Mystery: The Traveler Who Holds the Star Key

The sky over Backlund remained a hazy, leaden gray, much like those unredeemed checks.

Inside the living room at 15 Minsk Street, the charcoal fire in the fireplace was burning brightly.

Orion sprawled undignifiedly on the single sofa, mechanically tossing the gold coin he had shamelessly borrowed in his hand.

My gaze swept across the corner of the coffee table, where a rotten feather, stained with grease, and a cold brass whistle lay tossed about.

This was the only reward for "volunteering" at the cemetery last night.

In order to create the "death descends" special effect that scared away the charlatan.

He burned half a can of high-purity magnesium powder and chemical reagents.

Cost: £40; Revenue: £36.

"Working at my own expense, am I some kind of new-style philanthropist?"

Orion cursed inwardly and looked away in disgust.

It was as if the pile of spoils reeked of some kind of stench called "deficit".

The gold coins in his hand tumbled and made a crisp sound, but they could never fill the 1000-pound black hole in his heart.

This is the excruciating pain of "paying money to buy life".

This self-proclaimed rational actuary felt like he was losing money, even in the past 48 hours, with every breath he took.

Until two hours ago, the suffocating deficit finally saw a glimmer of hope.

Even now, when I think back to that scene...

Orion still felt that it was the most wonderful gospel he had ever heard in Backlund.

First, at nine o'clock in the morning, there was that urgent knocking on the door.

Detective Eschinger Stanton stood in the doorway.

He waved the police report, still wet with ink, in his hand.

For the first time, that usually serious and rigid face was filled with a kind of excitement.

He brought more than just news of the serial murders.

There is a huge reward of up to 2000 pounds.

The excitement then transferred to the Stanton family's living room.

That place was a complete disaster.

A dozen or so professional detectives were crammed into a small space.

The smoke from burning cheap tobacco turned the place into a gas chamber.

The detective named Stuart was spitting as he spoke.

He slammed his fist on the table and yelled, insisting on starting with the victim's social network.

All around was a chaotic and disorderly commotion.

In a corner of that chaotic scene, there was his own boss—

Sherlock Moriarty simply sat there quietly.

He pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses, turned a page of the file, and with a calm, almost cold tone, instantly silenced the restlessness in the room:

"We need to review unsolved cases from the past twenty years."

Such a perfect serial killing is often not driven by hatred.

Rather, it is a long-term, meticulously planned ritual.

That's professionalism.

And that's the smell of money.

Let's bring our attention back to the present.

"He's so handsome, boss."

Orion snapped out of his reverie and grabbed the gold coin that was tumbling in the air.

He looked at the thick stack of old case files he had brought back from the Stantons' house on the coffee table in front of him, and a gambler's smile finally appeared on his lips.

"The expressions on Stuart's group's faces at the time were like watching a curly-haired baboon suddenly understand mechanical blueprints."

"That's basic induction."

Klein sat on the sofa opposite him, the cup of black tea in his hand long since cold.

He was not swayed by his assistant's "I'd do anything for money" attitude.

Instead, he closed the file, his tone carrying an extremely clear-headed indifference, as if he were about to pour a bucket of ice water over Orion's head:

"Put away those dangerous thoughts."

"We are only responsible for analyzing old cases and providing clues."

"As for arresting people? That's a matter for the police department and the church."

Klein pushed up his glasses to conceal the deep apprehension he felt towards the high-sequence demons in his eyes.

As a fortune teller who always keeps in mind the word "from the heart".

He knew all too well what it meant to face a madman who was blinded by greed for promotion.

"Don't be too greedy. Only money earned while alive can be considered assets."

"What you get when you die is called a pension."

"Tsk, boss, you have no ambition at all."

Orion pursed his lips, his fingers habitually toying with the gold coin, making it tumble and jingle between his fingers.

"Maximizing profits is the only way to respect the bounty."

Although he was making jokes and banter.

But beneath that nonchalant exterior, the "magic master's" insane calculations are in full swing:

Give the clues to the authorities? You'll only get a couple hundred pounds' worth of soup at most.

But I have the script in my hand.

I know that madman's name is Jason Beria, and I know he lives on Edward Street in the West End...

If we can use this information, we can carefully design a stage.

Lure that demon inside, then use official power to deliver the final blow...

Then wouldn't that 2000 pounds, and even the extraordinary properties of Sequence 6, all be...

A barely perceptible glint flashed in Orion's eyes.

He grabbed the gold coin in mid-air, a smile playing on his lips—a smile tinged with greed and a gambler's smirk—and said to Klein, half-jokingly:

"For that 2000 pounds, let alone a serial killer, even if..."

Boom, boom, boom.

A sudden knock on the door, like sharp scissors, instantly cut off Orion's grand pronouncements.

The sound wasn't loud.

Unhurried and steady, his demeanor exuded extreme politeness and restraint.

They don't seem like customers in a hurry at all, more like...

A gentleman came to visit an old friend.

But in that instant.

The gold coin that Orion was clutching tightly slipped through his fingers with a "clink" and fell onto the carpet.

A chill, without any apparent cause, shot up his spine and instantly to the top of his head!

That was the spiritual intuition that the astrologer was screaming about at that moment.

This is not an ordinary danger.

It's malicious!

A sticky, foul-smelling malice locked in by a top predator through a door.

The relaxed air inside the room seemed to be instantly sucked away in that one second.

"The customer has arrived."

Klein was unaware of the malice directed specifically at Orion.

He put down the file, straightened his perfectly wrinkle-free collar, and resumed his inscrutable detective demeanor:

"Orion, go open the door."

Orion stood frozen in place.

His throat moved as he looked at the dark brown wooden door.

His intuition told him so.

The person standing outside the door was definitely not the £2000 reward.

Instead, it was Death, the Grim Reaper, who came to collect debts.

"……good."

He took a deep breath, picked up the gold coins from the ground, and stuffed them into his pocket.

He carefully adjusted his facial muscles and put on the mask of a detective assistant who usually looked shrewd and capable but was actually full of malice.

He stood up and walked towards the door with slightly heavy steps.

With each step, the feeling of palpitations intensified.

Until his hand grasped the cold, brass doorknob.

A smell.

A scent that blended with the cologne specially supplied by Backlund's high-end department stores, yet still couldn't mask the sulfurous smell that seemed to come from the cooled magma deep underground, crept into Orion's nostrils like a venomous snake through the crack in the door.

Two nights ago.

Eastside.

laneway.

The smell of that monster!

In that instant, Orion's pupils shrank to the size of pinpoints.

His heart skipped a beat, and the blood in his body seemed to freeze in an instant.

It's him? !

How is that possible?!

This is Minsk Street!

It's a middle-class community in Backlund!

How dare that madman... how dare he swagger in during the day?!

Has he gone mad?

This is the Joewood district!

The Storm Cathedral of the Storm Church is just next door!

Those hot-tempered "Punishers" are more explosive than powder kegs. If they sense even the slightest hint of evil, they'll bring their sealing artifacts and blast this place to smithereens within three minutes!

run?

That's too late.

As long as I dare to turn around at this distance.

Or display any spiritual fluctuations that attempt to use extraordinary abilities.

This devil disguised as a banker will definitely crush my throat in 0.1 seconds before the scapegoat arrives.

The door is right next to me, and the other person is outside the door.

Should I try going through the wall to the next room first?

No! Boss K is still inside!

If I disappear now.

This guy will definitely turn the entire Minsk street into hell to silence witnesses or vent his anger!

Indiscriminate slaughter.

This is absolutely something that this serial killer would do!

Orion's knuckles were white from excessive force.

"Excuse me……"

Before he could even open the door, the gentle, mellow voice came through the door:

"Is this the Moriarty Detective Agency? I saw your guy in the newspaper."

It was a man's voice.

It sounds warm, cheerful, and even has a hint of a gentle, comforting smile.

But to Orion, it sounded like a death knell from hell.

He used almost all the acting skills he had ever possessed to forcibly suppress the twitching of his facial muscles.

Click.

The door opened.

Standing outside the door was a man of medium build with slightly curly hair, wearing a brown plaid suit.

He was carrying an exquisite fruit basket containing several red apples that looked very expensive.

At that moment, Orion, who was facing the door as it opened, flashed a standard, eight-toothed business smile.

He looked exactly like that always-smiling, respectable banker active in the West Backlund district—

Patrick Jason.

But in Orion's constricted pupils...

That gentle outer layer peeled away instantly, revealing the terrifying true name beneath:

Jason Beria.

A true, Sequence 6 [Demon].

"Good morning, I am Patrick Jason, a banker."

Jason looked at the young man in front of him wearing a dark blue trench coat.

In those seemingly gentle brown eyes, a barely perceptible glint of light, a light called "scrutiny," flashed.