"I believed even devils could be redeemed—until one took my brother."
The words echoed like a confession as Hugo Arc stared into the dark.In his mind, the scenes replayed like broken reels of memory:
Jacob's body sprawled across a cold workshop floor, blood pooling around scattered blueprints.
The phoenix mark carved into his brother's skin, burning itself into Hugo's heart.
And the smiling face of the man Hugo once swore had changed, the man he believed was no longer a devil. That belief had cost him everything.
A whistle of steam pulled Hugo from the nightmare. Present time—Flywheel City.In the smog-filled streets, gears turned overhead, grinding against brass tracks. Lawkeepers in heavy uniforms moved across the latest crime scene.
Commander Edwin Rourke stood in the center of it all, his trench coat's brass buttons gleaming under the street lamps. He barked orders, his Gear Revolver holstered at his side like an ever-present threat.
Beside him, Sergeant Mira Holt crouched over a bloodstain, her modified gear-baton clipped to her belt. Her sharp eyes scanned for evidence the others missed.
"Witnesses saw someone in a dark coat near the alley," Mira said, jotting notes. "Could be another phoenix mark incident. We can't rule out the Ashblood Wings."
"Or," Rourke growled, "it's another one of Arc's meddling stunts. That detective never knew how to leave a crime scene alone."
Mira frowned but didn't respond. Somewhere, she half-wished Hugo Arc would show up.
It was quiet, save for the hiss of steam pipes overhead and the clinking boots of lawkeepers combing the alley. Commander Rourke scowled as his men struggled to make sense of the scattered clues—bloody handprints, a broken gear-lockbox, and the faint scorch mark of a rune stone gone critical.
Then came the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps.
Hugo Arc emerged from the fog, his white hair catching the faint lamplight and his red eyes scanning the scene like cold rubies. His clockwork top hat cast a shadow over his face, while the white scarf at his neck fluttered lightly in the night breeze.
Rourke's expression soured instantly."Arc. I didn't call for a street magician," he growled. "This is my investigation."
Hugo ignored him, stepping past a stunned lawkeeper to kneel by the bloodstain. He brushed his gloved fingers against the ground, taking in every detail with surgical detachment."The moment you stepped here, Commander," Hugo said, his tone devoid of warmth, "you contaminated your own evidence. The blood trails run north to south—if you'd bothered to look closer, you'd know this wasn't where the victim was killed."
Rourke's teeth clenched. "You arrogant bastard—"
"Let him work," Mira Holt interrupted, crouching nearby. She studied Hugo with curious eyes. "If he's half as good as they say, maybe he'll find what we missed."
Hugo didn't respond. His Keyword Ability had already triggered—his mind spinning like a mechanical clock. One word. Find the keyword and the story writes itself.
He examined a torn scrap of fabric caught on a gear pipe. The texture told him more than any witness would:"Synthetic weave. Not local. Custom-made. 'Phantom cloth.'"
Hugo's eyes narrowed as the gears of deduction clicked into place. The keyword was 'Phantom.'
"Your killer," Hugo said coldly, standing up, "wasn't running. He walked. Calm. Confident. He left this fabric on purpose. A message."
Rourke stepped forward, his brow furrowed. "A message? For who?"
Hugo's red eyes met Rourke's with a chilling calm."For me."
The alley was silent, the lawkeepers still collecting scraps of evidence. Hugo's eyes flicked toward the rooftops, his mind running through the gears of deduction. The keyword "Phantom" spun in his head like a trigger, connecting every detail: the synthetic cloth, the burn marks, the angle of blood spatter.
"You're wasting your time questioning witnesses," Hugo said, stepping toward Mira and Rourke. "The culprit is still here."
Rourke scoffed. "What the hell do you mean?"
"Runic residue," Hugo muttered, his eyes narrowing. He pointed to a faint crimson shimmer near a pipe valve. "The killer used a raw rune to disable the street locks. It's unstable and leaves a trace. He hasn't run far."
With a sudden motion, Hugo drew Spiral Wonder from its gear sheath, twisting the hilt until the embedded wind rune ignited with a sharp hum. He slashed upward—not at an enemy, but at a rusted pipe. Steam burst into the alley, revealing a silhouette hiding above.
"Get him!" Rourke barked, but Hugo was already moving. His strength rune flared, boosting his jump. Within seconds, the shadowy figure—an underworld smuggler—was pinned against the brick wall, Hugo's blade at his throat.
"Talk," Hugo ordered, his voice like steel."I—It wasn't me! I was paid to set the locks! The one you're looking for—Silver Raven! She took something from the victim!"
Hugo's eyes flickered. Ivy Johnson. The Silver Raven.
By dawn, the crime scene was sealed. The culprit was handed over to Rourke, who muttered curses as Hugo walked away without waiting for thanks. Mira Holt silently watched him go, half in awe of how effortlessly he solved the case.
"Detective Arc!" A bright, energetic voice cut through the smog. Melissa Morgan appeared, her long brown coat swinging as she walked, Oliver Raines following behind her with a notebook. Melissa's green eyes glinted with curiosity—and mischief.
"You stole my story," she said with a sly grin. "Tell me, how does it feel to solve another murder while looking like you hate the world?"
Hugo adjusted his hat, his expression cold. "There's nothing worth celebrating when blood's on the floor," he replied.
Melissa raised an eyebrow. "That's poetic. I'll quote you on that."
Oliver piped up nervously, "So… who did it, Mr. Arc? Was it Silver Raven?"
Hugo gave a brief nod. "The case is closed. Ask Rourke for the rest." Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the streets.
Melissa smirked, scribbling furiously. "He's as charming as a ticking bomb, isn't he, Ollie?"Oliver groaned. "He's scary, Miss Morgan."
Hugo's office was quiet, save for the ticking of a half-disassembled pocket watch on his desk. The room was cluttered with case files, rune fragments, and old photographs—relics of a life he tried to forget.
He tossed his coat aside and noticed something out of place on the desk:A silver raven feather glinting under the lamplight, resting on top of a folded note.
Hugo's jaw tightened.The note read in neat, flowing handwriting:"The city's treasures are dull… except for you, Hugo. Let's see if you can catch me. – Silver Raven."
He set the note down without a word, his cold gaze falling on a framed photograph propped against the wall.
Jacob.
The picture showed two boys, no older than twelve, standing in the muddy streets of Flywheel City. Hugo's hair was dark back then, his eyes burning with ambition, while Jacob's grin was wide and bright as the sun.
Flywheel City, Years Ago
The streets were loud with steam vents and clattering gears, but the two orphans didn't care. Sitting on a rooftop, they passed a single piece of bread between them.
"One day," Jacob said, his hands stained with oil from tinkering with scrap parts, "I'll build the greatest invention in all of Astear. Something that'll make people remember my name."
Hugo smirked, even as the hunger in his belly twisted like a knife. "Then I'll be the greatest detective Astear's ever seen. I'll solve every mystery, protect everyone—so they'll never look down on us again."
Jacob extended a hand, his grin unwavering. "Deal?"
"Deal."
Their hands clasped—two children making a promise to rise above the gears and smog of a world that didn't care about them.
Present Day
Hugo's fingers brushed against the frame, but his face remained unreadable. Jacob's smile haunted him like a ghost that wouldn't fade.
He picked up Ivy's note again, crumpling it between his gloved fingers."Ivy… always chasing shadows," he muttered under his breath.
His gaze shifted to the worn map of Astear pinned to his wall. His eyes traced the name Caperpoint Village.
"Tomorrow," he said quietly, "I'll leave this city of liars behind… if only for a while."
Hugo set his top hat on the desk and leaned back in his chair. Outside, the gears of Flywheel City turned endlessly, as if mocking him with their cold, mechanical rhythm.
The morning light cut through the heavy fog of Flywheel City, glinting off brass pipes and steam towers. Hugo Arc walked with his usual cold composure, his scarf swaying with the rhythm of his steps. He entered a quiet café tucked between a gear repair shop and a clockmaker's stall—a place where whispers traveled slower than steam.
At a corner table, John Gotti was already waiting. The man looked every bit the "Gentleman of Crime" he was rumored to be, dressed in a black tailored suit with a crimson tie. A chessboard sat between them, the pieces already set.
"You're late," John said with a smirk, moving a white pawn forward.
"I'm never late," Hugo replied calmly, sliding into his seat. His red eyes swept over the board before moving a knight.
As they played, their conversation was just as sharp as their moves.
"Another case solved, I hear," John said casually, watching Hugo dismantle his defense piece by piece. "You never slow down, do you?"
"Slowing down gets people killed," Hugo muttered, his focus entirely on the board.
John chuckled. "You know, most men would crack under the weight you carry, Hugo. But not you. Not the genius of the bleeding requiem."
Within minutes, Hugo delivered checkmate. John leaned back, impressed but not surprised.
"Later today, I'm leaving Flywheel," Hugo said, rising from his chair. "Caperpoint Village. It's where Jacob learned to build. I need… clarity."
John's smirk faded slightly. He studied Hugo with an intensity that went beyond the game."Don't keep blaming yourself for Jacob's death. You're not the same man you were then, Hugo. His death changed you—but it doesn't have to break you."
Hugo paused, his face unreadable. "..."Without another word, he turned and walked out, his coat brushing against the café door.
John sighed, muttering to himself as he reset the chessboard. "You're still playing a game you can't win, Hugo… not alone."
The rhythmic hiss of the train station welcomed Hugo as he arrived, Spiral Wonder strapped at his side. The steam-choked sky framed the massive iron locomotive, its gear-wheels spinning slowly as passengers boarded.
The train lurched forward with a metallic groan, its gear-driven wheels grinding against the tracks as plumes of steam rose outside the window. Hugo sat in a corner seat, his top hat resting on his knee, his gaze distant.
Halfway through the journey, a man in a sharp black vest approached his compartment. Hugo recognized the emblem stitched into the man's sleeve—the fang insignia of Obsidian Fang.
"Detective Arc," the man said with a polite but firm tone, "Mr. Luciano asks that you keep your eyes open when you reach Gloomfang City. There's been… strange activity. Ashblood Wings strange."
Hugo's crimson eyes shifted slightly, a faint flicker of recognition. "And?"
"Your destination, Copperpoint, is just beyond Gloomfang. I wouldn't take the quiet roads lightly."
Without waiting for a reply, the man tipped his hat and exited the compartment as the train screeched to a halt at Gloomfang City. Hugo watched him leave the platform, his mind processing the warning with a growing weight.
Ashblood Wings…
As the train pushed forward toward Copperpoint, Hugo tightened his grip on Spiral Wonder's hilt. Something in his gut told him this was more than a casual warning.
The train arrived at Copperpoint Station under a dull grey sky. Hugo stepped off, the iron steps creaking beneath his boots.
At first, he thought it was the early hour that made the place feel eerie. But as he stepped out of the station, the unsettling truth hit him.
The village was silent.
No chatter of merchants. No sound of hammers or laughter. Just a stillness so heavy it felt wrong.
Hugo's boots clicked against the cobblestones as he walked deeper into Copperpoint. His sharp eyes scanned the empty streets, the broken lanterns, the overturned carts.
Then he saw it.
A body.
He knelt down, and his blood ran cold. The phoenix mark carved into the victim's skin was identical to the one burned into Jacob's corpse.
Hugo's breath slowed. His mind was cold steel, but his heart thudded with rage.As he moved further into the village, he saw more bodies—adults, children, even the elderly—all carved with that same mocking emblem.
The smog-thick air of Flywheel seemed a world away. Here, there was only silence.And death.
Hugo gripped Spiral Wonder until his knuckles turned white."Ashblood Wings…" he whispered.