Mystery: The Traveler Who Holds the Star Key

Banquet hall, central exhibition booth.

With Count Levitt's summons, the nobles who were originally scattered in various corners of the world quickly gathered at the center.

The banquet hall erupted in excitement when news broke that someone had brought "Emperor Roselle's ultimate masterpiece on naval warfare."

The parchment was carefully unfolded on a velvet-covered display stand.

In an instant, dozens of pairs of eyes and dozens of monocles appeared.

At the same time, the focus was on those few lines of "garbled Chinese characters" written with inferior ink.

"These lines...this structure..."

An elderly gentleman wearing thick-rimmed glasses leaned very close, his beard trembling:

"Although I can't decipher its specific meaning, this square font structure is exactly the same as the manuscripts of the Great Emperor that I saw in the National Museum! Look at this symbol... doesn't it look like an ironclad warship that's submerging?"

"Even if it's not a naval battle map, the cultural relic value of just these few pages of manuscript is immeasurable!"

Whispers arose from the crowd.

Some were amazed, some were skeptical, and some looked blank but nodded in agreement.

This atmosphere is contagious.

Even if, in some people's eyes, these few lines of text are no different from street graffiti.

But under this high-pressure atmosphere where "whoever doesn't understand is uncultured," no one dares to admit that they are blind.

"Wonderful... truly wonderful."

A well-known art collector in Backlund was taking off his monocle, wiping it as he uttered a remark that even sounded slightly trembling:

"Look at the beginning of this first line, that sharp hook... This is clearly not writing; the Emperor is using brushstrokes to simulate the trajectory of a steam piston! The mechanical beauty contained within is simply breathtaking!"

Upon hearing this, the surrounding nobles, who had initially looked completely bewildered, immediately nodded frantically as if they had just realized something:

"That's right! I felt it too! That overwhelming industrial, steely aura! This is definitely an original! Forgeries simply can't capture this weighty sense of the era!"

"I don't think so."

A discordant voice rang out.

A young viscount spoke with obvious contempt:

"I can draw this symbol too."

Who knows if it was forged by some incompetent craftsman? Earl Levitt, you mustn't be fooled.

The moment the doubts arose, the previously enthusiastic atmosphere cooled down considerably.

Count Levitt's already feverish mind was also sobered up by this bucket of cold water.

He looked hesitantly at Orian, as if waiting for a more compelling piece of evidence.

It was during this anxious and doubtful moment.

"Oh."

A cold laugh, full of contempt and arrogance, as if looking at a group of uncivilized monkeys, came abruptly from the periphery of the crowd.

Everyone turned around angrily.

A young man dressed in an elaborate deep red velvet tuxedo with a lace scarf tied at the collar was walking slowly towards them.

He didn't rush to speak, but stopped in front of a waiter on the perimeter.

With his white-gloved hands, he meticulously picked up a glass of Marquis red wine, which wasn't bad at all.

Shake it gently and smell it.

The next second, he frowned in disgust, as if he had smelled some kind of sewer stench.

He casually tossed the expensive glass of red wine back onto the tray with a crisp "clang".

"Poor-quality alcohol, polluted air, and..."

He pulled out a silk handkerchief, covered his mouth and nose in disgust, and glanced at the well-dressed gentlemen and ladies present, as if he were looking not at people, but at a group of fermenting fungi:

"...and there was also a nauseating, blind, and stupid smell of sweat."

His face was so pale it was almost sickly, yet he possessed an extremely handsome face.

Those dark red eyes were filled with disdain for all the Rune nobles present.

That was Emlyn White, fully armed and displaying his acting prowess.

He ignored the stares of those around him and walked straight to the booth.

Without even using a magnifying glass, he simply touched the manuscript with his white-gloved finger, then uttered a sarcastic remark that ignited the fury of the entire room:

"A bunch of short-sighted, bohemian bumpkins!"

"You—!" The viscount who had just questioned her was about to explode.

Emlyn turned his head sharply, the natural aura of oppression belonging to vampires making him look like a true, ancient foreign royalty:

"You call this a 'counterfeit'?"

"This is art! This is the culmination of civilization!"

"This is the last...deep-sea treasure that Emperor Roselle left to the world!"

Emlyn took a deep breath, his face displaying a fanatical expression, as if a believer had seen God:

"Whether it's its artistic value or the ultimate weapon it depicts... how could such a treasure fall into the hands of you tea-drinking Loen people?"

He whirled around, looked at Count Levitt, chin held high, and announced the price that took everyone's breath away:

"I'll offer £3000!"

The entire audience erupted in uproar.

£3000!

In Backlund, this is enough to buy a luxury villa with a garden, or even a baron's title!

Emlyn gave the crowd no chance to react; he clutched his chest and cried out in an aria-like tone:

"I'm taking it with me! Taking back our great blood... cough, the South!"

"Fenneport's museum is missing just such a national treasure!"

"If we dedicate it to..., it will surely restore the glory of the empire!"

south.

Fenneport.

Imperial glory.

These words were like red-hot iron spikes, piercing deep into Count Levitt's mind.

A fear of being left behind by the times struck him at that moment.

Count Levitt's face instantly turned a deep liver color.

As the admiral's older brother, he knew better than anyone else.

The fragile peace between the Kingdom of Rune and the southern kingdoms of Feneport and Intis.

If this manuscript, which records the "ultimate weapon of naval warfare," were indeed bought by the people of Fenneport...

Once the other side creates that "deep-sea ghost"...

The Royal Navy, which Ruen is so proud of, will become a sitting duck!

And his brother will become a sinner of the kingdom!

"Absolutely not!!"

Count Levitt roared inwardly.

At this critical moment.

Orian, who had been standing by like a ghost, delivered the final blow with pinpoint accuracy.

He pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses, opened his notebook, looked at a set of data, and spoke with a calmness that was almost cruel:

"My lord, although as an advisor I should not interfere with your political decisions."

"But according to my 'war attrition model' calculations..."

Orion raised his head, his gaze behind his glasses cold and rational:

"If this manuscript leaves Rune and falls into the hands of hostile forces."

The Royal Navy's win rate will drop by 40% over the next five years.

"And the resulting war reparations and trade losses will be...ten thousand times the value of this manuscript."

"Levitt".

Count Hall, who had been observing silently, finally spoke with a solemn expression.

As a prominent banker, he couldn't stand hearing the phrase "declining win rate."

He patted Count Levitt on the shoulder and said in a deep voice:

"Mr. Zangwell is right, the risk is too great."

For the sake of the kingdom... it's better to believe it exists than to believe it doesn't.

On the left is Earl Hall's heavy slap, representing the top echelons of Rune.

Behind him was Orion's battle damage data, as cold as a death sentence.

Before them stood the arrogant "Fennepot Man," whose greedy fingers were about to touch the secrets of the Empire.

There are wolves in front, tigers behind, and a mountain called "Patriotism" overhead.

At that moment, the string of "reason" that Count Levitt held was instantly crushed by this tangible giant hand.

The family's glory, his brother's future, the kingdom's safety...

All the pressure exploded in that instant, culminating in a hysterical roar.

He lunged forward, grabbed the display stand, his eyes bloodshot, and forced out the astronomical price through clenched teeth, silencing the entire banquet hall instantly:

"4500 pounds!!!"

"I'll offer £4500!! Nobody's taking it from Loen!!"