The man in the grey pinstriped suit stood on the threshold, his silhouette framed by the encroaching velvet of the twilight. He leaned against the mahogany doorframe with a casual, almost disrespectful ease, the embers in his tobacco pipe glowing like the eye of a dying ember.
"Who are you?" Rayn's voice was like the strike of flint against steel—cold, sharp, and sparking with a hidden lethality.
The man took a long, leisurely drag from his pipe, exhaling a plume of aromatic smoke that swirled into the foyer. "Hello," he said, his voice smooth as aged brandy. "The weather is quite oppressive today, wouldn't you agree? The heat has a way of drawing the truth out of the stones."
Rayn's eyes narrowed behind his rectangular lenses. He didn't care for weather-talk. He sensed a shift in the air behind him. Vespera had moved. She was no longer a beautiful woman in a black dress; she had become a coiled serpent of pure killing intent. Her golden eyes were fixed on the stranger's throat, her fingers twitching as if preparing to weave a spell that would turn the man's blood into ice.
Suddenly, a sharp, electric jolt shot through Rayn's left hand.
The Black Ring, the artifact forged from Vespera's own sovereign flesh and essence, erupted with minute purple lightning. The arcs of energy hissed against Rayn's skin, making his entire arm shiver with a phantom resonance. In that heartbeat, Rayn understood—the ring was a living extension of Vespera. Her rage, her boiling draconic blood, was manifesting through the bond. The ring wasn't just a tool; it was a sensory organ that vibrated with her desire for slaughter.
Rayn raised his hand, the purple sparks illuminating his milk-white face. He needed to de-escalate. Then, the stranger's voice rippled through his mind again, triggering a memory from the soot-stained streets.
"Oh," Rayn said, his posture relaxing by a fraction of a millimeter. "Mr. Freddy Orenstein. I thought you were some common scandal-monger or a thief attempting to rob a 'haunted' house."
Vespera's aura vanished as quickly as it had appeared, the purple lightning on the ring receding back into the obsidian metal. Freddy took off his grey hat, revealing his silver-white hair and a grin that was far too energetic for a man who looked so weary hours before.
"Aha! You remembered me, Mr. Rayn!" Freddy stepped past the threshold before he was even invited, his eyes sweeping the grand foyer. "I must apologize. My friend Barnaby... he's a shark. I felt a twinge of guilt for sending you to him, so I thought I'd check in and see if you were sleeping on the floorboards or if the ghosts had already carried you away."
Freddy stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at the emerald velvet sofas, the polished mahogany tables, and the lack of a single speck of dust. The manor, which had been a derelict tomb that morning, was now a palace of impeccable order.
"Rayn..." Freddy whispered, his pipe almost falling from his mouth. "How? How did you manage to make this ruin look like a royal salon in a single day? Not even a team of twenty workers could have scrubbed the soot off these walls so fast."
Rayn's face remained a mask of calm. Lying was as natural as breathing to a Sovereign. "It is simple, Mr. Freddy. I had the gold to buy the furniture, and I had the gold to buy motivation. I found several assistants in the market. When they heard the rumors of the 'massacre,' they refused to enter. So, I tripled their wages. It is amazing how quickly a 'ghost' disappears when a man's pockets are filled with Fazhos. They worked until their hands bled, and I directed them with... surgical precision."
"Triple wages," Freddy muttered, shaking his head. "You truly are a man of mystery. But I suppose money can buy anything in Ashbury, even a miracle."
"Come inside," Rayn said, gesturing to the parlor. "Vespera, our guest stays for a moment. I shall prepare a drink."
Vespera gave a curt, regal nod, though her eyes remained wary. She sat on the emerald sofa, her blonde hair glowing under the lamp, looking every bit the high-born mistress of the house.
"I shall go to the kitchen," Rayn said. "I believe a 'Coffee' is in order."
Freddy blinked, his brow furrowing. "Coffee? What is this... 'Coffee'? Is it a specialty of your home in Whispering Pines?"
"Indeed," Rayn replied, his eyes scanning Freddy's face. "It is a drink we take when the heart is heavy and the body is stressed. I noticed your eyes were dry, Mr. Freddy, and your shoulders are hunched. Your work weighs on you like a lead cloak. Coffee is the nectar that burns the stress away."
Freddy sat down opposite Vespera, looking genuinely impressed. "You have sharp eyes, lad. Too sharp for a gentleman of leisure."
Rayn entered the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind him. The room was cold, the old hearth filled with nothing but shadows. In this world, there were no electric stoves, only heavy iron ranges fueled by coal or wood.
Rayn didn't have time for coal.
He raised his right hand. Earth Essence flickered in his palm. From the stone floor, a small sprout of 'Iron-Oak' erupted, its growth accelerated by Rayn's Qi until it was a thick, dry log. He drew his Metal-Essence Blade from thin air, a shimmering sliver of steel that sliced the wood into perfect kindling in a fraction of a second.
He tossed the wood into the hearth and snapped his fingers. Void-Fire—a dark, intense heat—ignited the fuel instantly, skipping the smoke and going straight to a roar.
He took a small brass container and filled it with the milk he had purchased earlier. Using his Water and Fire Essences simultaneously, he heated the liquid to the exact degree where the sugars began to caramelize but did not burn. He ground the dark beans he had found in a specialty apothecary—labeled as 'Stimulant Seeds'—using the pressure of his own grip, turning them into a fine, aromatic powder.
Five minutes later, the scent of dark chocolate and roasted earth filled the kitchen.
He returned to the parlor with three delicate porcelain cups. He handed one to Freddy and one to Vespera. The steam rose in elegant swirls, carrying a scent that was entirely alien to the soot-choked air of Ashbury.
Freddy took a cautious sip. His eyes went wide. The bitterness hit his tongue, followed by a rush of warmth that seemed to settle directly into his nervous system.
"Man!" Freddy gasped, his posture visibly straightening. "I like this. It's like a punch to the soul, but in the best way possible. You must teach me how to brew this, Rayn. It's... it's medicinal."
Rayn sat down, his own cup untouched. "It is yours to enjoy, Mr. Freddy."
They sat and spoke for an hour. Freddy talked about the city, the corrupt unions, and the rising power of the Steam-Engineers. Vespera spoke little, eventually excusing herself.
"It is 8 o'clock," she said, her voice melodic yet distant. "I shall take my bath and retire for the evening. Rayn, do not stay up too late."
Freddy watched her leave, his eyes lingering on the blonde beauty. "You're a lucky man, Rayn. A wife like that... she's worth more than all the gold in the Marble District."
"I am aware," Rayn said, his voice flat.
Freddy stood up, adjusting his hat. "I should be going. The night air in this district gets thick after dark. I'll see you again, my friend."
Rayn walked Freddy to the front door. As his hand touched the heavy mahogany handle, a sound shattered the quiet of the outskirts.
"AAAAAAAAAAAGH!"
It was a high-pitched, curdling scream of pure terror. It didn't come from the street or the woods. It came from the manor directly adjacent to Rayn's property—the house of the elderly couple who had greeted him earlier that day.
Rayn and Freddy didn't speak. They bolted out the door, their shadows stretching long under the gas-lamps. They reached the neighboring house—a smaller, neatly kept cottage—and Rayn slammed his shoulder against the door. It didn't budge.
"Locked from the inside!" Freddy shouted.
Rayn didn't hesitate. He channeled a burst of Earth-Strength into his leg and kicked, But no one notices his powers. The heavy oak door shattered into splinters, the hinges torn from the frame.
They burst into the foyer, and the stench hit them first. The metallic tang of fresh blood and the acrid scent of gunpowder.
The scene was bizarre, a tableau of domestic horror. In the dining room, under the flickering light of a crystal chandelier, the husband and wife lay slumped in their chairs.
The wife's head was thrown back, a single, neat bullet hole centered perfectly in the middle of her forehead. The husband sat opposite her, his right hand still clutching a heavy iron revolver, a massive exit wound blooming on the right side of his skull.
"Gods above," Freddy whispered, his face turning ashen. "A murder-suicide? The old man... he looked so peaceful this morning."
Neighbors began to cluster at the broken door, their faces pale with shock. Freddy, acting with an authority Rayn hadn't seen before, turned to them. "Call the Investigators! Now! And don't let anyone touch the perimeter!"
Minutes later, the local Investigators arrived—men in long blue coats with brass badges, carrying lanterns that flickered with chemical light. They saw Rayn standing by the table, his red eyes scanning the room like a hawk.
"Who are you?" the lead Investigator barked, his hand on his baton. "And why are you at a crime scene?"
Freddy stepped forward, flashing a small, leather-bound ID card that shows that Freddy works in a Government Office that Rayn hadn't noticed. "He's with me. I'm Freddy Orenstein. We heard the scream and forced entry."
The Investigator settled down, but the tension in the room remained thick as a fog. After a cursory glance at the bodies, the Investigator sighed. "Clear-cut case. Look at the positions. The husband kills the wife, then turns the gun on himself. Probably a debt issue or a fit of madness. These old couples... the soot gets to their brains eventually."
Freddy and Rayn walked out onto the porch as the Investigators began to bag the evidence. Freddy leaned against the railing, his pipe unlit.
"I think the shot to her forehead was the first," Freddy mused. "Then he took his own life. A tragedy. He must have snapped."
"No," Rayn said, his voice cutting through Freddy's speculation like a blade. "This was not a suicide. It was a double murder, staged by a professional who lacks a basic understanding of biology."
Freddy turned, his eyes narrowing. "What are you talking about? The gun was in his hand, Rayn."
"Observation is the first step to truth, Mr. Freddy," Rayn said, walking slowly back toward the door, his eyes fixed on the dead woman. "Look at the photos on the walls. In every single one, the husband and wife are smiling. There is a photo on the dining table—recent, judging by the quality of the frame—showing them with a daughter and two grandchildren. They were happy. People who have things to look forward to do not commit murder-suicides in the middle of a warm meal."
"People snap, Rayn," Freddy countered.
"The food," Rayn interrupted, pointing to the plates of roast beef and potatoes. "The wife made a feast. The smell is still rising from the center of the meat. She was happy. She was celebrating. A woman who is about to be murdered by a husband she fears does not cook a three-course meal."
Rayn leaned in closer to the husband's body. "And look at the man's frame. He was thin, suffering from advanced palsy in his hands—I noticed it when he waved to me this afternoon. That revolver is a 'Heavy-Spire .45'. The recoil would have shattered his wrist, yet he supposedly shot his wife exactly in the center of the forehead from six feet away? Impossible. Even a marksman would struggle with that kind of precision using such a weight."
Freddy began to look closer, his expression shifting from grief to calculation.
"But the most damning evidence," Rayn continued, his voice dropping to a clinical whisper, "is the temperature of the souls."
"The what?"
"The body temperature," Rayn corrected himself, remembering he was playing a human. "Touch the woman's hand, Freddy. Her skin is already stiffening; her core is cold. She has been dead for at least two to three hours. Now, look at the husband. His blood is still dripping, and his skin is still warm. He died no more than thirty to forty minutes ago."
Freddy's eyes widened. "But... we heard the scream twenty minutes ago!"
Rayn's lip curled in a cold smile. "Exactly. If she died three hours ago, who screamed? It wasn't her. It was the killer, using a voice-mimicry technique or a recording device to draw the neighbors' attention after the deed was done, creating a false timeline for the deaths. The husband was kept alive, forced to watch his wife's corpse for two hours, before the killer finally placed the gun in his hand and forced his finger onto the trigger."
Rayn stood up, adjusting his glasses. "The killer entered through the servant's entrance, killed the wife instantly, waited for the husband to break, then finished the job and escaped through the roof before we even reached the door. You are looking for a murderer, Mr. Freddy. Not a tragedy."
Freddy stood in stunned silence. He had been a man of the world for decades, but in ten minutes, this 'young master' from a ruined town had dismantled a crime scene with the cold efficiency of a god.
Freddy asked in curious :"How did you know all of this?"
Ryan replied, "I'm just someone who is interested in solving mysteries and loves reading books." He offered a small smile, then turned and went into his house, closing the front door behind him.