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Chapter 2 - Chapter 2 Mysterious Murder

As usual, the capital of Valmorra was bustling with relentless activity. Cobblestone streets echoed with the rumble of carriage wheels and the clatter of hooves as horses trotted hurriedly by. Black smoke from factory chimneys stained the sky, mingling with the expensive perfumes of nobles passing by in gilded carriages. From their velvet seats, the nobles gazed out, judging the commoners as nothing more than a gray, meaningless backdrop.

William strode lightly down the sidewalk among the crowd. A paper bag containing two bottles of milk and a sack of soybeans swayed in his hand with the rhythm of his steps. His crooked black hair blew in the wind, accentuating his foreign silhouette and giving him an air of indifference.

Several pairs of eyes glanced at him. Some were fascinated; others were nervous. But no one dared to approach him. His face was sweet—too sweet to be masculine. However, that wasn't what kept people at bay. There was something about William—a cold aura sharper than a knife—that made people choose to stay away.

His thoughts drifted back to an evening that was supposed to be full of decorum but turned into chaos. It was a dinner party at Earl Enders Falkner's estate.

---

He could still remember it: The expansive garden of the Falkner family, lit by gas lamps swaying in the evening breeze. Among the lavishly dressed guests, William stood on the side of the path, reluctant only because his father and Sister Margaret had insisted he attend.

Then a man appeared. He wore a long black coat and had a sly smile smeared with poisoned honey. He openly searched William's body as if selecting merchandise.

"My dear lady, your beauty truly stands out among the commoners," he whispered. Without permission, his hand reached out and touched William's back, covered by his maple-red shirt.

William turned his head slightly. His tied hair fell across his face, partially obscuring his eyes. His gaze was cold, a mixture of boredom and disgust. But to Earl Enders, it seemed like an invitation.

"If you don't want to tell me your name," the nobleman continued with a crooked smile, "how about you stay at my residence? I can provide you with everything: Food, clothes, and even a warm bed."

He chuckled, convinced that he had won.

But William remained silent. That is, until the rotten hand reached too close to his collar.

From the balcony, Father Albert could only cover his face as he watched the scene unfold. "Oh my God... I can smell chaos from here."

Indeed, chaos was coming.

William seized the man's wrist with lightning speed. His grip was so tight that the nobleman's joints creaked softly.

"You touched me without permission, and now you're talking about a bed?" His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, yet it cut him like a knife.

Earl Enders's smile faded. "You don't know who I am, do you? I am Earl Enders Falkner! Lord Falkner! A Sentinel of the Order of the Silver Fox. You...you have no idea!"

William's gaze remained unwavering. Flat. Empty. Then, with one hand, he slammed the Earl's head into the ground.

A loud bang shook the garden. The stone walkway cracked and left a deep depression. Dust rose as the guests rushed out of the room, screaming in horror at the sight of one of their nobles lying in a pool of blood with a crushed face beyond recognition.

William stood over him, pulling his hair behind his ears. His words were flat, cold, and filled with scorn.

"It's not me who's pathetic, it's your taste."

Then, he left. He stomped out of the garden, looking annoyed as if he had wasted his time.

With his remaining strength, Earl Enders grimaced and growled at the ground.

"So, he's just a young man."

***

Rumors circulated through the city like smoke: thin and faint, yet poisonous. William was sensitive enough to detect the poison lurking behind every whisper, whether in the bustling marketplace or the narrow alleys where the stench rivaled that of sewage.

Over the past three years, a series of tragedies had occurred. Weddings of commoners—from the middle class to the poor—ended not in joy but in massacre. Bodies were found mangled, altars charred like pagan sacrificial altars, and church ceilings stained with blood.

Yet, strangely, none of the nobles suffered a similar fate. Their weddings were peaceful and immaculate—too perfect, in fact. In fact, they were so perfect that they emitted a stench incense couldn't cover.

Arthur and Melissa were two orphans who were bolder than their age would suggest. They began to sense the suspicion. They approached William. Though he always displayed a cynical and annoying demeanor, the young man wasn't deaf to the nagging feeling in his heart. In just half a day, he had pieced together enough information to discern the hidden, dark pattern. "Sir Robert married his sweetheart just this month," whispered a milk shop owner, her hands trembling as she stacked bottles on a wooden shelf. "Unfortunately, they died that very night. The family sent messages to the Order repeatedly, but no one responded."

Ten couples in one year. In three years, fifty-one. One hundred and two deaths. It's a number too high to be a coincidence.

***

As dusk approached, William returned to the orphanage. The Valmorra skyline was growing dimmer, with the orange western horizon being swallowed by towering factory smoke. He didn't join them for dinner. He was the only adult among the fifteen orphans, and sitting with them felt strange, as if he were being forced into a role that wasn't his own.

His small room was silent. The weathered wooden bed was the only place he could call his own. He lay down with his hands folded under his head and stared blankly at the damp-stained ceiling.

Until—

Creeeak.

The door opened without anyone knocking. William sighed. He didn't need to turn around to know who had entered: two eternal intruders to his tranquility.

"If you're going to disturb me," he muttered dryly, "you're truly skilled at annoying people to death."

"Go ahead and die. I'm even more annoyed by your face," Arthur retorted, his voice rising like a child trying to sound brave.

Melissa hurried forward, trying to defuse the situation. "Arthur, don't be like that. We need Will. He might be the only one who can do something."

Arthur snorted and turned toward the window. Meanwhile, Melissa stood by William's bedside with her hands behind her back. Her voice was low and serious.

"Will, this isn't just our problem. Sister Margaret is hurt. Her sister was supposed to get married last week. What happened instead—" She stopped, swallowing bitterly. "It's just grief. I saw Sister Margaret's eyes tonight. They were swollen. They were red. She didn't look at anyone during the meal."

William closed his eyes. Silent. But his mind was racing.

"And then?" His voice was languid. "What does that have to do with me? I'm nothing. I'm not the person they expected."

Melissa paused for a moment. Disappointment filled her eyes, but she didn't back down.

"We've tried contacting the Sentinels of the Royal Order. But who would listen to a commoner? You're different, Will. For some reason, you always survive. You're always lucky. We want to borrow your luck."

William opened his eyes, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It wasn't a friendly smile, though, but rather a faint hint of mockery.

"Luck, huh?" he whispered.

He turned and looked at them from the bed. His black hair fell partially onto his cheek, casting shadows on his face. His gaze was deep and ambiguous, as if he were weighing whether to reject or accept them.

"Okay," he finally said, slowly but clearly. "But you have to pay."

Melissa blinked. "Pay?"

"Some of your pocket money," William continued, his tone half cold and half playful. "I don't work for free. Not even for the 'brothers and sisters of the orphanage.'"

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