Inside Duke Nigen's grand hall, conversation still revolved around the assassination attempt.
Audrey Hall stood beside her mother and several noble ladies, listening quietly while pretending to share their shock and concern.
When she noticed her father entering the hall, she excused herself and approached him.
"Father, what happened?"
"It's over, my dear," Count Hall said gently, resting a hand on her head. "You don't need to worry anymore. Zilingus was intercepted and killed before he could escape the estate."
"Was it the churches?" Audrey asked, feigning innocent curiosity.
Count Hall hesitated.
His gaze drifted, just for a moment, toward the direction of the nursery.
"Not exactly," he said slowly. "It was… a powerful individual. Someone who happens to be acquainted with senior figures from both the Church of Storms and the Church of the Night Goddess. They were attending the ball and dealt with it on the spot."
He had no intention of telling his daughter that the "powerful individual" was currently lying in a crib.
"That's a relief," Audrey said softly.
Outwardly calm.
Inwardly, her thoughts accelerated.
If that's the case, then the one who killed Zilingus must be Mr. Strength.
So Mr. Strength has close ties with the upper ranks of both churches…
But Father looked toward the nursery.
Does that mean Mr. Strength is in the nursery?
That makes no sense. Only guests' children and a few maids are there.
Then why haven't I noticed anyone in the hall who matches Mr. Strength's presence?
Her father continued speaking.
"Because of your contribution, Duke Nigen intends to gift you his seaside retreat at Dixie Bay."
Audrey nodded politely, but her eyes were already roaming the hall.
She observed expressions.
Postures.
Subtle shifts in attention.
Patterns.
One detail stood out.
Duke Nigen, along with several high-ranking nobles and officials, had become noticeably warmer toward a previously unremarkable couple.
The Bartons.
Jack Barton and his wife.
Audrey frowned slightly.
Could it be Jack Barton?
No. His aura doesn't fit at all.
The thought lingered.
Then the ball ended.
Guests began to depart.
The Barton couple emerged from the nursery, their child cradled between them.
At that moment, Audrey noticed something that made her breath hitch.
Her father.
Duke Nigen.
Several of the nobles and officials who had rushed outside earlier.
All of them, almost unconsciously, directed their gaze toward the baby in the Bartons' arms.
The same baby.
A chill slid down her spine.
It can't be…
Reason answered before disbelief could.
It has to be.
Audrey forced herself to walk past the Bartons as though by coincidence.
She glanced down.
The baby had been sleeping.
Then his eyes opened.
Clear.
Aware.
He smiled.
Not the innocent smile of an infant.
But a composed, knowing one.
A tiny hand lifted and formed a discreet gesture.
A signal known only within the Tarot Club.
Audrey froze.
It really is Mr. Strength.
Even with prior suspicion, confirmation hit like a hammer.
For a long moment, she could only repeat a single thought.
The supernatural world truly contains everything.
When the Bartons disappeared from view, Audrey slowly regained her composure.
A new question surfaced.
How had Mr. Strength recognized her as Justice?
Then she dismissed it.
If she, with her limited abilities, could deduce his identity through observation and logic…
Someone of his caliber confirming hers was hardly strange.
Late that night, after the shaken Bartons finally fell asleep, Rowan opened his eyes.
He sat up in his crib and summoned the black glove.
The artifact Zilingus had called Wriggling Hunger.
He examined it carefully.
"So it imprisons souls."
Dead supernatural beings.
Bound.
Stripped of one ability, forcibly extracted for use.
Rowan did not immediately release the soul containing the shapeshifting essence.
Instead, he tested the artifact's downside.
He channeled the glove's dream-based ability once, deepening his parents' sleep.
Then he waited.
No feeding.
No blood.
No souls.
The glove twitched.
Swelled.
Its leather peeled apart into a gaping, tooth-lined mouth that lunged for Rowan.
It bit down.
Nothing happened.
It couldn't consume his flesh.
It couldn't touch his soul.
Rowan raised an eyebrow.
"Bold."
A wave of pressure rolled outward.
Not energy.
Not magic.
Existence itself.
The glove shuddered.
The monstrous mouth collapsed back into leather.
It lay still.
Terrified.
"Misbehave again," Rowan said calmly, "and I'll erase your awareness and rebuild you from scratch."
The glove trembled.
This was not an idle threat.
With time, Rowan could adapt magic capable of granting consciousness to objects.
If an artifact refused obedience, he would simply wipe it clean and make a better one.
A compliant one.
He turned his attention inward.
"I should prioritize memory-based magic."
With it, he could harvest memories directly from bound souls.
Knowledge.
Techniques.
Histories.
For now, he commanded the glove to release the soul carrying the shapeshifter's essence and extracted it.
He did not absorb it.
Not yet.
He wanted to experience the full potion process, to better understand how this world's power truly functioned.
The essence would serve as the core material.
He still needed auxiliary components.
"Time to see Crestay."
Rowan lay back down.
The nursery fell silent once more.