Mystery: The Traveler Who Holds the Star Key

15 Minsk Street.

The morning mist had not yet dissipated, and the room was dimly lit.

Klein sat on the sofa, with the pale blue, extraordinary substance still wriggling slightly on the coffee table in front of him.

Those are relics of "Master of Puppets" Rosago.

But he felt no joy at the victory.

He just stared intently at that clump of material, his eyes bloodshot.

"If we don't let him take that damn commission..."

"If only I had noticed Rosago's movements sooner..."

Klein took a deep breath, his chest tight with pressure.

The young assistant who always called him "boss" with a smile and dared to cause trouble even for a Sequence 5 is now nowhere to be found.

It is said that the embassy area was bombed into ruins last night, and the fire burned all night.

Rest in peace.

Klein closed his eyes, tapped his chest four times clockwise, and prepared to offer a brief prayer to the goddess of night.

Although Orion was not a believer in the goddess, someone still needed to guide his soul.

"May the goddess bless you..."

click.

Halfway through the prayer, the door lock suddenly clicked.

That wasn't the sound of a key being inserted.

Instead, there was a faint metallic clicking sound, followed by the crisp click of the latch opening.

Someone is picking the lock.

Moreover, the technique was outrageously good, and the whole process took less than two seconds.

Klein's crimson fingers froze in mid-air.

He suddenly opened his eyes, and countless thoughts flashed through his mind, including "embassy retaliation," "MI9 checking water meters," and "burglary."

In that instant, he had already reached for the gun holster under his arm.

squeak-

The door opened.

A cool morning breeze blew in, carrying with it a rich, steaming aroma of fried noodles.

Good morning, boss.

Orion walked in.

He changed into an ill-fitting, cheap gray suit and carried two oil paper bags in his hands.

With his other hand, he casually stuffed a thin wire back into his pocket.

He looked at Klein, who looked as if he were facing a formidable enemy and was about to draw his gun.

Completely oblivious to the fact that they had "illegally intruded," they instead smiled broadly.

"The Dipsy Pies at the alley entrance had just come out of the oven. I saw there weren't many people in line, so I grabbed the last two."

pat.

The bottle of essential oil that Klein had intended to use for the ritual fell onto the carpet.

He remained frozen in that position, watching the lively guy in front of him who was even putting pies onto a plate.

My brain went blank for a full three seconds.

Then, the detective's face, which always maintained a respectable appearance, suddenly twisted slightly:

"you……"

"Are you a human or a ghost?"

Orian did not answer.

He simply took a big bite of the pie, even hissing twice because it was too hot.

Hot grease dripped from the corner of his mouth, which he wiped away with the back of his hand without a care, then let out a satisfied sigh.

"Ghosts can't eat this stuff, boss."

He held up the remaining half of the pie and waved it at Klein:

"Ghosts only smell fragrance. But my stomach right now..."

"It told me that if it wasn't filled up soon, it would digest my intestines."

Klein didn't say anything.

He sprang up from the sofa, rushed over in two steps, reached out, and pinched Orian's face hard.

The force he used was entirely out of venting his anger.

"Ouch—it hurts! Let go! Boss! It's real leather!"

Orion nearly choked on the pie and quickly covered his face.

The actual temperature.

A realistic tactile experience.

And that familiar, irritating tone.

Klein released his grip, took a step back, and his chest heaved violently.

That immense surprise and the anger of being deceived were mixed together.

For a moment, he didn't know whether to hug him or punch him.

"Marich said you're dead."

"The suicide notes are all here with me."

Klein gritted his teeth and slammed the bloodstained letter onto the table.

Orion mumbled indistinctly:

"That's called 'dramatic effect'..."

This phrase, "dramatic effect," is like a key.

Klein released his grip and looked repeatedly at Orion, who, though disheveled, clearly possessed a more profound and restrained aura.

Countless fragments in his mind instantly pieced together.

suspended animation.

To frame someone.

The shocking lie that even their own people were tricked into joining the operation.

It turned out to be the case.

This is what is known as "magic trick".

They fooled not only the enemy, but also the audience.

Even he, the "boss," was kept in the dark and genuinely shed tears.

"You little rascal..."

Klein cursed inwardly, but couldn't help but smile helplessly.

They made such a big fuss just to digest the "Master of Tricks'" potion.

That's... both awful and amazing.

He took a deep breath and swallowed back the words he was about to say, "Don't risk your life like that again."

After all, this is the survival rule for the extraordinary.

Orion had no idea that his boss had seen through his little scheme.

He was still there, rubbing his face and sighing regretfully.

Actually, he had half a sentence left unsaid.

Last night, after dealing with the ambassador in that dead end.

He had just fixed his hair.

I'd like to invite that vengeful spirit floating in the air to lunch tomorrow, and also to celebrate our successful collaboration.

Then I looked up.

They've long since vanished like a gust of wind, leaving not even a trace.

Are all vengeful spirits this aloof these days?

Or is it only Sharon who is like this?

They didn't even leave a personal contact method...

Orion sighed regretfully to himself.

Then he casually picked up the Tasok newspaper from the mailbox outside the door.

Splash!

The newspaper unfolds.

The bold, black text on the front page caught my eye like a bomb:

Ambassador Intis's tragic death! Terrorist organization "Aurora Society" claims responsibility!

The West End is engulfed in flames; a frenzied revenge operation shocks Backlund!

Looking at this title, Orion felt the potion within him surge with joy once more.

It was an unprecedentedly smooth feeling of digestion.

This is the ultimate portrayal of a "magic master".

I killed someone.

But I made the whole world think that it was done by a madman.

Even the victims themselves died without ever knowing the full truth.

"Not only is he not dead, but he seems to be in a good mood?"

Klein's cold voice interrupted his self-absorption.

Orion put down his newspaper and gave an innocent smile:

"That's right, after all, they didn't embarrass our detective agency."

Klein gritted his teeth inwardly as he looked at him.

He glanced at the extraordinary substance on the table, which was originally intended as a sacrifice.

Suddenly, I realized that all the tears I had been holding back for so long were a complete joke.

it is good.

well.

You're not dead, are you?

A magic trick, right?

Klein straightened his slightly disheveled collar, regaining the composure and dignity of the great detective Sherlock Moriarty.

He picked up his hat, put on his gold-rimmed glasses, and spoke in a calm, unwavering tone:

"Since we're still alive, let's celebrate."

"I haven't had breakfast yet either."

Orion pushed the Dipsy pie towards them:

"Didn't I buy this for you? While it's still hot."

"I won't eat this."

Klein didn't even glance at the pie, went straight to the coat rack, and took down his coat.

"Go and reserve a table. Reserve for lunchtime."

Orion paused for a moment, then asked, "Noon?"

"Yes. The Champs-Élysées, that most expensive Intis restaurant."

Klein glanced back at him, a vengeful smile playing on his lips, his tone leaving no room for argument:

"Eat fewer pies, save room in your stomach."

"For lunch, I'm going to order two servings of foie gras, and one of those ridiculously expensive Olmere wines."

"besides."

"You're treating."

Orion touched his wallet, which had only been bulging for a couple of days, and his face fell.

"Boss... does this count as a workers' injury claim?"

"Not really."

Klein walked out without looking back, his steps light and quick.

"This is compensation for emotional distress."