The train screeched violently against the rails as it began to slow, metal grinding against metal with a shrill cry that pierced through the cabin. Tristan, who had slowly begun to drift into sleep, awoke at the sound. His weary eyes shifted toward the window, and beyond the frost-covered glass he was greeted by the gentle descent of winter snow.
White flakes danced through the air like fragments of a shattered sky.
For a moment, Tristan simply stared.
It was his first time seeing snow in this world. A small, almost fragile beauty amidst a land that had shown him little kindness since the day he arrived. After witnessing so much cruelty, bloodshed, and hatred, the sight felt strangely comforting—like the world was reminding him that not everything within it was ugly.
Beside him, Victor had rolled himself tightly into a blanket cocoon and remained completely unconscious. Even the violent screeching of the train had failed to wake him from his slumber.
Claire, however, clearly had no intention of leaving him behind.
With visible annoyance in her eyes, she grabbed Victor by the shoulder and shook him repeatedly until his eyes fluttered open. Drool leaked shamelessly from the corner of his mouth.
Victor blinked several times before hurriedly wiping his mouth with his sleeve, pretending as though nothing had happened. Neither Tristan nor Claire bothered commenting on it.
Soon afterward, the trio stepped off the locomotive.
The moment they exited, an icy gust of wind greeted them alongside the endless snowfall of the Third Sector.
The city before them was magnificent.
Compared to the Second Sector—which often felt crude, worn, and almost primitive in certain areas—the Third Sector radiated sophistication and wealth. Even within the Middle District, the difference was immediately obvious. Phone booths occupied nearly every street corner, their polished metal surfaces gleaming beneath the pale winter light. The streets buzzed with life as carriages rolled through roads lined with electrical street lamps rather than jars of fireflies.
The buildings themselves were breathtaking.
Elegant architecture stretched throughout the district, every structure carefully crafted with artistry and precision. Towering apartments, refined storefronts, and lavish establishments decorated the cityscape. It was beautiful enough to impress anyone who laid eyes upon it, though Tristan doubted the average citizen could ever afford to live comfortably in such a place.
As their carriage rolled through the streets, Tristan finally broke the silence.
"So where exactly are we going?" he asked.
Claire answered immediately.
"Our informant's workplace. Fifteen Daffodil Road, Middle District."
The carriage continued onward until eventually it slowed to a halt before a rather questionable establishment.
The atmosphere changed instantly.
Women dressed in revealing attire lingered outside the building, their clothes designed specifically to entice passing men. Their laughter echoed throughout the street as they shamelessly lured customers toward the entrance.
It did not take long for Tristan to realize exactly what kind of business their informant operated.
Before they entered, Claire stopped both boys and addressed them with unusual seriousness.
"Do not speak to anyone unnecessarily," she warned. "Do not act suspicious. Remain composed, and for the love of everything, do not say anything out of line."
Her attention lingered on Victor for a moment longer before continuing.
"The man we are about to meet becomes irritated very quickly, and when that happens, his so-called reservoir of information suddenly dries up. So choose your words carefully."
The establishment itself was surprisingly refined.
From the outside it looked morally questionable, but the interior was extravagant enough to rival noble estates. Crimson carpets stretched across polished floors while expensive paintings adorned nearly every wall. Smoke drifted lazily through the air, most likely from imported cigars, creating a hazy veil throughout the lavish building.
The women moved elegantly among wealthy patrons while soft music echoed faintly through the halls.
Victor looked around in awe.
"I would love to be pulled around the way those guys are being pulled in," he muttered wistfully, watching several men practically melt beneath the attention of the women surrounding them.
Tristan merely side-eyed him in silence.
There were some delusions not even he had the energy to address.
"The master will see you now," a woman said politely as she gestured for the trio to follow her.
She led them down a dimly lit corridor toward a large wooden door.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
A voice soon echoed from within the room.
"Come in."
The trio entered.
Inside sat an eccentric man unlike any Tristan had seen before.
He was not physically imposing. In fact, his frame appeared relatively ordinary, yet there was something deeply unsettling about him. Something hidden beneath the surface. His cold blue eyes carried an unnatural sharpness, as though they could peer directly into a person's soul. Meanwhile, the smile resting upon his face felt deceptive—carefully crafted to conceal whatever truly lurked beneath.
Claire introduced him immediately.
"Godfrey Julian. Owner of this establishment... and our informant."
Godfrey smiled warmly as he inhaled from his pipe before exhaling a slow stream of smoke into the air.
Then his gaze settled upon Tristan.
A grin spread across his face.
Without warning, he approached Tristan and deliberately blew smoke directly toward him before casually returning to his seat behind the desk.
Tristan did not react.
He simply stared at the man with an exhausted, unreadable expression.
"You know," Godfrey began, "I have heard quite a lot about you. Perhaps not specifically you... but rather the persona surrounding you."
His grin widened.
"The Noura Zori, I believe they call you."
Godfrey slowly bowed his head toward Tristan in exaggerated reverence, almost as though worshipping a divine figure.
"But of course," he continued while lazily waving his pipe through the air, "no one has actually seen the face of this so-called religious savior the people adore."
His smile sharpened slightly.
"The nobles still undermine the legitimacy of the Noura Zori despite everything your people have done."
"Well," Tristan replied calmly, "it is difficult to make nonbelievers believe."
His expression hardened slightly afterward.
"But we should move on to the reason we're here."
Godfrey nodded in agreement. With nothing more than a glance, he dismissed the assistant standing near the door.
Once they were alone, he clasped his hands together.
"Very well," he said. "This 'Jack the Ripper' character you seek is a man named Fin Crystal."
Victor and Claire immediately focused.
"He's difficult to track," Godfrey continued. "Quiet. Careful. Efficient. Whenever he strikes, it's quick, precise, and over before anyone realizes what happened."
Victor frowned slightly.
"Then how were you able to discover his identity?"
Truthfully, Tristan was wondering the same thing.
Even the Pillars, with all their influence and resources, had struggled to uncover anything substantial about the murderer.
Godfrey merely placed a finger against his lips.
"That," he said with a chuckle, "is a secret. If I revealed all my methods, what value would I still possess?"
He leaned back in his chair.
"He doesn't remain in one place for long, so tracking him is difficult. However..." His eyes narrowed slightly. "I believe I know where he may appear next."
Claire immediately stepped forward.
"Where?"
Godfrey rose slowly from his seat and approached the crimson-tinted windows.
Snow continued falling outside.
"The event that occurs every winter," he said softly. "The Winter Masquerade Ball."
...
Amelia's POV.
Amelia entered her carriage with a frown weighing heavily upon her face.
The words Garfield had spoken earlier still lingered painfully within her mind. They had cut deeper than she wished to admit. Yet despite that, she understood she could not afford to dwell on emotions now. There was still work to be done.
Beside her sat Bernard, carefully reviewing the reports and statements gathered from nearby witnesses and neighbors.
Page after page flipped between his fingers.
Yet no matter how thoroughly he searched, he found nothing directly connecting Tristan to the Chancellor's murder. Beyond motive, there was no real evidence.
Amelia released a tired sigh and looked out through the carriage window.
"Send everything to Pillar Orion," she said quietly.
Bernard nodded.
"Understood."
For a brief moment, Bernard glanced toward his sister's saddened expression. Something about seeing her like this unsettled him.
He gently placed a hand atop her head and rubbed it affectionately.
Amelia looked up at him, her frown slowly softening as she carefully removed his hand.
"I truly appreciate you, brother."
Bernard smiled warmly.
"Well, I did promise to help you."
Eventually, the carriage arrived before their family manor.
Waiting outside was Sylvia, standing gracefully at the entrance as though she had been awaiting their return for hours. She stepped forward immediately and opened the carriage door for them.
As Amelia and Bernard exited, Sylvia bowed respectfully.
"Hello, Sylvia. Wonderful day, is it not?" Bernard said, his voice calm and refined, carrying a faint elegance that contrasted sharply with the tension in the air.
"Greetings, Lady Amelia. Lord Bernard. I am grateful for your safe return."
Bernard smirked slightly while ascending the steps toward the manor entrance.
"Well, there wasn't much danger involved," he said casually. "So naturally we were going to return safely anyway."
Amelia glanced upward toward the cloud-covered sky overhead before quietly walking beside him.
"It doesn't really feel like a wonderful day, brother."
Sylvia's expression remained composed, though there was a subtle tension hidden beneath her professionalism.
"My lady. My lord," she began carefully.
Bernard paused midway up the stairs.
"Your father wishes to speak with you both."