Lloyd spoke with effortless confidence.
He liked moments like this—though he never said it aloud, there was always that subtle air of condescension in his tone, as if he were quietly insulting Berau's intelligence.
Berau, as always, remained silent. Every time he was about to pull the trigger and finally rid himself of that damned detective, Lloyd somehow managed to prove his worth again—and drive him to near madness in the process.
"So this is your plan? Borrowing help from those coroners?"
Lloyd nodded slightly."Berau, you have to admit—everyone has their field of expertise. I once attended lectures at the Royal Academy of Medicine." His expression twisted faintly, as if recalling a nightmare."Honestly, that was the first time I ever felt lost before knowledge."
He smirked, then added, "Of course, you're useful too. Otherwise, I wouldn't have dragged myself all the way down to this cursed lower district to see you."
Lloyd was always like this—confident, untouchable. The fact that Berau had pointed a gun at him mere minutes ago didn't seem to bother him in the slightest.
"Berau, I came because I need to ask you a few questions.""What kind of questions?"
Berau placed the gun on the table. Once again, he had fallen into Lloyd's rhythm.It didn't matter that he was the one paying the man, or that he ruled over the entire lower quarter. Once Lloyd started talking, that eloquent stream of words always had the same effect—Berau would unconsciously find himself looking up to him.
It was like the relationship between a teacher and his student—except Lloyd was that kind of delinquent teacher who taught nothing of worth, preferring instead to toy with his students' minds just to showcase his superiority, as though that alone gave him a perverse sense of satisfaction.
"Berau, I need to know the full picture of this case."
Lloyd fixed his gaze upon him. In the detective's peculiar teal-blue eyes—those colors unique to the people of Inlveg—Berau could see his own shadow reflected, blurred and uncertain.
"A sailor holds the secret you're looking for… Berau, I'm a detective, not a novelist. I need to know the whole story if I'm to uncover the truth. Otherwise, I might as well go home and invent a pretty little tale for you."
Gripping the edge of the table, Lloyd pulled himself closer until the two men looked almost like old friends sharing confidences."So—care to tell me the story?" he asked with that infuriating, knowing smile.
The story began half a month ago.
According to Inlveg's maritime laws, all fishing activities were forbidden from mid-June to mid-September. Every vessel was required to remain docked at port.Yet, one mist-shrouded morning, a fishing boat slipped quietly into Reindona Harbor.
"My men had been tracking that ship for some time," Berau began. "They left from Norbido, a port in the Viking Kingdom. Midway, they altered course through the Ice Sea, and finally—two weeks ago—they arrived here, in Reindona."
"Doesn't sound too suspicious," Lloyd replied. "Every year, during the closed season, plenty of ships bring in catches from other seas and unload them here in Old Dunling."
"The problem," Berau continued, "was that after docking, no one came off that ship. No unloading, no crew. It just sat there. Days later, the stench of rotting fish finally drew attention."
"So… what's so special about this fishing boat?"
A fair question—everything has its value, Lloyd thought. Even a rotting ship must hold some reason to attract a man like Berau.
"It wasn't just a fishing boat," Berau said, his tone darkening. The alcohol in his breath seemed to warm the air between them."My business extends far beyond Old Dunling. That ship was carrying something it never should have touched. My men were tailing it aboard a new steamship—twice as fast as theirs. The plan was simple: intercept them in the North Sea and send that wretched crew to rest at the bottom, where the Vikings can join their gods in Valhalla."
He drained the last of his drink before continuing."But fate—perhaps Odin himself—intervened. The fishing boat veered into the Ice Sea, and my men lost them in the storm. When it resurfaced, it was here, in Reindona Harbor. The fish were only a cover. The real cargo was gone long before anyone found the ship."
"So I'm supposed to find this mysterious cargo, then?"
Lloyd lit his pipe, the smoke curling lazily upward as he spoke."Exactly. According to the list, a sailor named Voll was part of theSilverfish'screw. After the ship arrived, they all vanished—seventeen in total, including the captain and first mate. Voll was the only one I could trace."
"And now he's dead," Berau said sharply. "Killed by you."
Lloyd glanced at him, but the confusion in his eyes didn't fade."Why didn't you handle it yourself? Catching one man isn't that difficult."
"This cargo is tied to a certain duke. My men cannot be seen anywhere near it."Even the king of the underworld had his limits, it seemed—when faced with noble blood, Berau's expression betrayed unease.
"And the cargo itself?" Lloyd asked.
"I don't know. Only that it was sealed inside an iron crate."
Lloyd chuckled."Another vague request. Should I just fetch any random iron box from a blacksmith and claim the reward?"
But this time, Berau didn't rise to the bait. He was unusually calm, almost solemn."Do you believe in the sixth sense, Lloyd?"
"You mean intuition?"
"Something like that."
Berau's eyes dropped to the revolver on the table, tracing the demon faces carved into its cylinder. His voice lowered to a murmur."When you see it, you'll understand. You'llknow. The moment you lay eyes on that crate—you'll recognize it. Just like a feeling… a whisper in the back of your mind."
The words were veiled and cryptic—nothing like anything Lloyd had heard from him before. A faint unease crept up his spine."Berlau, there are still too many things you haven't told me."
It was a story in fragments—so fractured that even Lloyd, usually so composed, felt lost amid its shadows."You're my hired detective, not my accountant," Berlau said flatly. "You'd better not dig too deeply into my business."
He would say no more. His eyes were iron and resolve."It's for your own good."
He took out a file, flipped through a few pages, then tore away what Lloyd wasn't meant to see before tossing it across the desk."The rest is here. The carriage is waiting outside. You can read it on your way to the hospital."
Berlau paused, gaze locking on Lloyd's."You know how much I trust you. I'm the butcher bird who impales his prey—you're the thorn that does the killing."
He smiled faintly, though there was nothing warm in it."So go. If you mess this up, I'll load the last bullet myself."He was talking about the revolver—the one with a one-in-six chance.
"All right, all right," Lloyd said. He rose, took the file, and turned to leave. But after a few steps, he stopped."Still my way of doing things, right?""I only care about results."
It was an answer of sorts. So Lloyd pushed open the iron door and walked away without looking back.
Outside the fortress of broken stones, the air was freezing. It bit into his lungs as he drew his first breath of the damp world.Cold… so damn cold.
Old Dunlin was always like this—its skyline drowned in perpetual mist, thousands of tons of vapor rising day and night. The clouds above formed a dome that sealed the city in gloom. When sunlight pierced through, the sky turned a burning gold, as if the heavens themselves were aflame.
The coachman was waiting. Lloyd climbed straight into the carriage and began to leaf through the file.
The scenery slid by, slow and gray. After a few checkpoints, they entered the outer district. Unlike the slums below, this quarter was proud with Gothic and Baroque spires, towers of steam standing sentinel between streets, smoke curling from chimneys to paint the city in monochrome.
This was the cradle of steam—humanity's proudest creation. People here lived by the gospel of progress, worshipping their machines as if the gods had granted them divine fire in brass and iron.
The file was bound in a wrought-iron frame, its edges inlaid with tarnished brass. That blend of ornament and machinery defined this age—cogs, valves, pipes, and faith in pressure and heat.
Lloyd read on. Each page trembled with the carriage's rhythm. The statements were detailed—firsthand accounts from those he was to investigate. Chaotic, sometimes meaningless, but recorded in full.
He felt strangely comforted by that. Others would trim reports into sterile summaries, but Lloyd insisted on keeping every word. Only then could he feel that the paper before him contained a person—a living voice murmuring their story into the dark.
He reached into his coat and drew out an ornate iron case, packed neatly with cigarettes. He chose one marked by a thin red line, lit it, and let the smoke coil upward, veiling him in its pale embrace.
Time slowed. Nicotine—or whatever else hid in the tobacco—spread through his veins, dulling and sharpening at once. His gray-blue eyes glimmered faintly.
The world outside dimmed, then faded entirely into darkness. The only light left was the ember on his cigarette.
"Let me see you…" he whispered.
With his free hand, he brushed the rough paper. The words beneath his fingertips seemed to breathe.In its simplest form, "logos" meant the word made real—like the old saying:God said, let there be light, and there was light.
That was the essence of spell and spirit—the heart speaking its own creation. And in the darkness, the "spirit" began to ferment.
Wind rose. A briny stench of seawater filled the air. Something was moving toward him, crawling, dragging its body across the unseen floor with a wet, nauseating sound. Eyes—too many, too human—watched him from the black.
Thunder split the void. For a heartbeat, light flooded the world.
He saw it all.
Lloyd sat on a chair, head bowed in thought—but when the view pulled back, he was no longer in a carriage. He was aboard theSilverfin.
The sea hammered against the ship's battered hull. Cold, alien winds brushed across his face. All around him, on the cracked and sodden deck, figures stood motionless—crewmen that should not be there.
As if this were the most ordinary thing in the world, Lloyd raised his head and stared into the storm."Where did you all go?"
His voice was calm, accusing the blackness itself.Vanished sailors. Hidden cargo. He was searching for the truth—something buried between the lines, the force moving everything from behind the curtain.
Lightning flickered one last time. In its dying glow, he caught a whiff of something old and coppery—blood.
And then, he saw it.The creature in the dark, watching him.
He turned sharply. There—a glimpse of a jagged form, a grotesque angle of flesh—and then, suddenly, a familiar face overlapping it.
"Mr. Holmes?"
The voice snapped him back. The coachman stood at the open door, staring into the smoke-filled carriage.
Lloyd blinked. The cigarette had burned down to his fingers. He flinched, dropping it, the trance broken.
Outside, the world was still gray. The illusion—whatever it had been—was gone.
The coachman frowned, disappointed."Sir, I didn't think you were the type to use hallucinogens."
They had arrived at Victoria Central Hospital long ago. He'd called out to Lloyd several times with no response. When he finally opened the door, the detective was sitting there, lost to some private nightmare.
The coachman worked for gang lords and smugglers, but even he despised the stuff. To him, what young men called a key to heaven was nothing but an invitation to hell.
Lloyd smiled faintly. "In my line of work, sometimes… inspiration is a necessity."
The coachman stepped aside, muttering,"If you ever need help, I know a few good detox priests—though their methods are a bit rough."
Lloyd thanked him politely, then walked on toward the massive building ahead—its stone arches rising like a fortress from the fog.