Chapter 12 — Shadows of Suspicion
The sudden loss of gravity sent Charles tumbling before he could react.
He hadn't expected the return to be forced — not triggered by his own command of the portal, but as if something had kicked him out of that world.
He landed hard on the floor of his small study, barely managing to lift his head when—
BANG!
The door burst open under a heavy boot.
A squad of city police stormed in — six men in dark blue uniforms. Two aimed their flintlock rifles directly at him while the others, led by a bald officer with sharp, cold eyes, began ransacking the room.
They moved with purpose, as if they already knew what they were looking for. Drawers slammed, books were tossed aside, even the floorboards were inspected.
Yet after a few tense minutes, all they found were some dust, stray hair, and scuff marks on the floor.
"Where is Weimar?" the bald officer demanded, looming over Charles. "Witnesses saw him enter this building — he never came out."
Still half-stunned, Charles blinked. Wait... Time here didn't move while I was gone?
He must have looked dazed because the officer's tone grew harsher.
"Answer the question, Mr. Cranston!"
Charles collected himself, masking his confusion with calm indifference. "Weimar? What about him? Is he wanted for something?"
"He's not officially wanted," the officer said curtly, "but we believe foul play occurred here. Possibly a murder."
Charles tilted his head. "Murder? Here? You're mistaken — he left hours ago."
"That's impossible," the bald man snapped. "No one saw him leave. Unless he sprouted wings, there's no way he just vanished."
The phrasing caught Charles's attention, though he didn't dwell on it. He brushed dust off his coat and sighed. "You're right. He did fly away — pushed me first, then off he went."
The officer's expression darkened. "Funny."
Before he could retort, one of the younger policemen suddenly pointed. "Sir, what's that on his belt?"
Charles followed his gaze. The bundle of dragon bones, still wrapped in his torn shirt, hung loosely at his waist.
"Oh, that?" He smiled faintly. "A personal hobby."
"Hobby?" the young officer asked skeptically. "You collect bones? Or are these for some kind of… forbidden research?"
Charles shrugged. "They're just animal bones. A dog's, probably."
He untied the bundle and laid it on the table for inspection.
The policemen gathered around, whispering. After a minute, one of them nodded. "Looks like canine remains — maybe a stray."
That didn't stop the bald officer from pressing. "Do you know it's illegal to dig up graves, Mr. Cranston? Even for animals."
"I didn't dig anything up," Charles said smoothly. "Weimar sold them to me. That's why he came here. You're welcome to look for him — if you can find him."
The officer's glare tightened.
Another policeman smirked. "And what do you do with your little 'collection'? Study black magic, perhaps?"
Charles's voice sharpened. "You seem very interested in my hobbies. Should I be flattered or insulted?"
Ignoring the tone, the bald officer gestured to his men. "Search the rest. Check every shelf, every document."
As they rifled through his books, Charles silently thanked his own paranoia — the black magic notebook was safely hidden elsewhere.
If the Church found it, he'd be hanging by dawn. In the Dulin Kingdom, dabbling in forbidden arts was a capital crime — punishable by burning or beheading, depending on the bishop's mood.
"Mr. Cranston," the young officer said again, eyes narrowing at Charles's bare upper body. "What caused those marks on you?"
Charles raised an eyebrow. "Maybe Weimar and I fought. Maybe I fell into a coal pit. Maybe we were doing something... unspeakable. Who can say?"
"Please take this seriously."
"Fine," Charles replied flatly. "I fell into a coal pit and cracked my head. Happy?"
"We may need to take a sample," the officer pressed.
"Go ahead," Charles said coolly. "But you'll only find my own blood."
That part was true — he hadn't been touched by any of the guards he'd killed in the other world. Their blood had never reached him.
Soon, the officers finished their search. They'd found nothing incriminating.
The bald officer scowled. "Search the other rooms."
The Pita City Police began filing out one by one, leaving only the young officer to watch Charles.
Charles leaned back against the wall. "I don't recall seeing a search warrant. Do you actually have one?"
The young officer stiffened. "That's none of your concern. We—"
Before he could finish, a shrill scream echoed from the next room.
Both men froze. Charles bolted toward the sound.
He reached the doorway just in time to see Annie, his little sister, cowering in the corner clutching a torn teddy bear. Her face was pale with terror. The bald officer loomed over her, barking questions.
"Did you see your brother do anything suspicious?" he demanded.
When she didn't answer, he raised his voice. "Speak up, girl!"
"You idiot!" Charles snapped. "She's a child!"
Fury surged through him. He strode forward and shoved the officer hard in the chest. The surrounding policemen raised their guns instinctively, but the bald man merely waved them down.
"Crime doesn't care about age, Mr. Cranston," he said coldly. "You should know that."
Charles's eyes darkened. "And you should know that threatening a noble's family — even one who hasn't inherited his title yet — means war."
The officer smirked. "Big words for someone who hasn't earned his barony. Come back when you have your father's seal."
The tension hung thick between them. Then another officer called out, "Captain — nothing. We've searched the entire house, basement included."
The bald man's frown deepened. He exchanged a look with his subordinate, then nodded.
"Fine. We're done here," he said curtly. "Apologies for the inconvenience, Mr. Cranston."
"Of course," Charles said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "After all, as you said — I'm not officially a baron yet. What could I possibly do, right?"
The man paused at the door, his tone turning pointed. "A word of advice, Mr. Cranston — threats are wasted when you lack power. Especially against us."
Charles's expression didn't change. "So what now? False charges? Hired thugs? You're already harassing me, aren't you?"
"Careful," the officer said smoothly. "We only arrest criminals."
He stepped into the hall — but then turned back one last time.
"Oh, and one more thing," he added casually. "Someone reported you for practicing black magic. We found no evidence… but Bishop Charles has ordered us to pass along any suspicion to the Church. I'll be filing that report personally."
He smirked. "Let's see if you can fool the clergy as easily as the police."
With that, the door slammed shut. The sound of boots faded down the hall.
---
For a moment, the house was silent.
Then, a calm, aged voice spoke behind him.
"As that officer said, your threats mean little, young master."
Charles turned to see the old butler, his father's loyal servant. The man must have been at least sixty — gray hair combed neatly back, posture slightly stooped but his eyes still sharp as steel.
He had served the Cranston family for decades and had raised Charles since childhood, often acting as the father his lord had never been.
The old man's expression was grave. "Powerless defiance only invites pain. If they bring the Church into this, no title or name will protect you."
Charles exhaled slowly, glancing toward the door the police had just exited.
"Then it looks like I'll need something stronger than a title."
His gaze flicked down to the faint red gleam beneath the cloth at his waist — the tiny fragments of dragon bone.
They pulsed once, faintly.
Now that the anger had cooled, Charles found the whole thing almost laughable.
"How childish of me," he murmured, rubbing the bridge of his nose before glancing at the old butler seated across from him. His voice turned dry.
"You must think I'm ridiculous too, don't you?"
The old man didn't answer, his wrinkled hands folded neatly atop his cane.
Charles gave a humorless chuckle. "But you understand, right? I can't fight them. So I talk big to make myself feel better. And since that bald bastard wanted to provoke me, wouldn't it be rude not to play along?"
He rose and walked back to the sitting room, collapsing onto the worn sofa. The old butler followed more slowly, lowering himself into the chair opposite.
"I just can't help wondering," Charles continued, eyes narrowing slightly, "how they were so certain about what to look for."
That drew the old man's attention. His movement paused mid-gesture, and when he looked up, his voice was hoarse.
"…You're not suggesting you suspect me, are you?"
Charles shrugged, expression unreadable. "No, just thinking out loud. You could help me figure it out — where their tip came from. The neighbors? Someone tailing me?"
He leaned back, arms crossed. "And that notebook… lucky I realized it was a setup and tossed it out. Otherwise I'd probably be hanging from the church gate right now. Close call, wouldn't you say?"
The old man's eyes lowered, the candlelight flickering across his lined face.
Charles went on, tone deliberately casual. "Now that I think about it, how did I even get that notebook? Oh, right — I won it off some poor fool at the gambling hall. Lost everything but his trousers. First time I've ever seen someone that unlucky."
He smirked. "By the way, the casino you recommended had a decent atmosphere. Shame I lost nearly everything there. Guess my gambling career's over for now."
He looked up again and noticed the old butler's complexion had gone pale.
"What's wrong? You look unwell."
"Master Charles, I—"
"Drop the 'master.'" Charles waved him off. "I'm no young lord. My father threw me out, remember? I came crawling to this gods-forsaken hole of a town. The peasants at my aunt's estate won't even let me inside her damned castle. Without entering, I can't claim the family crest, and without that, no title. City hall won't lift a finger to help. And now, on top of it all, I'm a suspected murderer."
He gave a tired laugh. "Tell me, can anyone be more cursed than me?"
Silence settled over the room. The wind drifted through the open window, rustling the blue curtains. The faint crackle of a kerosene lamp punctuated the quiet, its smoke coiling through the dim light.
Shadows wavered on the walls, bending and stretching with the flame.
"Cat got your tongue?" Charles finally asked. Leaning forward, his smile carried no warmth. "What's the matter — nothing to say? Or too ashamed to speak?"
"I… you know I never meant—"
"Save it." Charles leaned back again with a sigh. "I don't know, and I don't want to."
He gestured toward the small chest near the stairs. "Your pay's in there. Take what's left. If it's more than you deserve, call it severance; if less, consider it debt. And please—leave within ten minutes. My eyes have had enough of a certain scheming old man."
The old butler's lips trembled. "You don't even want to know why I did it?"
"Of course I want to," Charles said calmly. "But would you actually tell me? You lured me into gambling, drained my savings, slipped that cursed notebook into my hands, and watched me stumble into the gallows with a smile. Whatever your reason, you've already chosen your side."
"You're… not angry?"
"Oh, I'm furious," Charles admitted softly. "But murder's still illegal. And unlike that bald officer, I don't waste threats on people too old to care. You'll leave now, before I change my mind."
---
For a while, the only sound was the hiss of the lamp.
Then the old man spoke, voice trembling. "If the lord could see you now… perhaps he'd regret what he did to you."
He rose shakily, leaning on his cane.
"But it's too late. The Church already has you in its sights."
The words sliced through the air like ice. Charles's expression hardened. "What do you mean by that?"
The butler didn't answer. He shuffled toward the door, shoulders stooped.
"Wait—"
The latch clicked open. The old man stepped outside.
Charles hesitated, torn between anger and confusion, and by the time he reached the doorway, the butler was already halfway down the street.
The night air was cold. Moonlight glinted off something metallic in the old man's trembling hand — a flintlock pistol drawn from his sleeve.
He stopped, turned once to look back at the house, and whispered something Charles couldn't hear.
Then—
BANG!
The gunshot shattered the quiet.
Crows roosting in the cherry tree outside erupted into the air, their harsh cries echoing down the lane.
When the echoes faded, only the sound of wings remained — and the frail body of the butler lay twisted on the cobblestones, blood pooling beneath his head.
Charles stood frozen in the doorway, the smell of gunpowder drifting toward him.
The silence that followed was heavier than any curse.
(End of Chapter)