Mystery: The Traveler Who Holds the Star Key

The next day, in the morning.

Backlund, a mid-range hotel.

When Orion took the heavy brown paper bag from Hugh's hands.

He couldn't help but whistle as he smelled the alluring scent of ink emanating from the 3000 pounds in cash inside.

Miss Justice is indeed a straightforward person.

Not only did they pay promptly, but they also included a note sprayed with a delicate perfume.

The text above is written in elegant cursive script:

"Thank you for your generosity and erudition."

"You're welcome, Miss Justice, beautiful inside and out."

Orion carefully put the money away; this sum would be crucial for his advancement to Sequence 7.

"Next..."

After seeing off Hugh, whose expression was complicated, Orion changed into a trench coat that was easy to move in.

He touched the restless, burning thirsty thing under his sleeve.

The smile in his eyes gradually faded, replaced by the coldness of a predator about to enter the hunting grounds.

Since Mr. A has already been "fed".

So, the "dead end" targeting the ambassador has been solved with its final piece.

……

Half an hour later.

Brave Ones Bar, back alley card room.

Orion navigated the dimly lit corridor with practiced ease.

This time, he stood alone in front of that familiar wooden door.

Thump, thump, thump.

A rhythmic knocking sounded on the door.

A few seconds later, the door opened.

What was revealed was Maric's deathly pale face.

When Marich saw that freak standing outside the door again, with that familiar smiling face, his eyelids twitched noticeably.

He was quite traumatized by the guy who could see right through the hiding place of the "vengeful spirit".

"What are you doing?"

"Let's talk business."

Without waiting for his reply, Orion squeezed into the room and closed the door behind him, shutting out the noise from outside.

The room was deathly silent.

Apart from Marich, the remaining dozen or so "people" all remained frozen in place.

A dozen or so murky eyes stared intently at Orian.

The air was filled with the smell of rotting flesh.

Orion didn't even frown.

The first thing I did upon entering the house.

He removed his hat and gave an impeccable gentlemanly bow to the empty, darkest corner:

Good morning, miss.

There was no sound or anyone in the corner.

But he was certain that Sharon was there.

After bowing, Orion turned to look at Maric, whose body was tense.

He hooked his toe, pulled over a chair, and sat down casually, as if he were back in his own home.

"Don't be nervous, Mr. Marich."

"Interested in... hunting 'Sequence 5' targets?"

Marich stared intently at the young man.

The chill that I felt last time, the feeling of being seen through at a glance, still lingers in my bones.

That look in his eyes was so sinister.

In Marich's eyes, this was hardly a detective's assistant.

That's not a person.

It's like a sealed object forcibly stuffed into a human skin to evade the rules...

"We don't take jobs that involve killing."

Maric's voice was hoarse, and his muscles were tense, like a wild wolf ready to bite at any moment.

"One thousand pounds."

Orion didn't waste any words and went straight to the numbers.

Marich's deadpan face finally twitched.

"The target is Ambassador Intis, Beckron. His true form is merely a Sequence 6 'Conspirator'."

Orion then dropped a bombshell, speaking as casually as if he were discussing what to eat for dinner:

"But what's a little hot to do is... he has a Sequence 5 'mad dog' by his side—the Diviner pathway."

The room fell into a deathly silence.

A few seconds later, Maric leaned forward abruptly and roared in a low voice:

"Are you crazy? That's an ambassador from a country! Do you want us to be surrounded by the army?"

Fortune favors the bold.

Orion was not intimidated.

He simply looked calmly at Maric and the empty corner:

"Just follow my plan, it's very simple."

As for the risks... if anything goes wrong, I'll be the one who dies.

After he finished speaking, he slowly pulled a heavy brown paper bag out of his pocket.

It remained pressed under the palm, not immediately released:

"This is the deposit. Do you dare accept it?"

Maric stared intently at the hand, then glanced at the shadows in the corner.

After a long while, he stretched out his pale hand and pressed it against the other end of the paper bag.

"make a deal."

Orion released his grip, then took out a letter sealed with red sealing wax and gently patted it onto the money pouch.

"That leaves one last thing."

Maric frowned: "What is this now?"

Orion straightened his trench coat collar, the smile in his eyes chillingly cold:

"My suicide note."

"A suicide note?"

"Yes. If something unexpected happens tonight, and I don't come back alive..."

Orion's voice was soft, yet it carried a madness that threatened to drag everyone down with him:

"Please hand this over to my boss, Detective Sherlock Moriarty."

Marich looked at him as if he were a madman.

Orion didn't explain further, turned around and pushed open the door, half of his body already disappearing into the thick fog outside.

He stopped, without turning around, but merely turned his head slightly, his tone carrying a hint of relief in his smile:

"If he asks about the owner of this letter..."

"Tell him that the person who wrote the letter... is his assistant."

The door closed, and Marich did not ask any further questions.

He stared silently at the letter.

It was as if one could smell a dark aura mixed with determination and curse from beneath that thin envelope.

He suddenly realized that he was in this crazy Backlund.

Some people choose to live as monsters.

And some people... choose to die like a magic trick...

……

into the night.

Backlund was shrouded in thick fog.

The dim yellow light from the gas streetlights diffused in the fog, resembling murky eyes.

15 Minsk Street.

The fireplace had long since gone cold, and the room was chilly.

Klein sat on the sofa, clutching the citrine pendant tightly in his hand.

No matter how many times the divination is performed, the result remains the same.

In reality, the pendant remained completely still, which meant it was "safe".

However, since the other party is a "diviner" of a higher order, this calmness only means that perception has been forcibly disturbed.

Only above the gray fog could he see the distorted truth.

Only one word keeps echoing:

Danger.

That feeling of impending crisis kept him from sleeping.

He knew that Ambassador Intis's retaliation would surely come.

Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow.

He glanced at the clock on the wall.

Six o'clock in the evening.

Orion has not shown up.

"Did you go straight back to the hotel and lie down?"

Klein glanced at the clock, but didn't think much of it and continued to eat his dinner.

Boom, boom, boom.

A rapid, muffled knocking suddenly broke the stillness of the night.

It sounded like the Grim Reaper striking the coffin lid with the handle of his scythe.

Klein's muscles tensed instantly.

He didn't open the door immediately; his body sprang away from the spot before his consciousness could register it.

He reached into his pocket with his left hand to fasten the seal, and instantly drew a revolver from under his arm with his right.

"Who?"

His voice was low and suppressed with tension.

There was no answer from outside the door.

There was only a kind of heavy, suppressed breathing sound.

A few seconds passed.

A hoarse, cold voice, as if there were gritty words in its throat, came through the door:

"It's me. Marich."

Who is the owner of those zombies?

What is he doing here?

Countless questions exploded in my mind.

Klein quickly activated his spiritual vision.

It was confirmed that there was only one person outside the door.

Moreover, it did not emit any obvious aggressive red light.

Only then did he cautiously approach and open the door.

The door opened.

A cold wind, carrying a faint smell of blood and decay, suddenly rushed in.

Maric stood in the doorway.

His white shirt was stained with a few dark red bloodstains that were not yet completely dry.

That usually expressionless, deadpan face was now so somber it seemed to drip water.

His eyes held an emotion that Klein couldn't decipher at all—

It was shock, fear, and a kind of unease from seeing a giant vortex.

"Detective Sherlock Moriarty".

Marich looked at Klein, who was fully armed, and did not laugh at his nervousness.

He mechanically raised his hand and handed over a letter stained with a little blood.

The sealing wax on the envelope hadn't been removed, but the corners were already crumpled.

As Klein looked at the letter, his heart felt as if it were being gripped tightly by an invisible hand.

A strong sense of foreboding made him almost suffocate.

"What is this?"

Klein heard his own voice trembling.

He was looking for that familiar figure.

He was waiting for the guy who always smiled and called him "the great detective" or "the boss."

He jumped out of the shadows behind Maric and said it was just a joke.

but.

Behind me were only dark, empty streets.

Maric took a deep breath, as if the words to come would exhaust all his strength.

He looked into Klein's eyes and said, word by word:

"Your assistant, that kid named Orion."

"Just now, outside the Intis Embassy."

"...He's dead."

boom.

Klein's mind went blank.

died?

This is the assistant who accompanied him throughout the week, searching for his cats and dogs and handling neighborhood disputes.

The "Tower" who was unfathomable at the Tarot meeting and confidently accepted the mission to assassinate the ambassador.

That guy who always seems to have a backup plan.

He died so hastily...?

"This is my suicide note."

Marich didn't give him time to be stunned and slammed the letter onto Klein's chest.

Klein caught it instinctively.

The moment my fingers touched the envelope, it felt sticky.

In the dim light of the corridor, he saw the dark red stain on the corner of the envelope that was not yet completely dry.

And there was that large, shocking patch of blood on the cuff of Marich's shirt.

The blood is real.

The letter is genuine.

Klein stiffly lowered his head, staring at the familiar, hastily written penmanship on the envelope:

[Opened by Sherlock Moriarty]

That instant.

A tremendous, absurd fear crept up my fingertips and into my very bones.