The royal palace stood as a monument to imperial might and beauty. Within its heart, Princess Irine resided in a glamorous mansion, a space adorned with every luxury imaginable and staffed by the most attentive servants. Yet, for now, she has locked herself in her bedroom alone.

  She sat in a plush chair, her golden lashes lowered in concentration. Before her lay a special parchment, a secure communication artifact provided by Jessica that ensured their conversation could not be eavesdropped.

  Whatever she wrote on her parchment would disappear and instantly appear on Jessica's, and vice versa.

  A new line of text materialized on the page in an elegant script.

  He has come to Pipra Town, according to the sources I have installed there. Now that he is in our territory, you can start the fun.

  Irine read the words and pondered, her expression unreadable. She was reluctant to target Lucien directly, especially when the only tool at her immediate disposal was assassins—a method she believed would inevitably fail.

  She had crafted her own, more intricate plans for dealing with him, plans that required patience and precision. She was laying the groundwork now, refusing to let emotion dictate her strategy.

  She had not shared any of this with Jessica, and had no intention of doing so. Attacking Lucien now held no appeal. Her greatest advantage was his ignorance. If he received even a hint that he is being targeted, the consequences could be catastrophic.

  She picked up her quill and wrote back, her script flowing and deliberate.

  No. Not yet. There are too many variables and factors. I do not wish to attach my name to this matter, especially with so many civilians present.

  On the other end, Jessica sensed this was not the full reason, though the complete picture eluded her.

  Jessica wrote back. You know, a certain event is unfolding in Pipra.

  Irine asked. What? Did he do anything?

  Jessica wrote, No, it does not look like it. A serial killer is looming around the city. The killer has murdered around 118 people in the last month. The local authorities are desperately trying to hide the true number. The current mayor has only reported 40 to the regional officials.

  Irine’s quill moved. So? What does that have to do with us?

  Jessica’s reply appears. Writing so much so quickly is hard, you know.

  A faint smile touched Irine's lips. My apologies.

  Jessica writes down what she wanted to tell her. Someone spread a rumor that the killer is copying a famous murderer—one who has his own... fan club. That fan club received information on the source and location, and they might be visiting the area now. Or perhaps they already have.

  Irine's expression shifted as she read. A thought crystallized, “Was she the one who spread the rumor? But why?”

  She could not ask directly. Instead, she wrote. Who could spread such a rumor, and why?

  Jessica, on the other hand, was well aware that Irine had a hint she was the one who spread the rumor. But her reason wasn’t exactly to aid Irine, it stemmed from three reasons.

  First, by manipulating the current crisis, she could seize control of Pipra for herself by ousting the current mayor and installing a puppet. It was a prime opportunity to silently strengthen her presence and influence. She had already accomplished this in smaller towns, but Pipra was a larger, more valuable prize.

  Second, She wanted to observe how Lucien would react to all the chaos around him and what would happen if any of it reached him directly. By now, she knew that many influential people were after him, though she didn’t know exactly who they were. Any information about him would sell for a very high price, and it could open doors to more powerful circles for her.

  Third, she could pretend her actions were all to aid Irine, who is smart enough to recognize the benefits of having Jessica as a steadfast ally.

  Jessica's reply materialized on the enchanted parchment.

  Many agents could have done this, but it is beneficial for us, you know. We can test that guy, or possibly detain or capture him. If nothing else, we can try to uncover his weaknesses. Look at it this way. You can ask the Department officially to deal with this mess in Pipra. They will have to do something, maybe they will form a special task force for the crisis. Now, indirectly and without your direct interference, we can somehow wrap Lucien into all this legal bureaucracy.

  It's the perfect way to get a closer, personal insight into him. In the best case, we might even get him jailed. I know it seems impossible if he has strong backing, but we have nothing to lose.

  Your plea for justice will help catch the killer and his fan club, your image in the royal chamber will improve, the townspeople will get relief, and we gain information on Lucien without taking any direct risk.

  Irine read the proposal, her mind calculating the angles. It was a clever, low-risk maneuver. Using the empire's own legal machinery as a probe was far safer than sending assassins into the dark.

  She picked up her quill one last time, her writing firm and decisive.

  Fine. Do it. But I strictly advise you: do not go after him directly. Do not send spies or assassins to target him. Target the situation surrounding him, not the man himself. If he falls as a consequence, it is good. But we will not be the ones to push him.

  In Emily’s mansion, the atmosphere was one of solemn, serious ceremony. It was finally time to decide the champion of the gift-giving tournament.

  The formal family gift—a lavish collection of cutlery, porcelain, perfumes, flowers, soaps, carpets, decorative, and sweets—had already been presented.

  Emily was stunned by the sheer volume, but Finn had calmly reminded her that it was a standard gesture from a family of eleven, and thus, "It is nothing."

  Now came the main event. Ultimare, Finn, and Pelta stood before Emily, who had been installed as the sole judge on the living room sofa. Each held their personally chosen gift.

  Lucien had already been disqualified for "cheating" because of his method, having Emily simply pick what she wanted from the market. He had since lost all interest in the proceedings. He waited in his room, intending to take Pelta with him when he will eventually left the house for the stroll.

  "You know the rule, right?" Finn stated, his tone formal. "Be brutal. Be very brutal. Tear us apart and decide one winner."

  Emily looked conflicted. "Is it really important to compete in something like this? I'm just happy that you all came. There's no need..."

  Ultimare interrupted with a charming yet firm smile. "It is very much needed. It will decide whether our eldest sister's efforts in teaching us were successful, or if we have failed her."

  Defeated by this unassailable logic, Emily sighed. "Sure. Fine. I will do it."

  First to step forward was Ultimare. He presented a beautiful vase, intricately designed with golden engravings that caught the light.

  Emily’s eyes widened. "It's so pretty."

  "Rate it. Out of ten," Ultimare prompted.

  Remembering Finn's command to be brutal, Emily schooled her expression into neutrality and studied the vase again. "It is a good vase, and a thoughtful gift. You must have searched for it for a long time before choosing it. I can feel it, this must have been a hidden gem among many flashier ones. I like the feel of it." She took a breath. "I give it a seven out of ten."

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Ultimare accepted the score with a graceful smile and stepped back.

  It was Finn's turn. He removed the cloth from his gift with a flourish. "Behold. Your expensive vase is about to be eclipsed by something worth not even half of it."

  His gift was a huge, exquisitely crafted cabinet. But its true value was inside. It was filled with books, a perfectly curated library spanning literature, alchemy, and magic. It was the ideal gift for a lifelong learner, and the cabinet itself was a beautiful piece of furniture that would enhance any room.

  Emily approached it, running her fingers over the wood and the spines of the books. A genuine smile touched her lips as she realized the collection wasn't random, each book had been handpicked with clear intent. She closed her eyes for a moment, walked back to her seat, and delivered her verdict.

  "It is a wonderful gift. I give it a nine out of ten."

  Finn laughed, a smug glance darting toward the hallway where Ultimare was, who expertly masked a flicker of irritation.

  "Hypothetically," Ultimare mused, "if Lucien were still in the game, how would you have rated his... ?"

  Emily's cheeks flushed with immediate embarrassment at the memory of picking out her own gift. "Let's not talk about that."

  Finally, Pelta moved forward. From her pocket, she produced her gift. It was a barrette. Lavender-colored with subtle green accents that complemented, rather than overwhelmed, the soft hue. A single blue opal was attached, adding a gentle sparkle and a cool contrast to the pastel tones.

  "It is not particularly special," Pelta stated, her face impassive. "But I could only think of something like this."

  Emily took it, and as she looked at the delicate object, her face broke into a wide, unreserved smile. "It's beautiful." She waited a moment, clutching it to her chest, before declaring, "Ten thousand points! The winner is Pelta!"

  Ultimare burst out laughing. "Look at that!"

  Finn sighed in defeat. "I say the game is rigged."

  "Are you sure?" Pelta asked, her tone purely analytical.

  In response, Emily captured her in a tight, cuddling embrace, pulling the girl onto the sofa with her.

  The tournament was over. The victor had been decided by the judge's heart.

  Lucien waited a few minutes, the noise from the living room confirming the gift tournament's conclusion. He had heard enough. It was time to retrieve Pelta and continue his work.

  The framework for the underground base was established, now he needed to survey the town more thoroughly, to analyze its resources and potential utility for the Sinclair lineage. A secondary, personal objective had also formed. That is, to acquire a canvas and painting materials.

  He entered the living room. His assessment was instantaneous.

  Pelta was ensconced in Emily's lap, being cuddled and fussed over. "Pelta, let me cook whatever you like!" Emily cooed. "Do you want me to style your hair? Or how about we play a game together in the backyard?"

  Lucien observed the scene without a word. One thing was clear, retrieving his assistant was not Possible.

  Ultimare noticed his entrance and grinned. "You can forget about Pelta now."

  Emily looked up, her expression one of defiant affection. "Yes, I am not handing her over. Ever."

  Just then, Finn came down the stairs, followed by the sound of mild protest. "Hey, leave me! What are you doing? I said, unhand me! What is this business?" He entered the room, guiding a bewildered Jim, who had been enjoying his holiday by doing absolutely nothing.

  Finn presented him to Lucien. "A substitute. For now."

  Jim blinked, looking between the imposing figures. "A substitute for what?"

  Lucien's gaze swept over him once. "Whatever." He then grabbed Jim by the shirt and began pulling him toward the door.

  Emily shouted after them, "Jim! Make sure you show him around the town properly!"

  Jim's voice was a strangled yelp of confusion as he was dragged out into the daylight. "What?!"

  Jim after he had accepted that he is unceremoniously dragged by Lucien on a stroll.

  Walking just beside the silent figure, Jim grumbled, "Hey, at least tell me where we are going."

  Lucien kept walking, his gaze fixed ahead.

  "Are you not going to reply? Hey. Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!" Jim's frustration mounted with each ignored call.

  Finally, in a flash of anger, Jim tried to kick Lucien's shin to get a reaction. Lucien dodged the pathetic attempt without breaking stride, his hand snapping out to grip Jim's neck in a motion too fast to follow.

  He didn't squeeze, but the hold was firm and inescapable. Lucien looked down at him, his expression neutral, ensuring he radiated no hostility.

  "I do not have much of a plan for today," Lucien stated, his voice flat. "Let us just wander. Show me places worth visiting, or places you frequent. For now, that is the objective."

  In that grip, Jim remembered how easily Pelta had dispatched the thugs. The memory was a cold splash of reality, reminding him of the vast, unbridgeable gap of power between him and these guests.

  "You could have said that in the first place," Jim muttered, his defiance deflated.

  And thus, Jim and Lucien began their walk. The first stop was the main market, which Lucien had seen on his first day. But today, it was different. The air was thick with whispers. Everyone was talking about the events of the previous night.

  Those who had seen it tried to explain the inexplicable—clashing lights in the sky, thunderous booms—their stories fracturing into a dozen different rumors. Others read newspapers with shock and fear, all asking the same question, was this a sign of something worse, or a one-time anomaly?

  Lucien observed it all.

  He then chose to enter the more sophisticated quarters, where wealthy merchants and minor nobles dined and conversed.

  He entered these establishments without a care, Jim shuffling awkwardly behind him. Jim soon realized that Lucien's imposing presence created an invisible barrier, shutting out any potential challengers, and he relaxed into the role of a silent follower.

  Lucien eavesdropped on conversations, analyzed social circles, sampled the food with detached curiosity, and moved on. Jim then took him to other market districts.

  The buzz of activity and the undercurrent of fearful gossip were the same, but here, a different reality was on display. Bunches of goons were openly extorting money from vendors and shopkeepers.

  Lucien combined this with the intelligence he had gathered the previous night. His conclusion was swift. This place is infected with unorganized crime of all kinds.

  There must be at least three or four major gangs, and a concentration of smaller, more specialized ones.

  For a town that looked so peaceful on the surface, it was a hive of hidden rot. The question was not just what it was hiding, but how deep the vileness went.

  Was this a problem for the Sinclairs, or could it be turned into an asset?

  They kept walking, venturing further. Lucien again steered them toward a high-profile area, his eyes scanning the powerful and influential.

  He was about to enter a bar to gather more information but paused, his gaze flicking to Jim. Considering the boy was a minor, he judged it an inefficient and potentially problematic venue. He refrained and chose another dinner restaurant.

  His mission remained unchanged, to watch everything, analyze all of it, and build a complete, unassailable understanding of the town's situation, layer by layer.

  As Lucien walked out after the meal with Jim, who was looking decidedly overfull. Lucien noticed this belatedly. It was easy to forget that normal people could neither fast for extended periods nor consume food in the quantities he could.

  Jim chugged the rest of his juice, a futile attempt to settle his overstuffed stomach.

  Despite his discomfort and lingering annoyance at being kidnapped, he couldn't deny he'd enjoyed the free, high-quality food.

  Jim said in a rough voice, “Are we done, or do we still have somewhere to go?”

  Lucien replied, “Yeah, I’d like to buy some painting materials.”

  “Painting?” Jim frowned. “You mean the stuff those artists use? In that case, we should head to another market. That area specializes in that sort of thing.”

  A voice called out, "Jim? Is that you?"

  Jim turned to see his math teacher, Hermann, standing a few feet away.

  Hermann smiled, his eyes flicking between Jim and the imposing figure beside him. "Oh, you're with your family," he said, his gaze settling on Lucien, clearly hoping for an introduction or a greeting.

  He received none. The silence stretched, becoming awkward.

  Jim broke it, his tone deliberately casual. "What is it, Teach? Got business with me? You know it's a holiday today, right?" It was a clear message to avoid the topic of his frequent school absences.

  Hermann's smile tightened. "Huh. You are as disrespectful as always." He looked at Lucien again, trying to engage him. "I am Hermann, Jim's teacher at school."

  This time, Lucien did look at him. His gaze was not one of social recognition but of pure, unnerving analysis, scanning the man from head to toe in a single, silent moment.

  Sensing no reply was forthcoming, Jim interjected, "He's my cousin. Don't hope for too much from him," he said with a strained smile.

  Lucien's voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding enough to make a heart skip a beat. "Hmm. A teacher, you say. What subject do you teach?"

  Hermann's smile returned, wider this time. "I teach mathematics. If possible, I would like to talk to you regarding Jim."

  "Hey!" Jim protested.

  Lucien's response was measured and deliberate. "I will hear you. But talking on the road does not seem appropriate, does it? I will meet you tomorrow for sure. You decide the place."

  "How about the café at the end of this road? The one on the left with the green door? At evening " Hermann suggested.

  Lucien's eyes remained fixed on him, a silent, keen analysis continuing. He gave a single, slow nod.

  Hermann, feeling the weight of that silent gaze, quickly said, "In that case, I will be going. It was nice seeing you." He promptly took his leave.

  The moment he was out of earshot, Jim grumbled, "Don't bother with him. He's a creep."

  Lucien turned his head, catching a final glimpse of the retreating teacher. His reply was a low, definitive agreement. "Couldn't be more true."