"…What were the others who came before me looking for?"
The man from the Inspectorate sat stiffly across from Loran, fingers interlocked.
Loran smiled faintly.
"Many things, sir. Many things indeed."
He began counting on his fingers casually.
"Murder weapons. Life-saving relics. Information meant to remain buried. And occasionally… cooperation with certain friends from your Inspectorate."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Let me think. The last one who came was a lady. Elisa, was it?"
"…Lady Elisa has been promoted."
"Oh? Then do pass along my congratulations."
A brief silence.
"I'm here about a consultation."
"Of course." Loran leaned back. "And you are…?"
"Moka. Just Moka."
"Very well, Mr. Moka. What would you like to consult me about?"
Moka hesitated.
"…Have you heard about the recent murder case in the capital?"
Loran chuckled softly.
"People die every day in this city. In the slums, murders happen like rainstorms. Which one are you referring to?"
Moka paused.
Loran snapped his fingers lightly.
"Ah. If we exclude the slums… then yes. There was an incident worth mentioning."
He leaned forward slightly, golden light from the setting sun cutting across his face.
"You must be referring to what happened yesterday on Narcissus Street."
Silence.
A faint smile curved on Loran's lips.
"I imagine His Majesty felt his dignity had been offended, and thus ordered the case resolved swiftly."
"…Correct."
"How curious," Loran murmured. "If it's about dignity, why not assign it to that knight commander who's on the verge of reaching Fifth Rank?"
Moka coughed.
"Sir. Please mind your words."
Loran waved dismissively.
"Yes, yes. Mind my words."
He folded his hands on the desk.
"So. What exactly do you want to know?"
"…Information regarding the case."
"Of course. But how much information are you prepared to purchase?"
Loran's smile sharpened.
"The motive? The pattern behind the victims? Or…"
His eyes locked onto Moka's.
"…the identity of the killer?"
Moka didn't break eye contact.
"And if I ask directly for the killer's identity?"
"You cannot afford that."
"…."
Moka's jaw tightened.
He wanted to argue. The Inspectorate was a royal institution. Since when could they not afford intelligence?
But this visit was unofficial.
He could not use public funds.
And private wealth…
…might not be enough.
A faint chill ran down his spine.
Had this man already seen through him?
He remembered Elisa's warning.
"Show respect. That is the first lesson when dealing with him."
Moka exhaled slowly.
"…The victim's nose was removed. What does that signify?"
Loran tapped the desk lightly.
"Before that, I must correct one misunderstanding."
He spoke calmly.
"There are not one, but three victims."
Moka's eyes widened. "What?"
"Two prior cases," Loran said evenly. "One had their eyes removed. Another, their ears."
He smiled faintly.
"But they were… insignificant. Not worthy of reaching the king's ears. Nor your Inspectorate's notice."
Moka felt heat rise to his face.
Then Loran's tone shifted.
In a low, almost chanting cadence, he recited:
"The pure shall not behold Him.
The keen shall turn away from Him.
The eloquent shall attempt to deceive Him.
The just shall choose to scorn Him."
Moka frowned.
"That is…"
"Chapter Seven of the Holy Canon. Third Verse of the Chronicle of Corruption."
Loran's eyes darkened.
"The Lord of Degeneration."
"THE LORD OF DEGENERATION?!"
Moka shot to his feet.
His voice should have echoed through the street—
Yet not a single passerby reacted.
The small shop remained eerily insulated from the world.
Loran frowned.
"Lower your voice. My daughter is doing her homework."
Moka stared at him in disbelief.
A forbidden evil god…
…and you're worried about homework?
Loran continued calmly:
"No need to panic. If this were a full descent ritual, I wouldn't sell it at this price."
He yawned lightly.
"It's a fragmentary rite from the ancient Kingdom of Cadia, a thousand years ago."
He began counting.
"Four offerings are required:
The eyes of the pure.
The ears of the just.
The tongue of the eloquent.
The nose of the keen."
"Gather them under a full moon. Speak the true name of the Lord of Degeneration."
"He grants 'supreme divine power.'"
Loran's smile thinned.
"One use only. After that, the supplicant dies instantly. Soul claimed. Eternal servitude."
Silence.
Rain began to patter faintly outside.
"That," Loran said softly, "should suffice."
"…How much?"
"One gold coin."
Moka blinked.
One gold coin.
Expensive enough to feed a family for months.
Cheap enough to feel wrong.
Loran chuckled.
"Call it a discount. The killer has overstepped."
Moka stared at him.
He placed a gold coin on the desk.
"Thank you for your business," Loran said lightly.
---
When Moka left, thunder rolled across the sky.
Rain began pouring in sheets.
Loran flipped the gold coin in the air thoughtfully.
Then he stood.
He grabbed an umbrella.
Stepped outside.
The rain should have drenched him—
But it parted around him like an invisible curtain.
He took one step into a puddle.
And the next—
He stood in a cemetery on the other side of the city.
He stopped before a grave.
A modest stone.
A family portrait etched into it.
Poor clothes.
Bright smiles.
Hope.
In the center stood a little boy, no older than five.
Born in the slums.
Perhaps his future was always fragile.
But no one had the right to erase it.
Loran exhaled quietly.
He barely knew them.
Just a passing encounter once.
He had not intended to interfere.
But he remembered an old friend.
What would she have done?
She would have grabbed him by the collar and shouted—
"We're catching the bastard."
He let out a faint laugh.
She wouldn't do that anymore.
Perhaps that was why he offered a discount.
He wasn't a good man.
But for her sake—
He could nudge fate slightly.
Free help?
Absolutely not.
He had a child to raise.
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
Thirty years old.
Still annoyingly handsome.
Forced to rely on stubble for "middle-aged gravitas."
He nodded to himself, utterly lacking self-awareness.
Lightning flashed.
He glanced at the grave once more—
Then vanished into the rain.
---
Back at the shop—
Charlotte had just finished her homework.
She came downstairs just as Loran stepped in, umbrella closing.
She hurried over.
"It's pouring out there! Where did you go?"
Loran smiled faintly.
"Went to see a few old friends."
He ruffled her hair.
She slapped his hand away.
"Your hand's wet! Don't mess up my hair—go take a bath!"