When the plot-skips players into the game world

If the time spent in a little dark cell is too short, it loses its meaning... For example, if it's as short as eight hours or less, that would be nothing more than turning the lights off for someone before they sleep.

Tommy Lohar was detained yesterday afternoon; he must be held for at least a full cycle of twenty-four hours.

Then they could tell him that he had been detained for thirty hours. Hunger and fear would extend his perceived duration of confinement, so Tommy would think he only had one day left—when in fact he had one day and six hours remaining.

These extra six hours were the margin of misinformation created by the Guardian.

By two o'clock on Thursday afternoon, the Guardian arrived on time at the Supervisory Bureau's sub-branch in the Red Queen District.

But when they opened the secret room and turned on the lights, they found the room was already empty.

Only a brass ring lay quietly on the cold stone bed, its golden brilliance twinkling under the light.

"Lohar... escaped?"

The Supervisory Bureau's Inspectors responsible for managing the matter immediately became serious, but they were not panicked—because they were certain their procedures were flawless. They had remained highly vigilant, with even the Director personally standing guard on the essential path. During this period, not even supplies had moved in or out, not one box had entered or left.

If someone could deceive them under these circumstances, it would mean they faced a formidable enemy they couldn't handle.

That was naturally not their problem.

Guardian George picked up the ring and carefully examined it.

Engraved on it was a fist full of scars—the blood seeping and dripping from between its clutched fingers.

"The Fist of Suffering..."

Guardian George muttered softly, "A member of the Noble Red?"

This was a provocation—undoubtedly.

The Noble Red Society was mocking the Supervisory Bureau.

Being able to send someone to infiltrate and abduct a person from under the noses of the Inspectors... surely there was a Noble Red spy within the Supervisory Bureau. Only with an insider could such a thing be possible.

"...No, that's not right."

With that thought, Guardian George narrowed his eyes, "Lohar must have been killed."

If he had been abducted, someone would have seen it. They might be able to bribe an Inspector, but not a passerby. Lohar's distinct physique made it impossible to disguise himself or blend into the crowd like an ordinary person... so he didn't "leave," he "vanished."

The methods to disappear without leaving behind a corpse were, in fact, much simpler. And indeed, the Noble Red had knowledge of similar rituals.

If that were the case, it would be better for George—in fact, Lohar's death would be one less problem for him to worry about.

"Have the Legal Mage perform a backtrack," George ordered.

"Yes," an accompanying Inspector responded.

The Guardian scanned the room. His gaze quickly landed on the pristine marble bed.

It was sufficiently hard and cold, a standard feature in interrogation rooms and small dark cells during winter—Despite the strong physiques of Transcendents, they would still feel discomfort. Such an environment was perfect for effectively extending one's perceived time.

However, George remembered that, as a reciprocation for the information provided yesterday afternoon, he had specially ordered the Inspectors to prepare a thin bed sheet for Tommy. This would make the bed seem not so cold—after all, lying bare-chested on a slab of marble in the middle of winter wasn't much warmer than lying on a block of ice.

But this was actually a trap.

Without that bed sheet, it was likely Tommy wouldn't have slept on the stone bed at all. And the chill seeping through the linen, though not immediately uncomfortable, would gradually accumulate into a perfect, subtle unease.

So, had his bed sheet been destroyed as well?

Was there something left on that bed sheet?
Continue your adventure at empire

"Before the Legal Mage comes, have someone check the traces of blood on the stone bed,"

Guardian George commanded, "And check every corner of the room too—Director Taya, this secret chamber wasn't stained with blood or had someone dying in it before, was it?"

"Absolutely not,"

the middle-aged woman with a monocle confidently replied.

Soon, the Inspectors promptly took the prepared reagents and tested every corner of the room.

As expected, the bed and the floor were spotless. Not a trace to be found.

The middle-aged Legal Mage Doane then hurried over.

"To the Silver-Crowned Dragon above. I greet you, Guardian,"

He no longer had his usual leisurely and relaxed demeanor but instead greeted the Guardian with full deference, crossing his staff in front of him.

"Mr. Doane," the Guardian nodded slightly, "please backtrack the traces of the deceased here. Within the last twenty-four hours—in this secret chamber."

...Deceased?

When did someone die in the secret chamber?

Doane was puzzled, but there was no question in his voice: "Yes."

He struck his staff on the ground—silvery-white runes coalesced into an Array, spreading and lighting up on the floor.

Quickly, a huge figure materialized out of thin air.

Like time flowing backward, the scene unfolded in reverse: the giant suddenly sat up, appeared to be speaking to someone, then lay back down slowly. With his size, the stone bed was too small, so he had to curl up his legs.

The rest of the scene showed him motionless on the bed.

"Less than a minute."

Without waiting for the Guardian to inquire, Doane directly answered, "From the moment he sat up until he was struck down or pinned down again, it took less than a minute. I was at triple speed before, I'll change to half speed and start over from the beginning."

As he spoke, the scene blurred, then began to replay from the start at a slower pace.

"Wait."

Suddenly, George and Director Taya said in unison.

The scene instantly paused, freezing on the nearly invisible trace on the giant's finger. He seemed to have written something, then covered it with his hand.

Clearly, he was meant to write this on the bed sheet. But the others noticed this and after destroying his body, they destroyed the bed sheet as well.

Director Taya directly took paper and pencil, placing them on the stone bed.

She knelt by the bed, asking Doane to continue, "Slow it down this time, Mr. Doane. Let me trace his last message."

"Alright."

Doane nodded and slowed the time to one-sixth of the pace.

Director Taya quickly traced President Lohar's "last message"—although it was written backwards, one could more or less make out what he intended to write.

Mr. Doane also approached with curiosity, "Aleister, the woman... what does this word mean?"

"It's the abbreviation for Noble Red."

Director Taya explained from the side.

"It was Noble Red's Aleister who killed me, she is a woman—I think that's what he meant to convey."

The Guardian said solemnly.

Director Taya turned her head towards the Guardian and asked for instructions, "What should we do, Your Excellency the Guardian? Should we immediately issue a warrant for Aleister's arrest?"

"No."

Contrary to expectations, the Guardian denied, "Lock down the message."

"Lock down the message?"

"That's right. Noble Red cannot come forward to prove that they have already killed Tommy Lohar—Lohar won't be able to stand up and say he was killed by Aleister either, and we haven't seen Lohar's body.

"Since no one can prove that Lohar is dead… then Lohar is still alive, only hidden away in some other secret place."

The Guardian ordered, "I will personally ask for Her Majesty the Queen's guidance on what to do next. First, have everyone in your bureau who knows about this sign a secrecy order—including you and Doane."

"Yes."

Director Taya responded.

In her heart, she marveled that this was unexpected... the one who abducted Moriarty turned out to be a woman. How should her name be spelled then?

After waiting for the crowd to return through the secret passage, and under the supervision of the Guardian, all had signed the secrecy order.

As soon as they returned to the lobby, Director Taya saw a familiar person waiting at the counter for something.

"...Miss Lily?"

Director Taya greeted in surprise, "How is Mr. Moriarty doing?"

The person in front of her was the very one who vanished with Aiwass—the personal maid of Aiwass, Lily!

How come she returned on her own?

...Oh, that's right.

A realization dawned on Taya.

They must have escaped while Aleister was away, right?

Taya was about to speak when the secrecy order she just signed made her close her mouth again.

With her hands clasped in front of her, Lily spoke softly, "The young master and I have escaped… or rather, it seems we were let go. Because the young miss suddenly disappeared, I immediately ran back with the young master. Since it was in the Red Queen District, we went to rest at the Moriarty Museum first… and then I came to retrieve the young master's wheelchair.

"The young master said it's a prop related to the case, and it might be here. If it's not, then I will need to go back to school."

"Is it here?"

The Guardian asked with concern.

"It is," Lily confirmed, but with a hint of distress, "But it seems like there's quite a troublesome process to go through..."

"Not necessary. Taya, bring out Aiwass's wheelchair and let Miss Lily take it back," George said with a deep voice.

"Thank you so much—" Lily bowed politely, yet she tilted her head slightly, appearing a bit puzzled, "May I ask who you are...?"

"It's not important."

The Guardian smiled, casually asking, "You said… 'the young miss'? What does the young miss who watched over you look like? It seems you bear no animosity towards her."

"Because she did not harm us."

Lily said candidly, "She never did from the beginning.

"The miss who controls the shadows has caramel-colored long curls, very beautiful... I can't articulate the place where we've been the past few days, but it's in the Red Queen District. I'm sorry, sir. We all signed a contract and cannot disclose too much."

The Guardian could tell, this was the absolute truth.

But this intelligence was enough.

"So, it means you've seen that young miss's face, right?"

He confirmed, having some guesses in mind, "She didn't disguise herself in front of you?"

Now knowing that Aleister is a woman, and that not many have just taken action.

If Lily and Aiwass were not Aleister's collaborators, then they could only be people who have seen her true form.

But they couldn't possibly be working with Aleister—because that would make no sense for them.

So, although Lily's words on their own might seem bizarre… it was precisely this bizarreness, this lack of logic, that made the Guardian believe her all the more.

At this very moment, everything just seemed to fit together.

"Yes."

Lily nodded affirmatively, "But we don't know her identity…"

"Aleister."

The Guardian answered directly, "Her name, or at least her alias, is Aleister—I think you'll soon be able to see the news about the past few days."

He did not reveal Aleister's identity and didn't speak ill of her in front of Lily. That would be impolite.

At least the other person indeed hadn't harmed them—setting aside the question of stance for a moment, but at least for Aiwass and Lily, Aleister harbored no ill will. Hence, he could not insist they take an adversarial stance toward Aleister out of a sense of justice. That would be unjust.

However… even if Aleister didn't harm them, Noble Red might realize Aiwass had escaped.

They were still in danger.

Thus, George pondered for a moment, then suddenly offered, "I might as well go with you. That way I can protect you, and also pay a visit to Aiwass… Coincidentally, I have other important matters to discuss with Aiwass. If you are available… you both can also stay over at my place tonight. After all, your dormitory has not been cleaned up yet to preserve the crime scene. But now that you're back, the dormitory can be cleaned."

George smiled courteously, his right hand resting on his chest as he made a slight bow.

This tall, blonde man looked every bit the epitome of the quintessential knight—humble, honest, upright.

He smiled softly, saying, "By the way, let me introduce myself, my name is George Barton. I am a friend of Professor Moriarty."