Editor 74

The Opera House Murder Case (1)

Aslan was cold and cruel by nature, but he was by no means the type of pleasure killer.

Even now, after meeting him in person, that impression hadn’t changed.

‘Judging by his actions during the war in the previous draft, he certainly regarded human life as trivial and didn’t hesitate to be brutal.’

But that was behavior stemming from twisted beliefs, and there was never a single line describing him as someone who derived pleasure from killing itself.

‘Besides, in the , Aslan keeps sending assassins who can’t possibly threaten Arthur anymore, just so Arthur will experience the pain of killing someone weaker than himself.’

It was a kind of torment that would be impossible unless he truly understood in his heart that killing was a painful thing.

‘The possibility that Aslan is a pleasure killer is low.’

The Aslan described in the manuscript was consistently fastidious.

Outside of battle, he considered staining his sword with the blood of those not noble as a disgrace, and if his opponent’s status wasn’t suitable, he wouldn’t even accept a duel.

There was definitely a scene in the previous draft where he rejected a polite challenge from a Kishion knight for that very reason.

‘He was a villain with his own convictions. He only pursued noble bloodlines and strength, believing only those with both were right.’

Why had such a rumor started?

The number of things he needed to investigate was increasing, and his headaches intensified proportionally.

Clayio felt a greater need for Tylenol than ever before.

‘What’s the use of knowing the [Relief] magic formula if I can’t apply it to myself? Tch.’

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Clayio endured his headache without painkillers as he returned to the dormitory.

Swaying in the carriage made his head throb. He felt self-loathing over being a 21st-century person with no knowledge of chemistry or pharmacy.

‘If I just knew how to make Tylenol, I could not only rake in a fortune but also solve my headache. Sigh.’

Plagued by countless idle thoughts, he trudged up the dormitory stairs. But when he opened the front door, an unexpected figure was waiting for the exhausted Clayio.

Unable to sit still due to her temperament, Fran was pacing anxiously around the dormitory lounge.

“What brings you here? The sun must be rising in the west tomorrow.”

“Where have you been wandering around? You’re supposed to be on medical leave!”

“I was well enough to go out, but now my head really hurts.”

“…Is that true?”

“If it is, can it wait until tomorrow?”

“If it’s not a fatal illness, just sit down.”

After the field trip, Fran had taken a break from school for a while.

After that, with the “Gate of Mnemosyne” open, Zebedee’s classes had been continuously canceled.

In such circumstances, the after-school free research assignments were also suspended, so it had been a while since he’d talked to Fran.

Fran’s previously standoffish attitude toward Clayio had changed 180 degrees. Her expression was now not just serious, but frozen white.

“What happened?”

“There’s a string of murders in Lundein. I have to do something about it.”

“What?!”

Clayio’s long, drooping eyes shot up in surprise.

He wouldn’t have been this shocked even if she’d asked for help with the People’s Banner movement or organizing a union. For that, he’d have been willing to donate funds.

‘But serial murders!?’

He’d just come home after hearing disturbing rumors that the second prince might be a killer, and now this.

In the previous draft, none of the main characters had any connection to such heinous crimes!

“If it’s a murder case, shouldn’t you go to the police first, not me?”

Fran slammed her hand on the lounge table, scattering the papers stacked there.

“Who cares if a few usher boys or flower girls from the opera house go missing! The police don’t care at all! If the police had listened to me, would I have come to you? All the victims are commoners. Those idiots at police headquarters just call missing victims unaccounted for if no body is found!”

Fran’s forehead veins bulged as she grew agitated. She wasn’t the type to get worked up for no reason.

“But you must have some reason to believe these are murders, right?”

“At the start of autumn, Mr. Bartleby from the printers’ union came to me. His niece, who sells flowers at the theater, hadn’t come home for a week. She was caring for two younger siblings.”

Even after all she’d been through, Fran was still helping the union. Steadfast, and devoted to her ideals.

‘Whether her goal is scientific progress or workers’ rights, her attitude is the same. The essence doesn’t change.’

“You said the police, right? Of course I went there first. You know what those bastards said? ‘She’s a girl of that age, probably ran off with a boyfriend.’ They just brushed me off with crap like that.”

“…Did you try using your stigma?”

“You think my stigma is all-powerful, but it only works on people with at least a little sympathy. It can’t open the ears of those completely closed off. The low-ranking officers or poor children might care, but the inspectors wouldn’t budge. Bastards.”

“You’ve had it rough.”

“It’s not about my trouble! In the end, Miss Bartleby was found at the city morgue. The body was so badly damaged, if it weren’t for a big burn scar on her wrist, they couldn’t have identified her.”

“My god…!”

“And there was a distinctive ether reaction on the back of her neck. There aren’t any mages assigned to the morgue, so the police have no clue!”

Clayio listened closely to Fran’s rapid words.

“From what I heard, quite a few people have gone missing in similar ways over the last few months.”

Fran explained quickly.

After discovering Miss Bartleby, she visited two Lundein morgues daily. There, she found four more unidentified bodies with the same artificial ether reaction.

“One body was decapitated, another found bloated in water, another had all its limbs twisted—but that was staged. It’s the same culprit. Even days after death, the strange ether didn’t dissipate. You couldn’t miss it.”

Clayio, with a weak stomach, was already turning pale. He’d been suddenly dragged into Albion’s version of CSI without any preparation.

But even in confusion, he didn’t forget to check the basic facts.

“But Fran, how did you investigate without [Ether Detection], a common skill only swordsmen level 3 and above can use? To open a field and track ether reactions by magic, you’d need at least three magic formula slots, right?”

“A reasonable question. My ether sensitivity is still level 2. But this solves the problem.”

Fran pointed to her metal-framed glasses.

“These have magic stone lenses, and the frames are inscribed with a [Detection] spell. I finally saved enough money to get them replaced.”

Surprised, Clayio used “Understanding” to examine Fran’s glasses in detail.

[Glasses of Discernment

?Grade: Best Quality

?Detects ether and judges its attributes and nature.]

‘What? Best quality is right below artifact! For someone with low ether level, she sure makes amazing stuff!’

“So that’s possible…”

“If you know the principles, it’s nothing special. I couldn’t make it myself, so I drew up the design and ordered it from a craftsman mage.”

Clayio was dumbfounded by Fran’s explanation.

‘That’s like saying, “It’s easy if you know how.” What a waste of her talent…’

“Anyway, the police don’t do proper autopsies on unidentified poor commoners. The bodies were too decomposed for them to tell, but the corpses with that distinctive ether reaction all had something in common. They were drained of all blood.”

Clayio glanced at the novel , which he’d gotten from Dione and left unopened by the sofa.

‘Vampire novels are bestsellers, and now there’s a copycat crime.’

“I tried to stir up public opinion, but the major papers won’t even report on this. Only third-rate weeklies talk about strange corpses. The police won’t move unless someone important dies. I need you. Lend me your name, the hero of the capital.”

It was clear this was beyond Clayio’s capabilities.

He considered trying to get out of it, but remembered the field trip.

That’s right.

The night Fran almost died, after hearing everything she’d been through, Clayio had been the one to promise to help when needed.

If someone gives their word, they need to keep it to maintain trust.

‘Fran is a talent even Melchior covets, so I can’t let things go wrong over this.’

If journalism and publishing are this advanced, propaganda would be a powerful weapon. In elections, too, the real force behind a campaign is always the publicity director.

Besides, the murders themselves were a problem.

In this world, every abnormal event has a cause.

A serial murder case that didn’t even appear in the previous draft. And if it was connected to magic, he couldn’t just ignore it.

‘Sigh, if only the editor authority lasted longer, I could at least read through the . But I can’t.’

Rubbing his eyes to rest them for a moment, Clayio finally lifted his head.

“Lending my name isn’t hard. You can use it as much as you want. But that alone won’t solve this. The police won’t be especially cooperative with me, either.”

“Why not?”

“The reputation of a former commoner who just received a knighthood isn’t going to carry more weight at police headquarters than a count’s family name.”

“……Even though we’re of age, we’re still judged by our parents’ names.”

“We may be adults, but we’re still students. No one treats us as adults before twenty anyway. But being students has its advantages.”

“Like what?”

“We have plenty of classmates to ask for help. Luckily, our year has an unusually high number of outstanding students.”

‘Whether that’s good luck or bad, you ended up here too. But since you’re here, I’ll try to bring everyone together. Something will work out.’

“You may not know, but the school has a Student Security Committee. According to the rules, ‘in an emergency when the Gate of Mnemosyne is open, security activities can be conducted throughout the capital.’”

Even after the Queen’s Garden was breached, the Gate of Mnemosyne remained active.

Now, mages from the Capital Defense Force took turns infusing ether to maintain the external barrier.

That meant the regulation could be applied.

“For now, why don’t we gather friends who are able and do our own investigation to collect evidence? If we have solid proof, the authorities can’t ignore it. And if anything goes wrong, we can use the Security Committee’s rules as cover.”

A rare look of admiration appeared on Fran’s face.

She was smart, but in administrative tricks born of experience, she couldn’t match Clayio.

“Which students are in the Security Committee?”

“In our year, Isiel Kishion and Celestes Tanpet de Neige.”

Clayio dangled the bait, planning to bring in trustworthy Isiel and boisterous Chel first. Both were second to none in their sense of justice.

‘If those two come, Arthur will follow automatically. If he can’t recruit them after I set it up like this… oh well. That just means Arthur’s abilities only go so far.’

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Chel didn’t even hesitate. The biggest draw was the chance to go out at night legally.

“Great! After coming back from the Gate, I thought I’d grow mold from being stuck in bed!”

She agreed without reservation, even though her burns and venom wounds had only just healed.

“If that’s the case, I’ll help too. If we can secure evidence and hand it over to the police, there’ll be a proper investigation, right?”

Isiel, who’d been suffering from endless report writing for the Capital Defense Force, calmly expressed her intention to join as well.

“Me too! You’re not thinking of leaving me out, are you?”

Arthur also jumped in enthusiastically.

Fran, a head shorter than Arthur, pushed him away coldly.

Standing back, Clayio let out a sigh.

‘Well, to a republican, any prince is just a member of the ruling class to be eradicated. No wonder easygoing Arthur and always-serious Fran don’t get along.’

What could he do? You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink.

‘But maybe if they work together, some of the prejudice will fade?’

Was that just wishful thinking…?

Fran, pushing up her glasses, looked up at Arthur with a sharp edge.

“Riognan, you’re not even in the Security Committee.”

“Then I’ll join as a friend of the members.”

“If you’re just looking for fun or excitement, we don’t need you!”

Even at Fran’s harsh tone, Arthur didn’t back down.

He just lowered his head with a serious, smileless face and met Fran’s eyes, even though she was a head shorter.

Fran, about to say something in anger, stopped at Arthur’s change in demeanor.

“What’s fun or exciting about people dying? The dead never come back. And yet the police bastards won’t even move their lazy asses. I didn’t learn the sword to just look away at times like this.”

A strange light shone in Fran’s eyes behind her glasses.