Mystery: The Traveler Who Holds the Star Key

"Mr. Jason, please have a seat."

Klein had no idea what kind of cryptic conversation was going on between the two of them.

I don't know why, but my assistant, who usually lies down rather than sit, is now all her muscles are tense like a rock.

But he understood the subtle subtext.

The great detective's gaze swept over Orion's unnatural-looking boots, and he made up his mind:

It seems that my assistant has some dirty hands.

Two nights ago, I actually stole something from this banker.

It might not be a large amount; perhaps a pocket watch? Or some other jewelry?

But this was enough to make the owner come knocking on their door to demand an explanation.

As the head of the detective agency, and also to prevent the situation from escalating into a physical altercation.

Klein took the initiative and controlled the situation.

The two sat down.

No one spoke.

The air in the living room seemed to freeze.

Even the crackling of the embers in the fireplace sounded particularly jarring.

The dust particles floated motionless within the beam of light, like a miniature model of a silent confrontation.

Jason sat on one side of the sofa, while Klein sat on the armchair.

Orion, however, did not sprawl out anywhere as usual, like a spineless creature.

He chose to stand by the coffee table, like a nail firmly anchored between Jason and Klein.

He had his hands in his trench coat pockets, looking down at Jason.

That's not polite.

It was a defensive stance, a posture of being ready to suddenly strike and kill at any moment.

Inside that bottomless pocket, Orion's left hand gripped the cuff tightly, his nails almost digging into his flesh.

He was making a potentially fatal multiple-choice question.

He had two gloves in his pocket, but God only gave him a left hand.

[Grandet's Left Hand] is the most powerful, capable of directly stealing the core abilities of a demon.

But it was a greedy money-devouring machine—

Activating it requires offering 1000 pounds worth of gems or gold.

Now, before Count Hall's final payment arrives, he is completely penniless.

If it is forcibly activated...

The price won't be pounds, but his eyeballs and liver.

Even that sliver of "luck" that sustains life.

At this distance, sacrificing organs is tantamount to suicide.

It cannot be used.

Orion gritted his teeth, his fingertips tracing the velvet surface with extreme slowness.

I touched another layer of rough, cracked leather—

[Burning thirst].

Although the side effect is dehydration, and although it may very well turn this place into ruins.

But this "arsonist's" glove is the only effective trigger he can pull for free at this moment.

"Mr. Jason works in the banking industry? Specifically, in which area?"

Klein picked up his teacup, his casual tone, as if he were having a casual chat, barely breaking the thick, suffocating silence.

"Yes, mainly investment and...risk management."

Jason, with a smile playing on his lips, calmly accepted the teacup Orian offered.

That slender, seemingly well-maintained hand steadily held the bone china tea saucer.

The fingers gently caressed the rim of the cup, the pressure and frequency like stroking a lover's neck, or searching for the entry point of the carotid artery.

He looked at the reddish-brown liquid in the glass, which reflected his own fake smile.

"Speaking of risks..."

Ring ring—!!!

A rapid, cheerful, and worldly doorbell rang, like a sharp pair of scissors falling from the god of steam and machinery, instantly severing the fuse that was about to explode inside the house.

Immediately afterwards, a loud voice, brimming with a sense of justice and full of confidence, pierced through the door and resounded throughout the entire first floor:

"Detective Moriarty! I am Isengard Stanton!"

"Regarding that serial murder case! Your previous line of thinking was absolutely correct!"

"I brought all the unsolved cases from the past twenty years from the Backlund Police Department!"

Eisinger Stanton.

Serial murder case.

Police Department.

These three words were like three buckets of ice water, instantly extinguishing the crimson light that was about to burst forth in Jason's eyes.

Jason's pupils contracted sharply.

Isengard Stanton? That famous detective who's in cahoots with the official Beyonders?

In his demonic perception, the aura outside the door wasn't strong.

But that keen, all-seeing spiritual fluctuation...

Sequence 7, "Guardian of Knowledge" of the [Reader] pathway!

really……

This seemingly ordinary detective agency is just a front!

This is definitely the stronghold of some mysterious and extraordinary organization!

First, there was the recorder who possessed the ability of "divine purification".

Now he's a detective deeply intertwined with the government...

This is a series of traps aimed at me!

I absolutely cannot stay here any longer!

If Isengard can hold me off for even a minute, the Punisher from the next block will raze this place to the ground with the sealed artifact!

It happened in almost 0.1 seconds.

Jason loosened his clenched left fist, concealing all his malice.

The enthusiastic banker smile that belonged to "Patrick Jason" reappeared on his face.

Klein said "Excuse me" and got up to open the door and welcome Isengard into the house.

Jason stood up and casually straightened his perfectly wrinkle-free suit, as if the life-or-death struggle had never happened.

"Looks like you've got a big business opportunity."

He picked up the fruit basket containing apples and gently placed it on the coffee table.

His movements were gentle and careful, as if he were placing not fruit, but a lye bomb that could explode at any moment.

"Since Detective Moriarty is so busy, and has even made an appointment with the great Detective Stanton..."

Jason nodded politely to Isengard as he entered.

Under Isengard's subtle, scrutinizing, and suspicious gaze, befitting an old detective, Jason performed flawlessly.

"Then let's talk about my 'investment consultation' another time."

After a brief exchange of pleasantries.

Jason put on his hat, greeted everyone, and then strode out of the room, his back view even looking somewhat hasty as if he were "fleeing in panic".

Click.

The door closed.

The "enthusiastic banker" disappeared outside the door.

Immediately afterwards, the sound of carriage wheels rolling over the stone road came from outside the window and quickly disappeared into the distance.

The crisis is over.

Inside the room, Essinger Stanton was excitedly pulling a thick stack of files from his briefcase, ready to discuss the case in detail with Klein.

However, before he could even speak...

Orian, who had been standing there like nothing had happened, suddenly looked like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.

He strode up to Klein, grabbed his boss by the shoulder, his face pale, breathing rapidly, and even began to pant frantically.

"Detective Moriarty! I can't take it anymore! I need to take a leave of absence!"

Orion clutched his stomach, his whole body trembling.

"My stomach hurts! I have acute stomach cramps! It might be from the Dixie pie I ate this morning... I need to go to the hospital! Immediately! Right now! Please grant me permission!"

Klein: "..."

He looked at his assistant, who had a look of utter despair, as if he were about to die any second.

Although I don't know what's wrong with him, I have a vague feeling that the "banker" from earlier must have some problem.

Klein sighed and helplessly extended his hand.

The cool back of his hand was pressed against Ollie's sweaty forehead.

"You don't have a fever."

Klein looked into Orion's eyes, which seemed to say "Let me run away," and a hint of doting and amusement flashed in his own.

He withdrew his hand and shook his head:

"Alright, approved. Go ahead."

"You're amazing! Such a generous boss!"

Before he finished speaking, Orion was like a bolt of deep blue lightning.

He turned and rushed out the door, his footsteps fading into the distance as if a pack of demonic hounds were chasing him.

……

The next half hour.

Klein suppressed his doubts, maintained his persona as the great detective, and discussed and analyzed the case files from twenty years ago with Isengard in detail, offering some key suggestions.

He smiled and saw the old detective off, who seemed reluctant to leave.

Klein stood at the doorway, looked around, and made sure there were no suspicious figures on the street.

He closed the door and locked it.

All the curtains in the living room were drawn, plunging the room into darkness.

He drew his thin silver knife, infused it with spiritual energy, and erected a spiritual wall around the room.

Then, he went to the center of the open space, took four steps backward, and whispered the incantation that unlocked the mystery.

A deep red light surged.

Above the gray fog, inside the majestic and ancient palace of the Giant King.

Klein sat in the high-backed chair belonging to "The Fool," tapping his fingers lightly on the bronze table.

He materialized the parchment with the name on it and grasped the pendulum.

Even above this gray fog, which even the gods could not see, his expression remained extremely solemn.

He closed his eyes and began to silently recite the divination phrase in his mind:

"The banker who visited me today, Patrick Jason, wants to kill me."

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

He opened his eyes, and his breath almost stopped for a moment.

The entire Giant King's palace was so quiet that only the sound of spiritual energy could be heard.

In this maddening silence.

The citrine pendant began to spin slowly, yet steadily...