As Russell's Malice Points decreased, a new, incredibly detailed map slowly unfolded in his mind, far surpassing anything he'd ever seen before. This time, it wasn't just a two-dimensional drawing—it was a complete three-dimensional model that could be freely zoomed in and out, rotated, and even analyzed for its inner structure.
Russell's consciousness was immersed in the map as if he were an architect inspecting his own masterpiece.
It was a vast mansion in Westminster, with an incredibly complex structure and sprawling grounds. The estate was a textbook example of classical architecture, its grandeur and perfectly balanced aesthetic evident in every detail.
Moving like a ghost, Russell's awareness drifted through the mansion—passing through walls at will and surveying the layout of every room.
"This is truly a massive undertaking," he thought, quietly impressed as he explored.
The main building, wings, gardens, stables—each area was meticulously delineated. Like opening up an entire building in a simulation game, he could observe the internal structures of walls, ventilation ducts, even the drainage system's layout.
With all this, I'm almost invincible, Russell thought.
He zoomed in on the mansion, focusing intently on the main building's security systems. All the data he could want—the number of guards, their patrol routes, shift frequencies—appeared before him in clear, intuitive form.
Security was even tighter than he had expected; practically impenetrable.
But that didn't trouble him. After all, every system designed by humans has flaws.
He carefully studied the 3D model, looking for blind spots in the surveillance or gaps in the patrols. But as he gained a deeper understanding of the estate, a strange familiarity gradually welled up inside him.
Have I seen this place somewhere before?
At first, Russell didn't pay much attention—high society mansions all tended to look similar, after all, their designs generally striving for a mixture of luxury and grandeur.
But when he broadened his view to the mansion's exterior, that sense of familiarity only grew stronger.
A broad avenue lined with trees, a meticulously manicured, expansive lawn, and a very familiar monument adorned with a golden angel statue standing right in front of the mansion.
Russell's awareness drifted above the ground, his gaze fixed on the monument. The style, the statue in the front courtyard—they looked just like a scene from a postcard.
His heart pounded, a chill of foreboding running through him like an electric current. Something's wrong. Nine times out of ten, there's a problem here.
Suddenly, he zoomed far out—his field of vision now an aerial painting of Westminster, unfurled before him like a scroll. The straight avenue leading to the mansion, St. James's Park on the side, the distant, shadowy outline of Parliament. Every landmark, every coordinate pointed to a fact he could neither believe nor ignore.
Wait, isn't this Buckingham Palace!?
Russell's mind pulled away from the map. He sat dazed on his bed, staring at the gray London sky outside the window—and didn't move for a long, long time.
Just then, the blind box task announcement slowly arose in his mind:
[Target Building: Buckingham Palace]
Advanced Challenge Now Active:
Mission Objective (Phase 1): Enter Buckingham Palace before the mission timer ends and steal any item from Princess Louise Edward.
Mission Deadline: 168 hours (timer started)
Task Rewards: Refund of purchase cost, +20% Malice Points gained, access to special item purchases unlocked, +1 attribute point.
Penalty for Failure: Personal information will be made public.
[Phantom Thief's warning message has been sent automatically]
"?!"
Russell snapped out of his fog, staring at the cold message in his vision, his pupils trembling.
What did the system just send…?
…
Buckingham Palace, East Wing, Third Floor, Royal Gallery.
Outside the towering window, the London sky seemed ablaze—fiery clouds swirling against the chill. Thin mist veiled the bare treetops of St. James's Park below, diffusing the cold, damp air.
Louise Edward, eldest daughter of King Edward VII, stood silently before a landscape painting. She wore an ivory-white long dress, the lace at the hem like frozen waves, trailing softly onto the polished marble floor.
Her long golden hair was elegantly swept up, a few curled strands framing her face, a touch of girlish softness tempering her otherwise stately demeanor.
Her posture was flawless—every inch a princess, as perfectly poised as the masterpieces displayed around her. Like them, she was always placed in the right spot, admired daily, but fixed in her small world.
Yet, Louise's gaze was not on the stormy canvas before her. Her amber eyes looked past the glass, out to the distant city skyline, bathed in sunset gold and shrouded in fog. In her gaze burned undimmed innocence and longing.
Her tutor once told her that the city's streets flowed like rushing rivers, carrying the countless joys and sorrows of its people, day and night.
But Louise had never truly seen it for herself. To her, London wasn't a river—it was a painting. A landscape outside her window, one that never changed.
She'd seen ships on the Thames, she'd heard the deep chime of Big Ben in the distance—but never touched the river's cold waters, never felt the vibration of the bells in the cobblestones at her feet. The only thing that connected her to the real world was The Times, delivered each morning with breakfast.
Yesterday's headline, as she recalled, reported a dramatic battle in the basement of Lloyds Bank—a phantom thief named Moriarty, who, like a knight in shadow, single-handedly foiled a grand heist.
"Sinister Night Phantom."
"Dark Hero."
"A Zorro-like Robin Hood"…
Journalists used every flattering phrase imaginable to paint the mysterious figure.
Louise's favorite reading material was always the news about Moriarty. Like a caged canary, she envied the free-flying crows out in the wild. She'd imagined the thief countless times—wild black hair, eyes deep as London's fog—but it was always just fantasy.
Over and over, she wished she could meet the phantom thief herself.
But unfortunately, Mr. Phantom Thief never seemed interested in Buckingham Palace. He always turned up in Kensington. She apparently had a pen pal who lived there too, and sometimes wondered if her friend had ever met him.
Just then, while Louise was lost in thought, a calm, familiar male voice spoke from behind, breaking her from her reverie.
"Good afternoon, Your Highness."
…