Mystery: The Traveler Who Holds the Star Key

Above the gray fog.

Divination statement: [The banker who visited me today, Patrick Jason, wants to kill me.]

Pendulum state: Rotating counterclockwise.

Interpretation: No.

Klein frowned slightly and immediately changed his sentence.

Patrick Jason wanted to kill Orion Abraham.

Pendulum state: Rotating counterclockwise.

Interpretation: No.

Klein's brow furrowed even more.

He took a deep breath and tried again.

Patrick Jason is dangerous.

Pendulum state: Rotates clockwise with a very large amplitude.

Interpretation: Yes, and it is extremely dangerous.

Klein felt a throbbing sensation in his temples.

Undeterred, he released the final two sets of verifications:

Did he want to hurt me?

No.

[Did he want to hurt Orion Abraham?]

No.

Snapped.

The citrine pendant fell back into the palm of the hand.

Klein leaned back in his chair, staring at the empty gray mist above him, and fell into a long silence.

A mysterious intermediate-sequence extraordinary individual, posing as a helpful banker and whose divination results indicate "extreme danger," takes the initiative to provoke you.

She even had a highly charged conversation with Orion...

But the divination results showed that he neither wanted to kill nor hurt anyone.

So what did he come here for? Just to drink a cup of not-so-authentic black tea?

Or was it to show off his sense of humor to a detective's assistant?

"..."

In a state of extreme confusion and intense spiritual exhaustion.

Klein raised a hand to rub his temples, severing his connection with the gray mist...

……

North Quarter, St. Samuel's Church.

The huge stained glass windows filtered out the noise from the outside world.

The afternoon sunlight refracted into a serene and sacred crimson.

The deep, rumbling sound of the pipe organ echoed beneath the dome.

The air was filled with the aroma of calming essential oils and burning candles.

Orion was kneeling in front of the first row of benches.

He had already cancelled his hotel reservation in the Joewood district and, like a panicked rabbit with its fur standing on end, traversed most of Backlund before plunging headlong into the sanctuary of the goddess of night.

At that moment, he clasped his hands together and pressed them against his forehead, his whole body trembling uncontrollably.

Cold sweat trickled down his temples and dripped onto the floor.

The fear that came from the depths of his soul made him look like he could faint at any moment.

"Praise beauties, goddess..."

He murmured softly, his voice broken and suppressed.

Beside him, an elegant elderly woman wearing a black veil was watching the young man.

She was deeply moved by this scene.

In her "filter," this is a lost soul's most genuine trembling before the gods.

That trembling must have been because it felt the goddess's boundless compassion and was making a heart-wrenching repentance for its past sins.

"What a devout child..."

The old woman's eyes were slightly red as she gently handed over a clean white handkerchief, her voice as tender as if she were comforting a wounded lamb.

"Don't be afraid, child."

He is always watching over you.

Your trembling is proof that your spirit has been purified.

Orion took the handkerchief, his trembling intensifying.

"Thanks……"

He hastily wiped the cold sweat from his face, drew a crimson moon clockwise on his chest, and spoke with extreme weakness:

"Yes... I felt it... His gaze... It was terrifying... No, it was magnificent."

The old woman nodded with satisfaction and silently praised the young man's piety in her heart.

However, only Orion himself knew that it was not out of piety at all.

He was frightened.

When the words "He is watching you" entered my ears.

What came to mind was not the serene emblem of the goddess of night.

It was a quill pen dipped in ink.

Adam.

Or rather, the "Twilight Hermits' Society," whose name I can't even clearly recall.

During his prayer review, he finally understood why Jason Beria hadn't made a move.

Jason accepted a commission from the Twilight Hermits to assassinate Duke Negan in exchange for the "Abyss Card" created by Emperor Roselle.

Jason must survive and remain hidden before he can complete this momentous mission.

If I had acted impulsively just now, and in the name of so-called "justice" had reported Jason to the church...

Jason is dead.

Duke Negan is not dead.

The trigger for the massive smog event has been extinguished.

The entire script of this era has been altered.

So, as the source of all this—

The screenwriter will surely take notice.

"Why did Jason die prematurely? Oh, it's because of this little bug named Orion Abraham..."

Just thinking about this made Orion feel a chill run down his spine.

The gap is too big.

The Abraham family of today is nothing but rotten mud clinging to life in the gutter.

The Twilight Hermits' Society, however, is an invisible behemoth that manipulates the torrent of history.

Even his so-called ancestor, "Mr. Men," was nothing more than a prisoner banished to the depths of the starry sky.

But "that person"... is a "writer" who walks on the earth and holds a script in his hand!

To be watched by an existence of this level.

Even just a curious glance.

It also means you've bought a one-way express ticket to hell!

You must not report it!

And absolutely no further positive interaction with Jason that would be noticed by the outside world is allowed!

"call……"

Orion took a deep breath, forcibly controlling his facial muscles to make himself look like a saint who had just finished confessing.

He instinctively pressed his chest.

There, hard as ice, was the cash that had just been deposited.

But the next second, a suffocating sense of "rejection" made his fingertips suddenly stiffen.

The air has become "hard".

It was as if countless unseen hands were pushing against his bones, trying to detach him from this coordinate system.

"It's earlier than expected..."

Orion glanced at the pocket watch, his pupils contracting slightly.

23 hours.

The once rigid red line silently shortened by an hour.

This "accelerating" trend is more like a death sentence than the roar of any monster.

That's a countdown to being slowly digested by the world.

"There's no time."

Orion gripped his collar tightly, the feeling of impending death whipping his back like a lash.

You must get promoted as soon as possible, and you must take long-distance travel before you are completely "crushed"!

Before that... he absolutely cannot die at the hands of Jason Beria.

Since we can't use the official church's weapons, we have no choice but to go through the underground black market.

He needs bodyguards.

He needs a strong enough "shield"—one that's paid to do things without asking why—to help him weather this most vulnerable period...

……

into the night.

Iron Gate Street, "Braveheart" Bar.

Walk through the noisy hall filled with the smell of cheap malt beer.

Orion effortlessly pushed open the door to the card room behind it.

The room was filled with smoke.

Maric was sitting at a card table, his pale face bearing heavy dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept well for decades.

Opposite him, several stiff-moving, vacant-eyed zombies were playing cards with him.

"Mr. Marich."

Without wasting any words, Orion pulled out a chair and sat down.

His eyes revealed a madness and composure born from being driven to the brink of despair.

"I want to discuss a business deal."

"I would like to hire you, and that lady who doesn't want to show her face... as my personal bodyguards."

Maric tossed out a pair of Kings without even lifting an eyelid, his voice hoarse and full of impatience:

"I won't answer."

"Last time it was to kill an ambassador, this time it's to be a bodyguard?"

"A problem that even someone like you who uses 'magic tricks' finds troublesome, and that you're even afraid to solve yourself, must be quite extraordinary."

"We don't want to get caught up in too big a whirlpool."

"It's a misunderstanding! This is absolutely a misunderstanding!"

Orion panicked instantly.

He gestured exaggeratedly with his hands, loudly refuting the claim with an absurd logic of "turning black into white":

"This is not a vortex at all, Mr. Marich!"

"This is just a... defensive asset allocation targeting extremely low-probability risks!"

Orion gritted his teeth, his face showing a mixture of sincerity and anxiety, as if he were saying, "I'm giving you money."

"I'm not asking you to risk your lives! I just want to spend money to buy two 'door gods'!"

"Even if you're just sitting next to me playing cards, as long as I can see you, my credit rating will go from 'junk debt' back to 'AAA'!"

"Isn't this the easiest way to make money?!"

Maric paused for a moment while dealing the cards.

Even zombies were baffled by this peculiar thought process of "representing hiring bodyguards as asset allocation."

Just then.

The already dim gaslight in the card room flickered suddenly.

The air suddenly turned cold.

In that dusty dressing mirror hanging in the corner.

A figure dressed in an elaborate black court dress and wearing an exquisite soft hat emerged slowly, as if rising from deep water.

Miss Sharon's delicate, doll-like pale face appeared in the mirror.

Those calm, unwavering blue eyes gazed silently at Orian, who was spouting nonsense.

She ignored the nonsense about "asset allocation".

She parted her red lips slightly and asked the most crucial, and most fatal, question:

"Who wants to kill you?"