You said you were going to make games, how did you become the richest man without doing anything?

The capital city is deep in the night.

In the tactical command room on the fifth floor of the Royal Guard Division headquarters, a magic lamp was lit alone, casting a 3D projection of the capital city and its surrounding area onto the map spread out on the tactical table.

Julius stood in the light and shadow, his hands behind his back, his expression as cold and iron-like.

"Target confirmed."

"Ruins Street, District 7, Unlicensed Treatment Center." The military officer beside him flipped through the files, his tone devoid of emotion. "According to the deputy division commander's movements over the past three days, the target is Sherlock Elwin, a former Royal Legion medic. He was dismissed from the military for disobeying orders and rescuing demi-human prisoners without authorization, and was deemed 'disobedient to military discipline' by the military court."

"After that, he disappeared. When he reappeared, he had established a 'treatment center' in the slums and built stable ties with the leaders of the three major sub-races."

"According to eyewitnesses and informants, this person has extremely high personal influence and has facilitated a ceasefire agreement between demi-humans."

"We speculate that he is the rumored 'arbitrator'."

Julius closed his eyes, as if processing this information, and after a long while, he slowly spoke:
"...Annabelle is no longer reliable."

"Yes," the military officer replied, bowing his head.

"Her stance has been shaken, and emotions have interfered with her judgment. She is no longer an objective law enforcer."

"Action plan?"

“No need to deploy the main force of the division.” Julius opened his eyes, his gaze as cold as iron. “Deploy the ‘Shadow Squad.’ The target doesn’t need to be captured alive; just destroy their ‘influence.’”

"clear."

“Destroy his status in the slums, break the trust between him and the demi-humans, and put him back in the position of ‘ordinary people’.”

"At that time, even if he still survives, he will be nothing more than an unlicensed therapist. Who will listen to his 'arbitration'?"

"This is the second phase."

The order was given, and the Iron Curtain fell.

Nighttime, at the treatment center.

Sherlock remained hunched over the table, deep in thought, staring at an unfinished potion.

He had noticed that there were several unfamiliar faces in the neighborhood over the past two days—some sitting on street corners pretending to chat, some pretending to be drunk leaning against the wall, and a few frequently going in and out of pubs but never ordering drinks.

He knew what it was.

"Tail."

"It seems that time is running out."

He glanced at the next room, where faint snoring could be heard; Dova and Leia were taking turns keeping watch. Fufu was asleep on the sofa, hugging a pillow, with a trace of red tea on her lips. Ophelia, as always, floated silently on the roof like a ghost on night watch.

And Fina—

"You knew they were coming, didn't you?" Her voice came from behind the door.

"You noticed it too."

“Those people didn’t have the look of the slums.” Fina pushed open the door, leaned against the wall, and crossed her arms. “They weren’t thugs, killers, or beggars. Their movements were too synchronized, and their gazes were too focused.”

"soldier."

"Or maybe they're secret agents disguised as soldiers." She grinned. "Do they think we're rats so they can secretly poison us?"

Sherlock rubbed his temples. "Don't do anything foolish."

"You mean don't kill anyone?"

"I mean, don't give them an excuse."

Fina remained silent for a moment before finally nodding.

"You want to save this treatment center, and you want to save us, right?"

"This is something I promised myself."

"You're such a troublesome human doctor."

“You all say that.”

The two looked at each other and smiled.

The next morning, before the sun had even shone on the ruined streets, people had already gathered outside the treatment center.

Not a patient, but—

"You are……?"

Fufu pushed open the door and saw three men dressed in coarse cloth with indifferent expressions standing in the doorway. Their eyes were sharp, like those of seasoned veterans, but they carried baskets containing several bottles of medicinal wine and dry rations.

"We are here for medical treatment."

"...Where do you feel unwell?"

"I feel tightness in my chest."

"……come in."

They stepped into the treatment center, their eyes quickly scanning every corner, as if surveying the terrain.

Sherlock stepped out from behind and glanced at them.

"You are not patients."

"We're here for medical treatment," the leader repeated, his tone completely flat.

Sherlock didn't expose him, but simply said, "Then sit down."

He walked to the medicine shelf, his back to the three people, as if he were preparing medicine.

But his ears were listening, his nose was smelling, and his skin was sensing.

—The other person's clothes were clean and odorless, their steps were synchronized, their breathing rhythm was even, and their pupil contraction response was abnormal.

He is not an ordinary person.

He knew that the first wave of probing had begun.

Just as he was about to turn around and speak, a scream came from outside the window.

"on fire!!"

Sherlock looked up abruptly and saw black smoke rising from a house at the street corner, followed by a second fire.

"Fire! Help!"

"It was the Black Claw Gang who did it!!"

"They're here again!!"

"The demi-humans are killing each other again!!"

Sherlock's expression changed drastically.

"This is not an accident."

He rushed out the door, only to be blocked by the three men.

"You can't go out."

"Step aside."

"This is an order."

Sherlock squinted.

"What you want is not me, but to destroy the order I have created."

"You're a smart man." The leader smiled slightly. "Then let's cooperate."

"I will not cooperate with those who disrupt peace."

Before he could finish speaking, Sherlock suddenly attacked, a burst of golden light flashing in his hand—it was extremely compressed healing magic power.

He used it as a means of attack!

Caught off guard, the three were thrown back several steps by the magical impact. But they quickly regained their footing, drew their weapons, and launched a swift attack.

The next instant, the window shattered, and Rhea jumped off the roof, delivering a powerful punch to one of the men's shoulders, the sound of bones cracking accompanied by a scream.

"Did you even ask me before you dared to touch him?"

Dowa rushed out from the backyard, holding an iron pot, and roared as she smashed it at another person.

"Anyone who bullies my doctor, I'll turn them into roast meat!"

Fufu gritted her teeth and suddenly smashed the teapot in her hand onto the head of the last person.

"You bad people won't even let us have time to drink tea!"

Taking advantage of the chaos, Sherlock rushed out the door and headed straight for the fire, continuously using healing magic to seal his wounds and suppress the flames along the way. Residents gathered, and he directed them to extinguish the fire, evacuate, and bandage their wounds in the shortest possible time.

All of this was quietly observed by a pair of calm blue eyes.

On the rooftop at the street corner, Annabelle stood, her cloak billowing in the wind, her eyes filled with complex emotions.

"He...is truly protecting."

And she was the one who wanted to destroy all of this.

Late that night, in the Royal Capital Council Hall.

Julius sat in a high-backed chair, a new report in front of him.

"Phase Two failed?"

"Failed to create enough chaos. The treatment center successfully organized the residents to put out the fire, and the demi-humans did not engage in conflict. Instead, their trust in Sherlock increased."

“...Annabelle, you did it.”

He gripped the report tightly, his eyes as cold as ice.

"In that case, let's start the third phase."

"Erase him."

"Completely".

Meanwhile, at the infirmary, Sherlock sat on the roof, gazing at the twinkling stars in the night sky.

He knew this was just the beginning.

They won't stop.

And he will not back down. Because in his eyes, peace is not a product of compromise, nor is it a gift from the system.

Peace is a choice that someone must take responsibility for.

But he chose to stand here, motionless.

Even when a storm is brewing, he will never back down an inch.

……

The light of dawn shone on the roof of the treatment center, warm and lingering.

Annabelle sat leaning against the eaves, her cloak slipped to one side, her long silver hair slightly disheveled. Her shoulder armor had been removed, and the sword at her waist was placed at her feet.

"Aren't you afraid they'll really charge you with treason?" Sherlock came up with two cups of hot tea and handed her one.

“They’ve already issued an arrest warrant for me. Could it get any worse?” Annabelle took the tea and sipped it. “Besides, you’re oversimplifying things. ‘Treason’ is a charge against losers.”

"So you want to win?" Sherlock sat down.

“I want to make it impossible for them to say I’m ‘wrong’.”

"You're such a...troublesome woman."

"You've said it three times already."

"I think I'll continue."

The two chuckled softly, their gazes fixed on the distance.

At this moment, a certain change is quietly taking place in the ruined street.

While the capital's higher-ups were still trying to suppress news of the "treatment center incident," rumors were already spreading like wildfire among the lower levels of the capital:
"The deputy division commander stood up against the entire military for the sake of a civilian."

"That healer is the only bridge between demi-humans and humans."

"They are establishing a new order."

And the prototype of this "order" is quietly taking shape in the ruins.

"You mean—we're going to establish a 'guard team'?" Leia's eyes widened, and she almost dropped the hammer in her hand.

“It’s not an army.” Sherlock sat in the backyard of the treatment center, a hand-drawn diagram in front of him. “It’s just a self-defense organization with militia characteristics. Its missions are fire prevention, theft prevention, patrol, rescue, and refuge guidance.”

“That sounds complicated,” Dova said, pursing her lips.

"You hit people every day without getting tired of it, how could this be troublesome?" Fina complained while chewing on an apple.

"I hit people for justice!"

"You hit someone because your hands were itching."

Sherlock ignored their bickering and pushed the blueprints toward Fou. "You'll be in charge of logistics, including food distribution, wounded registration, and patrol schedules."

"Eh?! Me?" Fufu's eyes widened. "I'm just a tea maker!"

"You are now the vice commander."

"...Could you give me a raise?"

"You don't get paid."

"Ow-!!"

Everyone burst into laughter, but Sherlock's gaze grew even more resolute.

He knew this wasn't a game.

This is true "construction".

Not just the treatment center, but the entire Ruins Street, the entire slum—

He wanted to make this place a "second possibility" outside of the capital.

The rudimentary form of a social structure that does not rely on nobles, armies, or divine authority.

And this is precisely what the capital city fears most.

Meanwhile, in the Royal Capital's Intelligence Department.

“The target has not yet shown up.” An intelligence officer placed the file in front of Julius. “The deputy division commander has been missing for five days. Sherlock is still active, but our people cannot get close.”

“Because he now has a ‘shield of public opinion’,” Julius sneered. “Every time he makes a house call, a bunch of people kneel down and beg him not to leave.”

"Should we continue sending out the Shadow Squad?"

“No.” Julius shook his head, a thoughtful look flashing in his eyes. “We have exhausted all means of ‘external suppression.’ His inaction means he knows we will not act rashly.”

"what should we do?"

"Dig up his dark history."

"Dark history?"

"Investigate his military service record, his childhood environment, and his true relationship with the demi-humans," Julius said coldly. "I don't believe a civilian healer could have such abilities. If he truly is the 'Arbitrator,' then he must be hiding something."

"Yes."

“And…” Julius paused, “keep a close eye on Annabelle’s family.”

"She's the illegitimate daughter of the Raiser family; there's nothing to exploit about her."

"Her mother is in the North, and she is still alive."

"……clear."

A few days later, the treatment center's "guard team" was officially established.

It had no official number or armed force; only a simple wooden sign hung beside the door, with the words handwritten on it:

Ruins Street Civil Mutual Aid Association -
Treatment, patrol, rescue, refuge -
But it was this wooden sign that inspired more and more residents to join voluntarily.

On the first day, ten people registered.

On the third day, there were fifty people.

A week later, more than two hundred people signed up, and even vagrants from the outskirts of the capital began to gather in the ruins.

This also alerted the noble class in the capital.

"This is simply 'illegal self-governance'!"

“If we don’t intervene, he will rebel!”

"Send in the army to suppress them!"

“We can’t take action; he has a debt of gratitude owed to him as the ‘deputy division commander.’”

“Then cut off his supply lines, cut off his medicine supply, cut off all his paths to survival.”

The nobles were arguing noisily, while the old king, who had never shown himself in the palace, simply listened quietly without uttering a sound.

Until the very end, he said calmly:
"Continue to observe."

"I want to see how far an ordinary person can go."

One evening, Sherlock was processing a batch of medicinal herbs that had been brought in from a caravan in the North in his backyard.

“You’ve been very busy lately.” Annabelle leaned against the door, looking at him. “You’re no longer a therapist.”

"If I'm not busy, who will?"

"Do you want to be king?"

"I want to be someone who can help people survive."

"This dream is too big."

That's why I need you to stay by my side.

Annabelle chuckled, walked over, picked up a bottle of potion, and casually tossed it to him.

"This is what you prepared yesterday; it looks like poison."

"That's a painkiller, not poison."

"You deserve to be poisoned."

"Are you drinking?"

"You feed me."

"……You think too much."

The two looked at each other, and as their eyes met, a faint hint of ambiguity filled the air.

Just then, Fufu suddenly rushed in, shouting:

"Doctor! There's a letter! It's from the North!"

Sherlock took the letter, opened it, and his expression changed slightly.

Annabelle leaned closer: "Who wrote this?"

“Eileen,” Sherlock said in a deep voice, “my sister.”

"what did she say?"

“She said… someone was checking her identity and investigating the ‘Arbitrators Program’.”

Annabelle was suddenly jolted.

"The Arbitrators Plan?"

"you know?"

"That was a top-secret project from the Royal Capital Military Research Institute ten years ago... and it has already been judged to be a failure."

"Then I might be that 'failure'."

The wind in the capital suddenly changed.

But the real storm has only just begun.

Sherlock's past is no longer just about being a "therapist," but involves a hidden history—

A taboo experiment called the "Arbitrator Project".

And he might just be the deepest, most dangerous secret hidden within this royal capital. (End of Chapter)