London, Midnight, Kensington – Morstan House.
"Click... click..."
The quiet warehouse was filled with the whirring of a spinning loom. Next to the safe, a figure crouched, half sideways, spinning the gear with one hand while leaning against the shining steel.
After five minutes of trial and error, the safe previously hailed as unbreakable yielded, giving a satisfying click as the lock disengaged.
"Let's take a look at what kind of goodies are inside..."
The thief rubbed his hands together and opened the safe, immediately rummaging through the contents without hesitation.
"Tch... why does this family keep ox horns in here? And is that... a coffee cup?"
What's with this silver figurine, and this broken arrow?
"Come on, there should be something decent in here, shouldn't there? This is supposed to be a high-class townhouse!"
Annoyed, Russell threw what he'd found onto the floor, cursing as he stuck his head out from behind the safe. What terrible luck.
Did he come all the way out to Kensington for this? If he actually stole these things and it got published in tomorrow's paper, wouldn't he die from embarrassment?
Russell (Real Name: Russell Watson, age 19), freshman at Imperial College London, was also the infamous phantom thief currently causing headaches at Scotland Yard.
From a very young age, he'd realized he lived in a parallel world called "London".
His so-called 'cheat' system—bestowed belatedly when he turned 18—allowed him, simply put, to earn "malice points" by committing bad deeds that sparked negative emotions in his targets.
The system's core function: Malice Points could be spent on purchasing items or improving physical attributes. And while the system sounded simple, the ways to use it were far from so.
The main categories were Points and Shopping, but numerous subtle factors divided each aspect further. The attributes you could enhance covered nearly every facet of his body: stamina, intelligence, life span; or, on a smaller scale, all sorts of "life skills" — picking locks, moving stealthily, eavesdropping... Whether or not these truly counted as "life skills" was irrelevant.
As for items?
The system's shop itself was fabulously varied: a mask that let you move unseen, a bottle of refreshing glass, two vials of energy potion, three mysterious vials promising immortality, even a smokeball for teleportation.
Meaning, if he had enough points, he could basically buy anything from the shop.
But Russell's most common purchase was a blind box containing, at 10 malice points each, the detailed floor plans of various households.
And tonight, the plan had brought him to the Duke of Morstan's mansion.
But who would have thought the Duke, who dominated half the East India trade routes, stored a bundle of ox horns in his safe? Even if you told anyone, they'd only laugh at you.
Scowling, Russell stared again at the jumble on the floor.
Waste of time.
And even if he did take them, he'd probably have to return them anyway. Looked like bad luck too. Just his luck to have wasted his "drop rate".
He took up the broken arrow, carved "I was here" on the wall, and was about to leave — after all, he'd need to attend the opening ceremony tomorrow.
But just as he bent down to pick up the arrow, the collection room lights flickered on.
Someone had flipped the switch.
Russell froze, then turned his gaze to the door.
Framed in the doorway stood a slender figure—a girl, a gun in her hand. The cold, black muzzle was aimed straight at him, her delicate finger hovering with intent.
"No sudden moves. Put down what's in your hands, raise both arms, and slowly stand up."
Her clear voice was as crisp as shattered ice on a lake. Eyes as blue as the Aegean, her gaze was frigid, like she'd fallen into an ice cave.
She would really shoot. Russell could sense that instantly.
Obeying, he carefully put down the object and slowly straightened with his hands up.
"Miss, please, don't be hasty. You wouldn't want a moment of impulse to leave a permanent scar on your precious youth, right?"
"If I shoot a thief who's broken into my house after midnight," the girl replied quietly, "I don't think I'd regret it at all. In fact, Scotland Yard might even give me a civilian medal."
Russell shrugged. "The Yard would probably give you a polite nod and then move on. With the savings, you could buy yourself some fine tobacco."
"I can't disagree with that." The girl allowed herself a tiny smile, the tension easing slightly.
"Now, would you mind taking off your mask?" She motioned with the gun.
"Ah—are you a fan of mine?" Russell smiled, but made no move.
"That's for me to decide, after I check your face. If you turn out ugly, I might have to shoot you for the sake of your fans."
"So you're 'looks matter' type, huh? What a pity—such a beautiful lady."
Sighing, Russell slowly raised a hand to his face, as if unlocking a magic trick.
The girl watched him intently, completely missing that, in his still-raised left hand, something had appeared from nowhere.
[Item: Mist Array. Purchased successfully for 100 Malice Points.]
[Mist Array: Instantly teleport yourself to any designated spot within ten meters. Moving within the smoke leaves no sound, breath, or visible trace. Vision is unaffected.]
Just before his mask was fully removed, a system notification chimed—only he could hear it. Russell smacked the item to the ground.
With a hissing sound, the whole collection room filled with smoke, and Russell's form vanished completely.
A fraction of a second later, shock froze the girl's calm mask. Her eyes darted through the haze.
"Where did that smoke bomb come from...? When...?"
When the smoke cleared, the warehouse was empty, leaving only the open safe and scattered ox horns as evidence anyone had ever been present.
The girl stood lost in thought at the door, her gaze sweeping the room.
There was only one exit—the one she'd guarded the whole time. How had he disappeared? And what was that smoke bomb? Where had he drawn it from?
Her gaze swept the room again—and something white slipped from her coat. As she bent to pick it up, she realized her brooch was gone. That had been meant for tomorrow's opening ceremony.
Stolen? When?
Frowning, she eyed the card on the floor. The name was elegantly inscribed in black on white:
—[Moriarty]
Such beautiful penmanship—it radiated grace, just like the name itself.
The girl arched her brow, sensing absurdity, yet was also amused.
James Moriarty. Napoleon of the London underworld. The criminal mastermind who orchestrated grand strategies but never stained his own hands.
It should have been a name to sow fear, and yet now it was scrawled as the alias of a small-time thief.
Was this a provocation—or a declaration of war?
"Moriarty..."
Her smile deepened, but her eyes remained chill.
She traced the name with a slender finger, almost as if talking to herself, or asking the name a question.
"If you're Moriarty, then who am I?"
…