Mystery: The Traveler Who Holds the Star Key

"350 pounds, I'll take it."

This statement wasn't loud; it even carried a hint of nonchalant laziness.

But in the quiet living room, it was like a bombshell, making everyone's eardrums buzz.

That's 350 pounds.

It's not 350 pence.

In an era when the average worker earned only 1 pound a week.

This amount of money is enough to buy a decent townhouse in Backlund.

Or perhaps you could keep a popular opera singer as your sugar daddy for a whole year.

And now, this mysterious man in black robes.

He casually held up the sign, just like buying two apples from a roadside stall.

"..."

The burly man selling gloves was clearly taken aback, seemingly not expecting the deal to be made so quickly.

He glanced around instinctively, making sure no one else was bidding, before swallowing hard and speaking somewhat hoarsely:

"cash?"

"certainly."

Orion walked to the long table and casually tossed the money bag onto it.

boom.

350 pounds.

In the corner, Fors watched the scene through the gap in his hood, somewhat lost in thought.

As a self-made extraordinary individual who is still carefully budgeting for royalties and rent.

For the first time, she saw firsthand what "efficiency" truly meant.

There was neither the hesitation of a miser nor the ostentation of a nouveau riche.

Only absolute reason.

In the eyes of that mysterious man, the gold pound did not seem to be currency, but merely fuel used to exchange for power.

"Is this... the survival logic of a seasoned extraordinary individual?"

Fors pursed her lips and silently memorized that cold, aloof figure.

……

Orion took the heavy black iron box.

He didn't open it.

They wouldn't be foolish enough to try it on in public.

In this malicious gathering, it's common sense to keep your wealth hidden and instinct to keep your cards close to your chest.

He simply touched the surface of the tin box with his fingertips.

Nourishes—

Even through the thick metal, a scalding, magma-like heat still relentlessly penetrated the skin and flesh along the fingertips.

That was the spiritual radiation overflowing from the sealed object.

A dry, smoky taste instantly rose in my throat, as if I had just swallowed a mouthful of hot sand.

Really.

[Burning thirst].

Confirmed.

"Click".

Orion withdrew his finger and decisively fastened the clasp on the metal box.

The crisp sound of metal clashing severed the unsettling heat and signaled the end of the transaction.

The whole process took less than three seconds.

Professional, restrained, and extremely cautious.

However, just as he was about to stuff the metal box inside his trench coat...

A sticky, cold gaze, carrying a strong smell of blood, suddenly appeared from the front of the room.

Mr. A.

The Aurora Envoy, who had always stood like a statue, was now slightly turning his head.

Those unfathomable eyes were fixed intently on Orion.

Like a venomous snake flicking its tongue, it searches for its prey's weakness in this enclosed room.

That was the mental pressure brought by those who were purely of high status and extraordinary character.

The air seemed to freeze.

The surrounding whispers vanished instantly.

Everyone keenly sensed the air pressure that was on the verge of spiraling out of control, and they even held their breath.

Orion's pupils, hidden behind the iron mask, suddenly contracted.

The cold sweat on my back instantly soaked through my shirt.

That was the trembling of a biological instinct—

He was facing a Sequence 5 madman who could suddenly turn on him and kill at any moment.

But he didn't move.

They did not make any defensive stance or attempt to escape.

At this distance, any unnecessary movement will be perceived as a "stress response," thus triggering the other party's hunting instinct.

Orion simply stood there, facing that terrifying gaze, and slowly and solemnly put the iron box into his pocket.

Then, he looked up.

Through the cold mask, he bowed slightly and nodded to the ruler who exuded a terrifying aura.

The movements were standard and the etiquette was perfect.

There was no provocation, no fear.

This is simply a silent thank you from the buyer to the party organizer for "providing a quality source of goods".

You are the king here.

And I am a guest who abides by your rules.

This is Orion's solution to break the deadlock—

Use "rules" to suppress "madness".

Mr. A stared at him for two seconds.

Those two seconds felt like an eternity.

Finally, the bloodlust in the divine messenger's eyes subsided slightly.

He seemed to feel a little bored or a little satisfied with this "well-mannered" and "mentally strong" guest.

He withdrew his gaze and returned to being that indifferent sculpture.

call……

The air pressure suddenly rose.

Orion let out a long sigh of relief, his fingers gripping the metal box turning white from the force.

The bet was won.

In this madman's territory, the greatest "madness" is maintaining absolute rationality.

……

The trade fair ended in a very depressing manner.

Perhaps it was because of Mr. A's quick glance earlier.

Everyone seemed to be being chased by a ghost, hurriedly leaving through different exits.

Orion was not in a hurry to leave.

He sat in his seat for another minute, until he watched the short man and the salted fish writer leave, before slowly getting up.

Queens streets late at night.

The fog was thicker than during the day.

The streetlights cast a dim, yellowish glow, stretching the shadows of pedestrians long.

Orion walked slowly with his hands in his trench coat pockets.

The fork in the road ahead.

Hugh clutched the formula to his chest like a hamster guarding its food, a silly, almost dreamy smile on his face.

"220 pounds... really only 220 pounds! Fors, that mysterious man is practically an angel sent by God!"

"Yes, yes, angel..."

Fors gave a perfunctory reply, still clutching the crumpled manuscript in his hand, but his expression was somewhat detached.

She was thinking about the man who took the picture of the red glove.

That kind of composure, able to chat and laugh in front of Mr. A, is definitely not something that an ordinary, extraordinary person could fake.

Just then.

A series of unhurried footsteps came from the mist.

The tall figure in black robes emerged from the shadows and brushed past them.

Hugh immediately shut his mouth and tensed up.

Fors' heart skipped a beat, and she instinctively wanted to speak—

Perhaps out of curiosity, or perhaps to learn some survival tips from this seasoned and extraordinary individual.

But Orion did not stay.

His steps were steady, his eyes fixed straight ahead, as if he were passing by two insignificant wisps of air.

only.

In that fleeting moment of intersection.

Orion glanced indifferently at the manuscript with a corner peeking out in Fors's hand.

Then, a casual whisper, as if it were just a casual conversation, drifted into her ears on the night breeze:

"If that sound is too loud..."

Fors froze abruptly.

"...I'll try writing them into a book."

The voice was soft, yet carried a certainty that only its kind could understand:

"For writers, fiction... is the best soundproof wall."

The footsteps faded into the distance.

The black robe blended into the night, leaving only a cold arc as the hem of the trench coat swept through the mist.

boom!

Fors stood frozen in place as if struck by lightning, his pupils contracting violently.

he knows!

He knew that voice that tormented me to the point of wanting to commit suicide during the full moon!

and……

"Fiction is the best soundproof wall..."

Fors muttered to himself, gripping the manuscript tightly in his hand.

In that instant, a barrier that had troubled her for so long seemed to crack open with those words.

That idea of ​​"using fear when you're afraid" was an extraordinary logic she had never considered.

"Fors? What's wrong? What's he saying?"

Hugh looked at his friend with a puzzled expression.

"No...it's nothing."

Fors took a deep breath and looked at the empty street.

The fear in his eyes gradually faded, replaced by a light of "awe" and "desire".

That person was not an ordinary passerby.

That was the guide who walked ahead, who had already seen through the fog...

"stop."

Fors clenched his fists, his voice trembling slightly:

"Next time we get together...remember to bring more money."

"Huh? What else do we need to buy?"

"Buy...knowledge."

……

Two streets away, a dead end.

Orion removed his iron mask, casually took off his black robe, and put on his crisp dark blue trench coat.

Half an hour later.

He found a reasonably clean, mid-range hotel to stay in, just two blocks from Minsk Street.

Lock the door and draw the curtains.

Orion sat at his desk, his gaze fixed on the heavy black tin box.

Even through the metal, you can still feel the subtle restlessness emanating from within.

"My first piece of official equipment..."

He rubbed his slightly cold fingers, a hint of expectation and scrutiny flashing in his eyes:

"This volatile spiritual response... it must be a seal formed from the characteristics of the 'Hunter' pathway, right?"

Click.

The latch popped open.

A dark red light instantly emanated from it.

The suffocating heat illuminated the dimly lit room, making it resemble a corner of purgatory.