"Although you should already know my name, I suppose I'll introduce myself again. Hello, James Moriarty. I am Faria…"
When it came time to continue, the silver-haired elder paused briefly before finishing:
"…Williams."
James Moriarty — seventeen years old — a first-year student at a certain university in England, and already granted a teaching position in mathematics. From every angle, his future appeared brilliant.
Napoleon of the criminal underworld.
Of course, he had yet to make any of the crucial decisions that would define his life. Right now, he was still just a student.
His gaze held a glint of menace, yet there remained traces of a good-natured demeanor — and a certain emotional fragility. Overall, if he were not standing within a prison, his first impression to others at the university would simply be that of a bright and refreshing young man.
As for why he currently stood here in Château d'If of France — it was merely born of a thought:
"Perhaps I may gain something valuable by interacting with the vile men imprisoned here."
Yet after several months, Moriarty had gained little from the inmates.
It was not as though their pleas for better food, for innocence, or for freedom were surprising — such requests were natural for the imprisoned.
But there was disappointment — for in Moriarty's eyes, they were all far too ordinary. Not pure enough.
Yet here, within the dungeon of Château d'If — James Moriarty felt that this Italian priest, Father Faria, though undeniably odd, was extraordinarily interesting.
"Oh?"
Moriarty raised an eyebrow — surprised for a moment at the unfamiliar surname Williams, absent from his earlier records — but he did not pursue it. A name was merely a name. Whether Father Faria or Faria Williams — in the calculations that defined his worldview — it made no difference.
According to the files, this Faria had served as a cardinal's secretary for twenty-eight years, then was imprisoned in Château d'If for unknown reasons. The record did not state a cause, but Moriarty could infer it must be something to do with Italian affairs.
He continued:
"I was sent to inspect the prison conditions and hear out the prisoners' requests. Do you have anything you wish to ask for?"
"For a prisoner, the greatest wish is surely freedom, is it not?"
Moriarty felt a wave of disappointment. He had expected something far more interesting — and yet, it was such mundane commonality.
For a criminal — already defined by society as evil — one who had truly committed sin — he expected a more refined desire.
"Why be disappointed?" Though the silver-haired youth controlled his expression well, Faria could still detect the subtle shift. "Do you believe it is wrong for prisoners to seek freedom?"
"It is natural. I do not intend to judge them for it."
Moriarty showed no reaction at being seen through — maintaining his calm mask as always.
"Is that so?" Faria lightly shook his head. "Then why do you think prisoners seek freedom?"
"Because you are going to die. Because it is too painful."
"Exactly. You are right. It is because they wish to live, that they suffer. The body desires to live, and thus it resists. That pain is not merely proof of life — it is rebellion — a rejection of annihilation."
To Moriarty, the priest before him was peculiar. Unlike the devout believers he'd met before — his image of "priest" felt faintly unreal. One might sooner mistake him for a gentle old man.
"Those who commit sins must be punished. This has nothing to do with personal desires. Even if granted freedom, the wicked will only fall further."
"Indeed. Those who sinned deserve punishment. There is no complaint to be made."
"You understand then."
Moriarty stared deeply at the old man — wordlessly implying:
If you acknowledge this… then freedom should not be requested.
As if reading that unspoken thought, Faria smiled apologetically.
"But say there was such a man — who stole a loaf of bread to feed his sister's seven starving children — and for this was sentenced to five years of hard labor. A punishment utterly unjust. He tried to escape four times — each time failed — and ultimately endured eighteen years before finally being released. Now tell me — was his punishment fair? Should he not ask for freedom?"
"Of course he may." Moriarty replied flatly. "But priest, what you speak of is merely a story, a hypothetical. On a broader scale — the majority of prisoners have no reason to pursue freedom."
"Then — do you know what crime I committed to be locked here?"
"There is no detailed record. But a man like you — given time — will surely be released. Because you are gifted with language. Useful to humanity. I will provide favorable remarks in your report — your talent should not be wasted."
"Is that so."
And suddenly — Moriarty caught a fleeting loneliness in Faria's eyes — causing his own voice to halt.
…Why did I fall silent?
Before his confusion could settle, the old priest smiled warmly.
"What about those without talent? Is their life wasted from the very beginning?"
"..."
— The greatest mastermind in history. The architect of every atrocity. The hidden nerve center of the underworld. A mind that shapes the fate of nations — such is this man.
This was how Sherlock Holmes described Moriarty in the original works.
Truthfully, most descriptions were spoken through Holmes himself — for in Doyle's writing, Moriarty was created primarily as a device — a tool to bring closure to Holmes' story — lacking true depiction.
Yet in the Nasuverse — James Moriarty undeniably exists.
He even indirectly participated in Dr. Jekyll's attempt to remove his own evil and become a being of pure good.
He is not evil because he desires destruction —
He becomes evil in order to destroy.
This is perhaps the best way to describe him.
Not driven by profound ideology — but by a chillingly logical pursuit of wrongdoing.
Morality cannot judge him.
Law cannot condemn him.
Education cannot reform him.
Words cannot persuade him.
To defeat Moriarty, one must break his logic — and yet his logic holds no flaws.
One can only say:
"I do not agree."
"Then what of those born burdened with misfortune?
Born without parents. Destitute. Ignorant. Hungry. Unable even to speak properly. Bodies deformed — missing what others take for granted… Or worse — infants abandoned in a barren wasteland the moment they are born?"
Moriarty could not speak.
Had he been the older "Napoleon of Crime," he would have scoffed or dismissed such matters — powerless tragedies unworthy of attention.
But now — he was still young. Rational. Bright.
His framework built entirely upon calculation.
His mind had always declared:
The valuable and the worthless are distinguished at birth.
The incompetent — no matter how hard they struggle — will never become valuable.
"Hard work breeds success"?
What a colossal misconception.
No one becomes gifted.
One is born that way.
If killing one hundred useless people could save a thousand valuable ones — someone must be willing to bear that sin.
If so — is it not permissible for the talentless to be discarded — to clear space for the useful?
Yet even if his brain computed that conclusion —
his heart stopped the words from leaving his lips.
No… That is not right.
Human life is not something determined so simply.
And so Moriarty lowered his head and whispered:
"I… don't know."
"Indeed. Humans are no longer capable of living as simply as beasts. Because we can feel sorrow — no… that ability cannot be called perfection. It is precisely because we grieve, that we have emotions. And life is not some mandatory competition. This world should not be one where only those who claw their way up deserve the attention of others."
"But Father Faria, are you suggesting that effort alone can accomplish anything? If effort truly mattered, there would be no weak."
Faria smiled as he answered:
"In the end, useful and useless have no absolute definition. Perception shifts as we ourselves change. Beauty or ugliness — everything depends on interpretation. All are born into the long history of humanity, and all will one day return to it."
"You may say that — but humans are divided between useful and useless. A child born buried in misfortune — how could they simply march forward and survive? Most such people will inevitably become true evil — and therefore useless to mankind. Now — refute me."
Though his voice remained calm, his heartbeat thundered.
For the first time in his young life — James Moriarty felt exhilaration.
He could not wait to hear Faria's rebuttal.
He needed to know what this man would say.
But Faria merely nodded — and turned his gaze away.
"…I acknowledge that. To demand progress without understanding another's suffering is a sin. My words are bound by the limits of what I've known. Language — invented by humans — is imperfect. Beauty is not perfection — it is born from emptiness, shaped by each person's heart."
"Hmph. At least you know your own limits."
Strangely — Moriarty felt a pang of irritation.
Perhaps he had expected a sharper counterattack.
"But no matter what path one walks — there will be setbacks. Times when one must lower their head, unable to bear the brilliance of their ideals. And yet — some things cannot be understood until one tries. Even if failure awaits — the journey itself can be magnificent."
Faria coughed softly.
"I admit that I cannot speak for all — for I have not witnessed all. But I speak for those I have seen — who, burdened by misfortune, still choose to walk forward. Not all succeed — but it is precisely because they strive, that this world has reached this moment."
"So you are saying that 'goodness' sustains the world?"
At that, Moriarty — usually emotionless — suddenly laughed.
"Weak goodness is trampled without mercy by cunning evil. Throughout history — kings, heroes — most were evil men. Examine history seriously — and anyone will notice this. Even your Church leaders' hands are drenched in blood."
His words were enough to suffocate an ordinary believer.
"Yes. Stained with blood. I fully admit it. Whatever the reasons — many lives were taken."
But what surprised Moriarty — Faria answered without hesitation.
"Human beings cannot live without lies. A lie is as natural as breathing — a necessary means to survive.
Thus, no matter how noble the justice, how radiant the ideals — one cannot believe blindly. When lies are accepted as necessary evil — they become the most reliable weapon."
"Heh. That is not something a priest should say."
"Better a necessary evil than a useless good. Feel no shame. Feel no regret. A victory gained through sin can still seek redemption. But righteousness defeated — is doomed forever."
"…So after all that — you speak only from the victor's side. In the end, it is always the innocent and the kind-hearted who suffer."
Moriarty stilled again — his breath uneven beneath his calm exterior.
"If so—then for the sake of the innocent and kind-hearted—
would you destroy this world where the wicked rule freely?
Would you do that, James Moriarty?"
"Hm? What are you—"
And then — Moriarty would remember this moment forever.
The elder's pale-blue eyes — shining like a star-laden sky —
and the words that echoed straight into his soul:
"Become the evil that delivers darkness, pain, and despair… to those who steal hope without restraint."
"What?!"
"If it were you — could you do it? James Moriarty. No—
if it is you — you will do it. Lord James Moriarty."
"Leaving aside this idea of evil — why do you believe I could accomplish it?"
"Because, just like you, I have made my calculation.
And that calculation tells me:
'James Moriarty can do it.'"
Faria spoke with unwavering certainty.
"...…Heh. Humans love to challenge their own limits. They cannot resist proving their conclusions correct. Pathetic impulses. So very lacking in mathematical elegance."
Moriarty's voice was heavy, low.
"How many coincidences must occur before they are called inevitability?"
Faria shook his head again.
A coincidence — no matter how many times it repeats — remains a coincidence.
A necessity — even if it has never occurred — remains a necessity.
Accidents will never turn into inevitability.
Inevitabilities could never become accidents.
An accident is an accident.
An inevitability is an inevitability.
If one were to ask why — the only answer could be: "Because it is so — therefore it is so."
And thus, he continued:
"Our encounter — yours and mine — James Moriarty — is but an accident. Perhaps after today, we will never see each other again. And so, to prevent this accident from being a once-in-forever occurrence — if possible, I would like you to remember this name:
Charles Babbage.
And in four years — in 1818 — in Geneva, Switzerland — an event shall take place. When the time comes — I hope you will go and witness it."
Moriarty fell silent — as if trying to decipher the true intention behind the priest's words.
…Was he indicating an ally? A kinsman, perhaps?
Paying no mind to the youth's contemplation, Faria continued:
"Look here, James Moriarty. This is a prison from which I cannot walk free — beneath the pitch-black isolation of Château d'If. My body is aging — losing its vitality. I do not believe this is a good place — nor that it holds any possibilities…"
To Moriarty, the dungeon Faria lived in was sheer hell.
Every moment drenched in silent gloom.
The chamber dim and lightless.
Stone walls — coarse, damp, bone-chillingly cold — reeked of mold and rot.
"Every day I spend here, everything I see is shrouded in darkness.
Yet because of that — I have come to realize that every minute, every second of the world — each fleeting moment — is brilliant gold."
Moriarty remained silent.
"Every memory I can recall — shines."
"…Is that so?"
"Hard to understand?"
"I do not understand. Not at all. And yet — is this world that wonderful in your eyes?"
"It is. Whether a thousand years ago or centuries in between — all of time has been radiant. James Moriarty… even if you cannot grasp it now — when your future self looks back upon this 'present,' it will surely shine within your memory. Perhaps this moment… or before… or after…"
Faria gently caressed the faded marks on the wall — answering without a hint of hesitation:
"When people act out of kindness — giving to one another — they feel joy. Sharing the same heart — becoming happy together.
From now on — every day is a good day. Days will grow better."
"That so-called Eden cannot exist. Humans could never be like that. It is utterly impossible. No calculation could ever produce such a result. Neither by accident nor by inevitability."
"Is that so? Ahead lies a boundless sky — not a single cloud to darken it — and none shall ever appear again. A sun without shadow — forever illuminating all corners.
The world is forever gold.
Is that not the very essence of an ideal?
Is that not what ideals are?"
He breathed slowly — voice soft yet firm:
"Even after countless thoughts, countless searches — I know reality will never become that.
Yet the farthest, unknown shore — who's to say it holds nothing undiscovered?
Always searching. Always learning.
But the more I learn — the more I know it's impossible.
Even so — this wish never ends:
'If only someone would overturn this belief of mine.'
Let me believe — that absurdity will one day end —
and a better tomorrow still awaits discovery."
Before Moriarty, the old man extended his hand.
For some reason — in that instant — the youth felt that no matter the circumstance, there should be no one who would reject that hand.
Yet he did.
Without hesitation.
He turned away — firmly.
And as he staggered a few steps, leaving — the priest's final words echoed from behind:
"I truly wish… to see such beauty — even once."
…
At the last threshold of Château d'If — the sharp-eyed young man walked step by step toward the outside world.
Absurd!
Incomprehensible!
Nonsense!
That was the verdict he gave to everything that had just transpired.
And yet —
His body felt light.
His mind — piercingly clear.
His brain — ablaze.
Through gaps and flashes of numbers continuously flickering in his vision — one step forward.
Driven by instinct to resist the trembling surging through his body — one step forward.
Heart pounding with the irrepressible urge to one day strike back at that man with undeniable proof — to see him wide-eyed in astonishment — one step forward.
Those inexplicable words from the man named Faria —
were now everything he wanted to achieve.
For the first time — he thought like this:
Not a shameful delusion.
Not loathsome vanity.
Not some fantasy only possible in dreams — unreachable by the world.
I want to do it.
I want to succeed.
Even if his tone had implied it was already impossible —
Moriarty wanted to rise up and prove otherwise —
for the first time — from the deepest chamber of his heart.
And if — on the road paved with doubt —
he could not take even a single step…
If one feared the abyss so much that they stopped forever at the edge…
Then the path would remain forever shut.
Perhaps — decades later — the older James Moriarty would no longer care.
Perhaps these feelings — so vivid now — would one day fade into nothing…
But the Moriarty that existed in this moment —
refused to allow that.
And so — the stumbling young inspector stepped out of Château d'If.
To the watching guards, the silver-haired visitor — who never once looked back — inexplicably lingered on the ship for over ten minutes before departing.
His retreating figure was like a furious white spider.
And the voice that reached their ears — like gnashing teeth:
"That's right… fine then!
Just wait!!
Watch closely!!!
Faria!!!"
Thus — James Moriarty had made one of the most pivotal choices of his life.
All that remained was to march forward — coldly and mercilessly — down the path of evil.
…
"I'm sorry… but Abby — if you don't leave now, it will be difficult to find another moment."
Meanwhile — within the dungeon — Faria spoke to Abigail.
In truth, that outstretched hand moments earlier — had been meant for them to leave with Moriarty.
Even though Moriarty himself could not see her — once he sensed the unseen presence aboard the ship, he would surely understand the meaning behind that gesture.
After all — Moriarty was someone who knew magecraft.
But Abigail had refused.
And because of that — the attempt failed.
Leaving Faria feeling he had simply been far too presumptuous.
Maybe she was even angry.
"Um… do you think I'm meddling too much?"
The golden-haired girl furrowed her brows slightly — expression delicate and timid.
"…No, just—"
Faria tried to deny it, but before he could speak — the girl gently pressed her faded sleeves to his lips — cupping his face — her eyes turning impossibly soft.
"You see? Without me — you'd go hungry."
Abigail smiled — radiant as a blooming flower.
"Without me — you'd be all alone.
Abby doesn't need a vast world. Even though things are hard now — I'm still happy. Because I've been waiting for you — always, always."
Her gaze lingered on him — narrowed like a predator studying her prey.
In truth — she didn't dislike his strange philosophy.
She thought much the same.
Yet — the moment he extended his hand — she had instinctively turned away, pressing herself against the wall.
"…Nngh!"
At that moment, she had covered her mouth — forcing down her voice — determined not to disappoint her brother.
Though the pain made her tremble — sliding down to sit on the damp floor — she still refused to move her hand.
In that instant — both felt their hearts pounding loud enough to drown out every other sound.
"Just as you said — this world shouldn't be one where people must struggle desperately to be noticed by another… isn't that so… my brother?"