man who knew things. A man who had seen things.

The kind of man you didn't question.

The Cane

My attention shifted to the display of canes.

Beautifully crafted pieces, their handles made of silver, ivory, and polished wood.

But my interest was not in aesthetic.

I lifted one of the canes, feeling its weight, testing its balance.

It was sturdy. Solid.

More than just a walking aid—a weapon.

A cane could be used both defensively and offensively.

A gentleman's tool, yet practical in a fight.

It was exactly what I needed.

I gave it a small swing, feeling the way it moved through the air. Smooth. Effortless. Deadly in the right hands.

A few customers gave me odd looks.

Perhaps I did resemble a man who had killed before.

Perhaps I did not care.

A Curious Shopkeeper

As I made my way to the counter, the shopkeeper approached.

He was a man in his early fifties, with kind eyes and a smile that suggested he had seen the world but chose not to judge it.

"So, sir," he began, his voice friendly yet professional, "what are you looking for today?"

I gestured toward the items in my hands.

"A fedora and this cane."

He nodded, tapping the counter as he calculated the price.

"The fedora is five pieces. The cane is seven."

I reached into my pocket, pulling out the necessary coins and placing them before him.

The transaction was swift, efficient.

But just as I turned to leave, he spoke again.

"If I might ask something of you?"

I paused, glancing back.

"Then ask."

The shopkeeper folded his hands, his eyes studying me with quiet curiosity.

"Why do you need a fedora and a cane?" he asked. "You're certainly not an old man. You seem far too young for such things."

He wasn't wrong.

The fedora was a disguise. A way to blend in.

The cane was a weapon. A way to defend myself.

But I wasn't about to say that.

I offered a small, measured smile.

"Oh, these are merely decorative."

The shopkeeper chuckled. "Ah. A man of taste, then."

But he wasn't done.

"Are you a professor, perhaps?" he asked, his gaze flicking to my suit. "With your attire and all?"

I considered his words.

And in that moment, an idea formed.

A new name. A new identity.

I adjusted my hat, tapping the cane against the floor as I met his gaze.

"…I'm a detective," I said smoothly. "Call me Detective Gray."

The name rolled off my tongue with ease, as if it had always belonged to me.

The shopkeeper nodded in approval. "Detective Gray, then. A pleasure doing business with you."

With that, I turned and walked out of the shop.

My disguise was set.

My destination was clear.

Next stop—Kushan.

The Town of Kushan

The town of Kushan lay before me, its presence marked by an eerie silence that clung to the streets like mist. Unlike the bustling heart of Leopold, where the echoes of life never ceased, Kushan felt abandoned, hollow.

The people here were devoted to Ares, the god of war. Why, I did not know.

Perhaps it was tradition. Perhaps it was fear. Perhaps it was simply a matter of faith passed down through generations. Whatever the reason, their devotion ran deep, woven into the very fabric of the town. The air carried a stillness, an unshaken discipline—as if the people of Kushan were warriors waiting for a battle that had yet to come.

The streets were empty.

I glanced at the worn street sign before me.

"Unon Street."

It was an old metal sign, rusted at the edges but still legible. A relic of a town that had seen better days.

I ventured forward, my footsteps echoing against the cobblestone. The buildings that flanked me were Victorian in style, their exteriors showing signs of neglect. Some windows were shuttered, others left open with curtains fluttering lazily in the breeze.

I could feel it—the weight of something unseen, something lingering in the air.

A presence.

And then, finally, I heard it.

A noise.

It came from an alleyway just behind me.

I turned sharply, my grip tightening around the cane in my hand.

I took slow, measured steps toward the alley, my senses heightened. The shadows stretched deep into the narrow passage, the dim light barely illuminating the cracked walls and discarded crates that lined the space. There was nothing there.

Or at least, so I thought.

Before I could venture further, an elderly woman emerged from the street, her presence sudden yet poised.

She wore a deep green dress, her silver hair tied neatly in a bun, and her piercing eyes studied me with a mixture of relief and expectation.

"Oh dear, finally. You must be the detective we requested."

I didn't know who she was.

I had never been requested.

But this could be beneficial.

I met her gaze evenly, adjusting the brim of my fedora. "Indeed, I am. You may call me Detective Gray."

She nodded, satisfied, and gestured for me to follow her.

The Emerald Estate

The house was impressive, yet aged.

A noble Victorian estate, its walls adorned with intricate molding, its architecture speaking of a family that once held great wealth and influence. But time had worn down its splendor, leaving it standing like a remnant of a forgotten era.

As I stepped inside, I was immediately met with an odd scent.

Roses.

The fragrance was strong, lingering in the air as though it had been deliberately placed to mask something else.

I walked behind the woman, watching, listening.

"The last detective went missing," she said, her voice carrying an undertone of unease. "When we asked for a replacement, they told us only two detectives were left. So, I suppose you must be one of them."

Only two detectives left.

That was interesting.

"I am Emerald Hall," she continued. "Owner of the Emerald Estate."

Emerald Hall. A fitting name.

She allowed me to move freely through the house, trusting me enough to let me explore.

I took my time, observing every detail. The furniture was antique, each piece well-maintained despite the evident decline of the estate's grandeur. The wooden floors creaked softly beneath my steps, the walls adorned with portraits of long-deceased family members.

But it was the backyard door that caught my attention.

A single tobacco leaf lay on the ground, its presence out of place in an estate like this.

I crouched down, examining it closely.

Spona tobacco.

A distinct type of tobacco made exclusively in the Morgana Empire.

And only in the Morgana Empire.

I let the leaf roll between my fingers before standing, turning my gaze toward Emerald Hall.

"Excuse me," I asked, my voice measured. "Do you happen to have a husband or any other members currently residing in the estate?"

She turned to me, her expression unchanged. "Oh yes, my husband recently visited."

As expected.

That explained the tobacco—a small but telling detail. Her husband had likely brought it from Morgana during his travels.

But that didn't explain everything.

I needed to see more.

An Empty Town

Leaving the estate, I wandered through Kushan once more.

The streets remained quiet, the town devoid of the usual activity found in places of habitation. There was something unsettling about the emptiness, as if the town itself were holding its breath.

I returned to the same alleyway where I had first heard movement.

But this time, there was nothing.

No figures lurking in the shadows.

No whispers carried by the wind.

Only rats, scurrying between the discarded crates.

It was as if the presence I had felt earlier had never been there at all.

Or perhaps, it had simply moved.

The Doppelgänger

As I circled the town, searching for any clues, I found myself returning to the estate.

But when I reached the gates, I stopped.

I stared.

And I found myself staring back.

A perfect copy of me.

Same suit.

Same fedora.

Same cane.

I barely had time to react before it moved.

It lunged, striking at me with unnatural speed.

I jumped back—farther than any normal human should have been able to.

Ten meters.

The realization struck me in an instant.

This body—Alaric Thorn's body—was not entirely human.

I didn't have time to dwell on it.

The Doppelgänger twisted its stance, mirroring me with eerie precision. I moved, and it moved with me.

I threw my cane at it, aiming for the head.

It dodged with inhuman reflexes and responded in kind, hurling its own cane at me.

I caught it mid-air, barely processing the fact that it had anticipated my attack.

No hesitation.

I surged forward, closing the distance in a single leap.

The Doppelgänger reacted, but I was faster.

I swung the cane in a brutal arc, the wooden shaft connecting with the side of its head.

The impact was solid.

It collapsed, unmoving.

I approached cautiously, reaching down to examine it.

But the moment my fingers touched its skin—

It crumbled.

Dust.

The Doppelgänger disintegrated into nothing.

So this was what the people had feared.

This was the phenomenon plaguing Kushan.

The Crime Scene

I exhaled, straightening my posture as I picked up my cane and retrieved my fedora, placing it back onto my head.

The fight had been brief, but it confirmed one thing.

Something unnatural was at work here.

I returned to the Emerald Estate, walking the perimeter, searching for anything that stood out.

And then, I saw it.

Blood.

A smear of crimson staining the fence.

I approached carefully, analyzing the scene with the precision of a seasoned detective.

The blood had dried, its color darkened, its texture thick. The drips had long since ceased.

This meant that the crime had occurred approximately 45 hours ago.

I ran through the facts.

Emerald Hall had gone to the police station to request a detective exactly 45 hours ago.

She was not the culprit.

Her husband and sons were out of town.

The husband only visited once a week for business.

He could not have done it.

Which meant one thing.

The murderer was still in Kushan.