Mystery: The Traveler Who Holds the Star Key

The pale yellow mist characteristic of early mornings in Backlund clung heavily to the glass windows.

The world outside the window is blurred into patches of color.

Orion opened his eyes.

There was no mental stinging after being assimilated by the magic potion, nor the expected tingling and numbness in the limbs.

On the contrary, it was eerily quiet.

He tried moving his fingers.

A strange "fluid sensation" exploded up my spine.

If my body used to be a rusty old machine...

Now, every bone and every muscle is as if it is enveloped in molten mercury.

Lightweight, silky, and...

Extremely unstable.

Orion raised his hand, wanting to reach for the water glass on the bedside table.

It did not touch the cup wall.

A split second before their fingertips touched, his wrist slid off in a highly unnatural way—

It wasn't a mistake, but rather an absolute mockery of friction, like a slippery eel.

Snapped.

The glass wasn't knocked over, because at the moment it tipped over...

A faint current of air, appearing out of nowhere, gently touched it like an invisible hand.

Immediately afterwards, a thin layer of white frost spread along the stem of the cup, instantly "welding" it to the tabletop.

[Slip], [Strong wind], [Deep freeze]

Three little magic tricks, performed in one go.

Orion flicked his hand, casually wiping away the thin layer of frost from the glass.

"It's much easier now."

This is Sequence 8, [The Master of Tricks].

Unlike the frustrating experience of an apprentice who can only passively escape by passing through walls, this is different.

Now, he finally has the means to interfere with reality.

Although these methods don't seem very "upright" or "honest"—

Create a fog that obscures the view;

Rub out a small flame to light a cigarette;

Make the enemy's feet slip as if they were stepping on a banana peel;

Or use a strong, non-lethal gust of wind to mess up your opponent's hair.

It lacks the arsonist's domineering nature and the wind-wielder's sharpness.

Orion snapped his fingers casually.

Snapped.

A burst of eerie blue electric sparks erupted from his fingertips.

Although it was only for a brief moment, the tingling sensation of electricity passing through the fingertips felt incredibly real.

It's not very powerful; at most, it's used to light cigarettes for Mr. K.

Or give an unsuspecting enemy a "physical defibrillation".

"It really was a 'magic trick'."

He silently complained to himself.

This thing obviously can't blow people away like a fireball.

If Klein's future "magician" is a grand show under the spotlight.

His "magic master" is essentially a shady tactic of hiding in dark alleys and tripping people up.

No need for cheers from the audience, just need the opponent to curse.

It's dirty enough.

But he likes it.

Of course, the prerequisite for being interesting is having money.

Orion extinguished the sparks and pulled the empty wallet from under his pillow.

He began a financial audit that made his heart stop.

He mentally unfolded a balance sheet stained with blood and tears.

[Initial funds: £450]

Thank you for Miss Justice's generous sponsorship. May the goddess bless that beautiful, kind-hearted, and wealthy woman.

First expense: £20

The security fee paid to Hugh.

Although it pained him, he wouldn't have had the chance to drink the potion that night if no one had shielded him from the attack.

This money was well spent.

Second expense: £280

Cost of potion ingredients.

He talked himself hoarse on the black market.

They even spread two pieces of false information about the "Aurora Conference".

That's how we managed to bring the price down to this number.

This is already the absolute bottom price.

Current balance: £150

Orion's eyebrow twitched as he looked at the number.

"This amount of money isn't even enough for the down payment on the sealed artifact..."

He had been eyeing an extraordinary weapon, stolen goods that a down-on-his-luck adventurer was desperately trying to sell for only 350 pounds.

But now it seems that he is destined to never have that thing.

"We need to be careful with our money."

Orion sighed and quickly made a shopping list for the day.

His current identity is "a mysterious, fallen nobleman".

I can't always wear this old trench coat that smells like sewage to meet clients.

Two hours later.

In the Joewood district, there is an unassuming secondhand clothing store.

Orion stood in front of the mirror, looking at his new image with satisfaction.

It was a well-tailored, dark blue trench coat.

Although the collar was a bit worn, as long as he didn't turn the lining inside out.

No one knew that this garment, which once belonged to a bankrupt banker, only cost him 4 pounds.

He then picked out a half-new silk hat and paired it with a slightly frayed silk scarf.

Finally, he found a brass monocular telescope in a pawn shop to use as a cover for his so-called "antiquarian" identity.

Outfit expenses: £7.5.

Then comes the main event—

arms.

The back door of the Brave Ones Bar.

Kaspas looked at the young man in front of him, whose appearance had been completely transformed, and a hint of apprehension appeared in his eyes.

"What you want."

He pushed a heavy oil paper package over.

A double-barreled shotgun with its barrel sawed off, and two boxes of slugs.

A cane sword with a modified mechanism that can eject triangular spikes.

There was also a packet of special powder mixed with magnesium powder and chili powder.

Simple, brutal, and full of street smarts.

"That'll be £15 in total," Kaspass said in a deep voice. "That's a friendly price."

Orion didn't haggle and paid the money readily.

Although the [Master of Tricks] has many tricks up his sleeve, they are all control techniques.

If we really need to kill someone, this "thick pipe" is the most practical.

As he left the bar, Orion touched his pocket again.

Final balance: £127.5

This amount of money, in the money-devouring world of Backlund, would probably only be enough for him to maintain a decent life for a month.

As for those powerful magical items and extraordinary bullets... don't even think about them.

"Poverty is indeed the best seal."

Orion chuckled self-deprecatingly and tucked the deadly shotgun inside his trench coat.

Just then.

A strange throbbing sensation suddenly erupted from deep within my blood vessels without warning.

Boom!

Orion abruptly stopped and clutched his chest.

It was a resonance that originated from blood ties.

It was as if an invisible thread had been suddenly plucked on the other side of the city.

The feeling was both familiar and nauseating, carrying the madness of being watched by the stars that was unique to the Abraham family.

My gaze involuntarily drifted towards the East District.

Deep within that filthy slum, something was calling to him.

Or rather, it is invoking the curse within him.

"The master key..."

That word instantly popped into my mind.

Those were relics lost from his family, one of the sources of the curse that forced him to wander.

But it could also be a key to unlock the shackles.

Shall we go get it?

Orion's Adam's apple bobbed, and a greedy red glint flashed in his eyes.

That is the collective instinct of extraordinary characteristics.

But he quickly took a deep breath and forcibly suppressed the impulse.

No.

As a qualified "three-family goose".

Without sufficient intelligence, adequate preparation, and without bodyguards, how could someone venture alone into an unknown and dangerous area?

That's courting death.

"You only have one life, but you can earn more money and find the key eventually."

Orion, with a cold expression, forcibly changed direction.

He needs help.

Or at least, he needs to report to that "great detective" first.

Let's see if we can get that so-called "detective agency" up and running.

After all, he is now Detective Moriarty's... chief assistant.

Twenty minutes later.

15 Minsk Street.

Orion stood in front of the familiar wooden door, straightened his bow tie, and raised his hand to knock on the door.

dong dong dong.

No one answered.

"Not home?"

Orion frowned.

wrong.

As a master of magic, he is extremely sensitive to the movement of air.

A faint, almost imperceptible smell of blood wafted from the crack in the door.

And the aftershocks of that intense spiritual collision instantly put him on alert.

problem occurs?

Orion's hand froze in mid-air.

My first thought was: Bullshit.

The timing is completely wrong.

The heavy smog is still queuing up, and Master Luo has absolutely no connection to it.

At this point, Kroos was just a nobody who had just been promoted to Sequence 8, so how could he be in a situation where he was doomed?

unless……

The butterfly effect?

Orion felt a sudden chill run down his spine.

Could it be because I took him to a bar and flaunted my wealth?

Which short-sighted gang ambushed them beforehand, triggering a chain reaction?

"It's over."

If Kelvin really dies, the Tarot will disband on the spot.

What will I do in the future? What will happen to my future?

Yuanbao is with General K, not with me...

The panic in that instant was the most real.

Without the "Fool" as a transit point.

Orion is a cursed time bomb.

In this bizarre world where extraordinary beings eat people, he definitely wouldn't survive more than three episodes.

"King! You can't die..."

Orion gritted his teeth, disregarding all manners.

He didn't turn the doorknob—too slow.

With a slight thought, the body instantly becomes blurred and indistinct.

He was like a ghostly shadow, defying the laws of physics.

It seeped directly into the thick oak door panel.

[Passing through walls].

Orion's left hand was already gripping the gun handle under his trench coat.

He held a handful of magnesium powder in his right hand, ready to give the culprit inside a "flash-filled gift."

However, the scene inside the house stunned him.

There was no brutal burglary, nor was there blood everywhere.

The living room was a complete mess, like a garbage dump.

The coffee table was overturned, the carpet was rolled up, and there were several obvious bullet holes in the wall.

In the center of this mess.

Sherlock Moriarty, the detective who always dressed himself impeccably and was so meticulous that he would split even a penny in half.

He was sitting next to a corpse that was already cold.

The corpse was dressed in a black bodysuit, the hood slipped down, revealing a face that exuded a fierceness even in death.

Hearing the door open, Klein turned his head stiffly.

He was still holding his signature revolver, and his gold-rimmed glasses were slightly askew.

He looked both disheveled and exuded a chilling calmness that came after he had just committed murder.

The two looked at each other.

The air froze for three seconds.

Orion glanced at the corpse on the ground, then at Klein.

His lips twitched slightly, and he slowly loosened his grip on the gun.

"Mr. Moriarty, is this what you call... 'ordinary' private detective work?"

Klein pushed up his glasses and silently kicked the corpse behind the sofa with his toe.

The tone was so calm, as if they were discussing today's weather:

"If I said that he accidentally walked into the wrong door and was shot dead by my bullet..."

Do you believe it?