Mystery: The Traveler Who Holds the Star Key

"letter."

Orion stared at the corpse on the ground and answered crisply.

He recognized the face, or rather, the outfit.

The top henchman of the Zmanger Party, the largest gang in the East District—"The Executioner".

"He started it."

Klein was carefully wiping fingerprints off the revolver with a handkerchief.

His movements were so practiced, as if he had just performed surgery.

His tone was calm, yet he concealed that crucial information perfectly:

"Because of a previous commission, it seems I've gotten into trouble with some... not-so-friendly big shots."

Big man?

Orion raised an eyebrow slightly but did not ask any further questions.

As "Watson," keeping quiet is the best course of action at this time.

But as a transmigrator well-versed in the mysteries of the world, the gears in his mind had already begun to spin wildly.

Zmanger Party... executioner... home invasion assassination...

These fragmented entries are like collisions within the search engine of a memory palace.

Finally, after a few seconds of searching, a vague plot point emerged.

Yes.

Meursault.

If I remember correctly, the owner behind this mad dog is the ambassador sent by that Republic of Intis.

Orion looked at Klein's seemingly calm but actually tense face.

The heavy weight that had been hanging in my heart suddenly lifted.

call……

Fortunately.

It wasn't because of my own little butterfly flapping its wings that caused the uncontrollable collapse.

It wasn't some unknown war of gods that suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

This is just the classic "Ambassador Case" from the original work.

This means that the script is still on track.

As long as the script doesn't fall apart, this future Fool won't die.

And for the time being, this little salted fish clinging to a big leg doesn't have to worry about being washed away by the waves on the beach.

"It seems this is just a minor incident before dawn."

Orion breathed a sigh of relief, his previously tense shoulders relaxing.

He didn't ask another question, but walked directly to the corpse and snapped his fingers.

"Smack."

The pool of black blood that was slowly spreading on the carpet and about to seep into the cracks of the wooden floor instantly congealed.

[Flash Freeze].

The pool of blood turned into a dark red ice cream, completely locked onto the fiber surface.

Immediately afterwards, he opened his palm, and a thin but viscous white mist appeared out of thin air.

Like a shroud, it precisely covered Meursault's unseeing face, concealing his hideous death.

"This will save you a lot of cleaning time."

Orion clapped his hands and pointed to the door:

"Great detective, although I really want to help you throw this piece of trash down the drain."

But judging from your expression... it seems there's a more legal way to handle this?

Klein glanced at the "frozen bloodstains" on the ground with surprise.

Clearly, they felt a touch of envy for this "extraordinary domestic service ability".

But he shook his head and put the pistol back into his armpit holster.

"No need. I'll call the police."

"justifiable defense?"

"Initiation of a home invasion; detective defends himself."

Klein straightened his collar, reverting to his usual stern, urban demeanor.

"I have a gun license, and he broke in first."

If handled properly, no one can convict me.

At this point, he glanced at Orion, his eyes carrying a hint of dismissal:

"Now it's the police's turn."

Klein put away his handkerchief, glanced at the clock on the wall, and his tone returned to its usual aloof and businesslike manner:

"Your current status is 'undocumented homeless person,' and staying here will only make things more difficult to explain."

This is an order to leave.

It is also a protective umbrella.

"Understood."

Orion didn't utter a single unnecessary word.

He wisely took a step back, his back pressed against the cold wall.

The outline of the body began to become blurred and illusory in the thick fog, like a sketch being erased by an eraser.

Throughout this process, Klein did not look at him again.

She simply turned her back to him, quietly tidying her slightly disheveled collar, as if he had always been the only person in the room.

Without asking where they went.

I do not ask when I will return.

This is the highest form of etiquette between adults, especially between two extraordinary individuals who both carry secrets.

Outside the wall, the fog was still thick even as noon approached.

The sunlight was filtered through that signature layer of pale yellow haze.

Only a dim temperature remained, carrying the damp chill and coal smoke characteristic of Backlund.

Orion burst through the wall and landed silently.

He raised his hand to straighten his top hat and glanced at the house behind him where the police were about to arrive.

He lightly flicked the dust off his sleeves, a playful smile curving his lips.

"A rare 'window of opportunity' shouldn't be wasted; it would be a crime."

He tightened the collar of his trench coat, turned and disappeared into the murky, pale yellow mist, leaving behind a whisper that vanished into the fog:

"Perfect timing, I'll go earn some 'overtime pay' for myself."

……

Orian did not go far after leaving Minsk Street.

He ordered a coffee at the corner café.

Klein locked the door, flagged down a carriage, and drove off alone toward the police station.

Orion touched the sawn-off shotgun, his fingertips tracing the cold, hard feel of the barrel.

There are five days left until the next tarot session.

In this Backlund, a land riddled with pits.

For "Abraham," who might be spotted by the crazy people of the Aurora Club at any moment.

Five days is too long.

If you're not strong enough, you'll die.

This is the ironclad rule of the extraordinary world.

"Feed".

Orion waved to a newsboy and flicked a penny from his fingertip.

"The Backland Morning Post, The Tasok River News."

His gaze passed over the newsboy's head and landed on the murky paper:

"Find out all the posters with 'wanted' signs printed on them."

……

Three days later, in the East District.

This place is a breeding ground for evil, and a paradise for bounty hunters.

In the alley late at night, the streetlights flickered like broken eyes.

"Help! Don't kill me!"

A piercing scream tore through the night.

A young man dressed in a respectable dark blue trench coat, who looked like a lost nobleman, was running frantically through the alley with a look of terror on his face.

He ran so fast he stumbled and almost fell off his hat, turning back to beg for mercy as he ran:

"I have money! I have money! Don't kill me!"

Behind him, a burly man with a face full of scars and holding a boning knife was approaching with a sinister grin.

He is Billy the Butcher.

The Backlund Police Department has issued a £55 reward for information leading to the arrest of a serial killer.

Although he was not an extraordinary being, he possessed immense strength and a ruthless, merciless nature.

Even if it's a regular Sequence 9, you have to go around it.

"Run, you little brat! Keep running!"

Billy enjoyed the thrill of the hunt.

Especially seeing that pretty boy in front of him, terrified and running away in a panic, caused his violent impulses to surge wildly.

The young man in front seemed to be in a panic and went straight into that famous "dead end".

"hey-hey……"

Billy slowed his pace, like a wild beast cornering its prey.

He licked the blade and approached the trembling figure step by step:

"Hand over the money, and maybe I'll... leave you a whole corpse."

The young man had his back against the cold wall, with nowhere left to retreat.

He looked up, his pale face contorted with fear, even his voice trembling:

"You...you stay away! I'm warning you, I...I know magic!"

"magic?"

Billy paused for a moment, then burst into wild laughter.

"Hahaha! Magic? Are you going to conjure up a dove for me? Come on, show this old man something—"

The word "see" hasn't even landed yet.

A sudden change occurred.

Billy's right foot, which he was about to step out with, suddenly landed on a layer of "oil noodles" that didn't exist.

It was an absolute smoothness that completely defied the common sense of physics.

【slip】.

"Holy crap?!"

That slip was too sudden.

Billy lost his balance instantly and tumbled forward like a bowling ball.

But this is only the beginning.

Just as he leaned forward and his hands instinctively tried to brace himself on the ground.

call--

A chilling aura, like a wind blowing from hell, swept precisely across the puddle of sewage in front of him.

Click.

The sewage instantly froze into ice.

Billy slammed his calloused hands heavily onto the ice.

Before he could react, the ice seemed to come alive.

The force spread rapidly along his fingers, freezing his hands firmly to the ground in the blink of an eye!

[Flash Freeze].

"ah!!!"

Billy let out a scream.

He tried to struggle, but his feet slipped and he couldn't get any strength, and his hands were frozen.

He knelt in a deeply shameful "dogeza" position in front of the young man.

"Damn it! What the hell is this?! Witchcraft?!"

Billy looked up in horror.

Then, he froze.

That "pretty boy" who was just moments ago terrified, crying and begging for help.

He was slowly and methodically tidying up the slightly disheveled collar of his trench coat.

Orion picked up the silk hat from the ground, gently patted off the dust, and put it back on.

There wasn't a trace of fear left on his face.

In those eyes, there was only a playful and languid feeling, as if one had just watched a poorly executed circus performance.

"This is a common problem among you perverts."

Orion sighed and pulled out the double-barreled shotgun with its barrel sawed off from inside his trench coat.

The dark muzzle of the gun was pressed coldly against Billy's forehead.

"Enjoying the fear of your prey too much can get you into trouble."

Hey.

Orion snapped his fingers.

A pale blue flame flickered at his fingertips, illuminating Billy's face, which was contorted with utter astonishment.

Inside his body, the magical potion, which had previously been somewhat obscure.

At that moment, it was like boiling water, making a cheerful, soft sound that only he could hear.

That was the reward for a successful fraud.

Make the hunter believe he has everything under control, and then plunge him into the abyss at the climax.

This is the true code of conduct for playing a "Master of Tricks".

"Thanks, Mr. Butcher."

Orion looked at the burly man kneeling in front of him.

It was like looking at a bag of walking gold coins; a satisfied smile curved his lips.

"I'm handling your fear quite well."

"And...55 pounds, deal."

……

Ten minutes later.

Orian kicked the burly man, who looked like a rice dumpling, to the informant at the alley entrance.

He took the thick wad of banknotes and casually stuffed them into his pocket.

The night breeze was cool and refreshing.

He stood under the streetlight and pulled out the crumpled copy of the Backlund Morning Post from his pocket.

His slender fingers traced the lines of ink-printed wanted posters, finally stopping at a new name.

"I overdid it a bit in this performance; my voice is hoarse now..."

Orion rubbed his throat and then snapped his fingers again.

He extinguished the eerie blue flame at his fingertips, his eyes gleaming with the excitement characteristic of a predator:

"Alright, the next unlucky one is..."