Chapter Seventeen: Stirring in the Shadows

The giant Paul’s mansion.

Once a place of bustling grandeur, it now lay steeped in a profound chill. Fallen leaves were scattered across the white porcelain tiles; the hall, neglected, bore a thick layer of dust. Simon walked along the path that ought to have been familiar, yet for reasons unknown, a sense of estrangement welled within him. Before him stood the Reaper clad in black, the solemn and grim bronze mask, and those lifeless azure eyes devoid of any vitality or warmth. Unable to help himself, Simon shivered, banishing his distracting thoughts for the moment and knelt in reverence.

“Any progress?” The Shadow King of the Lower District glanced at him.

“In accordance with your will, I brought giant Paul to visit Amy Ulysses,” Simon replied, casting a discreet look behind at the silent giant who stood with him. The former steward’s face, never pleasant, had grown even paler. “Then we met Hoover at the Tallinn Trading Company, and paid our respects to Virginie at the House of Elves.”

“I require results,” said the Reaper, known by the title of Mask, his voice as cold and unwavering as ever.

Simon lowered his head humbly, not daring to meet those azure eyes. “The suspicions of all three remain unresolved, but the greatest suspicion falls upon Virginie of the House of Elves.”

The Shadow King said nothing, merely gazed at him. The ordinary look in his eyes carried a soul-chilling power, causing the steward’s heart to freeze as he voiced his conjecture. Still, he pressed on, “Virginie’s reaction was odd. During our conversation, she seemed to see through something, and showed doubts about Paul’s current state.”

“So,” Mask enunciated coldly, stripping away any trace of human emotion, “you believe she is the murderer?”

“No—” Unexpectedly, Simon shook his head. “Virginie is Lord Paul’s secret lover. Few know of this, and I am among the privileged few. Given her familiarity with Lord Paul, it’s not surprising she would notice the irregularities. I only meant… she cannot be allowed to remain.”

“No one should remain, including you,” came the merciless words, the Reaper’s blue gaze unruffled as ever.

Simon did not refute this. He simply bowed his head deeper, neck bent, awaiting the judgment to come.

“You are fortunate,” the Shadow King looked down upon him, as one might gaze at insignificant dust. “You live only because you are still useful—so prove your worth to me, show that you deserve to be used.”

“I will prove my value,” Simon said with fearful sincerity, keeping his head lowered, not daring to meet the Reaper’s gaze. “In fact, there is one more piece of news I wish to share.”

“Speak,” Mask replied, succinct and direct.

“I learned something from Amy Ulysses,” Simon paused, gathering his thoughts. “He received information about Paul’s death from an informant calling himself Willy. But as far as I know, this Willy does not exist in the Lower District.”

“So?” Mask prompted.

“This informant named Willy is suspect,” Simon said. “Someone—or more precisely, some organization—is deliberately spreading news of Lord Paul’s death. Willy is clearly a lead. If we follow the trail, we’re bound to uncover their rat’s tail.”

“That is not your concern,” after a brief silence, the Shadow King said. “Your concern is only to find the true murderer of giant Paul.”

“I understand.” Disappointed by the Reaper’s indifference, Simon nevertheless maintained his composure. “I will uncover the truth as soon as possible. Please await my results.”

“Remember, all I require is the result—” Mask glanced at him, those cold blue eyes icy as ever. “I care nothing for the process.”

Care nothing for the process… Simon felt a murderous intent in those simple words, shivering again before nodding silently.

He had his own theories about Paul’s death, lacking only the means to verify them. Hoover, founder of the Tallinn Trading Company, wielded immense influence among craftsmen and merchants in the Eastern District. Virginie, mistress of the House of Elves—the greatest den of luxury in the Lower District—was no ordinary figure either, her connections with various factions vast and intricate. Any move against her could send the Eastern District into utter chaos. As for Amy Ulysses, descendant of glory, perhaps the title was hollow, but the Ulysses name entangled him in complex relationships with the most prestigious families of the Upper District. To strike at him would be the worst option.

Yet what Simon could not do, others might. As the first under Emperor Michelangelo, Mask—the Shadow King—possessed absolute authority. With his backing, even a vague stance allowed Simon to act boldly. The risk of being discarded as a pawn was real, but it was better than being killed for inaction or presumption.

Having relaxed a little, Simon did not forget that his life was still at the mercy of the Reaper. Carefully, he glanced at the bronze-masked figure, hesitating, then asked with deliberation, “Lord Mask, is there anything else you require of me?”

“You are responsible for only one thing,” the Shadow King said quietly. “All else is irrelevant—I never hesitate to show generosity and mercy to those of value.”

Even the dead have value to you, don’t they?

Simon could not help thinking, though he was not foolish enough to voice it. With a respectful farewell, he left the mansion, now growing ever more desolate, trembling with anxiety.

—Was it merely his imagination, or did he glimpse figures moving in the darkness?

Surely, he thought, he must be mistaken…

To keep the secret, those who once lived here had surely been dealt with. With Mask present, no one could sneak in. Simon did not linger on the thought; he had more important matters to attend to. Unconsciously, he quickened his steps, leaving this place of trouble with a mind full of thoughts.

Because of this, he did not witness the moment when, after his departure, giant Paul’s abandoned mansion suddenly pulsed with new vitality.

No—perhaps vitality is not the right word. For every person moving within the mansion was not truly alive. They moved through the courtyard, guided by vague memories from life, wandering like spirits of the dead among the living, numb and unfeeling—mere shells, walking corpses, and nothing more.

Here, it had become the realm of the dead.

And the sovereign of this realm was none other than the Shadow King of the Lower District. Attending him on either side were giant Paul and a pale, yet exceedingly beautiful blonde woman—if Simon had remained, he would have easily recognized her as Paul’s wife, his long-deceased spouse. But now, the dead woman’s purple lips quivered faintly, uttering a cold, emotionless voice.

“It’s Amy Ulysses.”

She spoke, but it was Paul who continued, having maintained his imposing stature even in death. Yet his voice, like his wife’s, was icy and inorganic, “As a scion of glory, his demeanor is far too timid.”

“But we should not be drawn into the struggles of the Upper District,” Mask concluded calmly. Strangely, though three voices spoke, each distinct, their rhythm and tone were perfectly synchronized, as if one person were speaking in three different voices to themselves. “For the sake of Paul alone, it is not worth being swept into the conflict between Scions of Glory and Chaos Cultists.”

“But we must make our stance clear,” the woman’s voice was more delicate.

“That little steward is a decent pawn,” Paul rumbled, his words still tinged with chilling cold. “Let him attract their attention in the open, while we mobilize our intelligence network to investigate the informant.”

“It’s the style of the House of the Lost,” said the Shadow King, face impassive. “But without evidence, we must not act rashly—those watching us are not only the House of the Lost, but also the lunatics of the Dark Guild. No one knows when they’ll go mad.”

“Also, news came from the Dice House’s apostle.” Mentioning that mysterious intelligence organization, a brief silence fell upon the mansion. The giant paused, then continued as if nothing had happened, his voice flat and emotionless, “Amy Ulysses intends to take on the Dark Guild.”

“Letting the dogs tear each other apart is not a bad option,” the woman remarked.

“But I doubt a single Scion of Glory, by conventional means, could shake the Dark Guild,” Mask never underestimated the Scions, but with the blood of glory thinning, the chosen ones—once able to stand alone as an army—had vanished along with the kings’ honor. In this world of collectives, individual strength inevitably had its limits. “Besides, Amy Ulysses does not strike me as a reckless brute.”

“He is a viper,” said Paul, “a viper skilled in patience.”

“Pity he underestimates our understanding of the Scions,” the woman nodded. “A viper exposed to sunlight is no more dangerous than a kitten’s claws.”

“He can be used,” Mask said, knocking the armrest—a rare gesture. “But before that, we must ensure we are not being used.”

“By whom?” The giant, towering as a mountain, asked. Yet as if already knowing the answer, his tone remained flat, as calm as the sea before a storm, holding in its serenity a hidden, tremendous power.

“The Dice House.”

The Shadow King of the Lower District rose, his gaze nothing but cold.