“As you know, I almost caught them,” Burton said, seated across from Boro in the cramped room, wrapped in his coat as he recounted the day’s events.

  “It’s clear someone doesn’t want us investigating this. They tried to destroy evidence and leave no survivors—I could have brought back at least three live suspects for questioning, but those men killed them all.”

  The gunman acting as a safeguard stayed at the front, shooting down anyone who fell behind.

  “Boro, these aren’t the small-time gangsters we’ve encountered before. They have a highly organized internal structure… not the kind of gang held together by mere self-interest,” Burton stated, his tone serious.

  A rare look of concern crossed Boro’s face beneath his half-mask; he understood the gravity of the situation all too well.

  “Most in the Lower City are opportunists, switching allegiances to survive—they’d sell their own family members for a chance to live,” Boro said slowly, recognizing the seriousness of the matter.

  “But these men show no fear of death, do they? Lower City residents rarely have such noble fearlessness.”

  His gaze turned to Burton, expecting the detective to deliver an insight.

  “So, what clues did you find? I trust you didn’t return empty-handed,” Boro prompted.

  Burton nodded and continued, “The Lower City residents received advance notice… or this was part of their plan all along. If the operation failed, they’d retreat into the Lower City, and the gang was tasked with providing cover.

  “Boro, you know how fiercely territorial these groups are—territory in the Lower City means wealth. Therefore, the gang must be local. I need to know who controls that area.”

  “Thabo,” Boro replied immediately, as the ruler of the Lower City, his mind instantly recalling the man in charge of the region.

  “Thabo, a Viking from the Northern Seas…” Boro’s voice trailed off, realizing this aligned with Vohl’s origin.

  “Do you think Thabo took the cargo?” Boro asked, curious.

  “Unlikely. He’s just a lackey working under you, nowhere near important enough to be involved in your level of business,” Burton dismissed the idea outright.

  “He’s a decoy. Someone paid him to provide cover. For the right price, I’m sure he’d agree to anything,” Burton explained, his logic clear.

  “Then what’s your plan, Burton Holmes?” Boro asked, resting his chin in thought, the situation now piquing his interest.

  “Simple: locate him, put a gun to his head, and demand to know who hired him. If he refuses to talk, pull the trigger until he does,” Burton said flatly, his voice as calm as if discussing the weather, though the underlying threat was undeniable.

  “You’ll end up killing him,” Boro pointed out.

  “Boro, I audited classes at the Royal Medical College. While the advanced concepts were beyond me, I still know how to avoid vital organs,” Burton said, picking up his gun and gesturing at his own body.

  “You should take some classes too. Non-fatal shootings are excellent for faking death,” he added, his rare seriousness catching Boro off guard.

  Boro was momentarily speechless; he found Burton’s peculiarity remarkable.

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  For a long time, Boro had had men tail the detective, curious about his past, but the results were mostly uneventful: when not working cases, Burton would ride steam trams to audit university classes, once spending weeks at the Royal Academy of Arts, leading Boro to wonder if the detective planned to switch careers to acting.

  The truth was, he’d studied acting to enhance his detective work, and part of his “graduation exam” was infiltrating Boro’s inner circle.

  Burton Holmes was a genius: without a sound, unnoticed by anyone, he’d slipped into Boro’s casino in a black-and-white tuxedo, carrying a drinks tray and working as a croupier for a table of guests.

  If he hadn’t deliberately signaled to Boro, the detective would have remained undetected—a test of his acting skills, but what if he’d carried a knife instead?

  No one knew the full extent of Burton’s skills, but he channeled every ability into his detective work.

  “Are you really going after Thabo alone?” Boro asked, not doubting Burton’s competence—he was deadly with a shotgun—but confronting an entire gang single-handedly seemed overly risky.

  “Yes, but I have my methods. Besides, even if I didn’t, you couldn’t offer assistance, could you? As you said, this cargo involves a duke—you can’t leave any trace of your involvement,” Burton pointed out.

  Boro nodded; his position as ruler of the Lower City relied on navigating between powerful factions. A duke might not topple his rule, but could destabilize it—after all, the Lower City was little more than a periphery compared to those in true power.

  “Take this,” Boro said, tossing over his revolver, the same weapon he often used to threaten Burton.

  “Thabo recognizes this gun. When he sees it, he’ll understand your authority.”

  The Lower City was more complex than most imagined. Boro might be its leader, but he ruled a motley crew united only by self-interest, his position secure only because he was the strongest.

  Satisfied that Burton had a plan, Boro prepared to leave.

  “Goodnight, Mr. Holmes.”

  The door closed slowly, and the uninvited guest finally departed.

  Burton looked out the window, wiping away the condensation on the glass as Boro’s black carriage merged with the night and disappeared from view.

  After witnessing Boro’s departure, Burton drew the curtains tight, then put on his pajamas, completely concealing the black tattoo on his spine.

  Facing an entire gang alone was a dangerous gamble, but Burton had confidence in his ability to infiltrate Thabo’s inner circle. While he couldn’t guarantee escape from enraged gangsters, he was a genius at seizing every exploitable opportunity.

  From his trench coat, he took out the item he’d been hiding: under the light, the ruby on the necklace glimmered with a stunning, almost eerie beauty.

  It was more than a luxury item—flawless in quality, its interior seemed to hold liquid fire, its edges inlaid with silver, and most importantly, inscribed on its back were the words:

  “Embers Rekindled.”

  As Burton murmured the phrase, the ruby seemed to come alive, radiating a warm, lifelike heat.

  This was Eve’s necklace, torn from her neck as she fled—fortunately, the girl had been too preoccupied to notice during the chaos.

  “Embers Rekindled” was a proverb of a noble family. Drawing on his years of knowledge of Old Dunling’s elite, Burton quickly identified its origin, slightly shocked by the revelation:

  Vossar was not Eve’s surname; it must be her mother’s, a disguise to hide her true identity. Otherwise, her superiors would have assigned a squad of cavalry at the mere mention of her surname.

  Her real name was Eve Phoenix, a descendant of the illustrious Phoenix family.

  At this realization, Burton laughed—where others would have panicked at crossing such a powerful lineage, he saw opportunity. Initially, he’d taken the necklace to exploit Eve, knowing its importance to her; now, he needed an insider in Su Yalan Hall, and Eve, unwittingly, was perfect for the role.

  Burton had been struggling to figure out how to extract information from Thabo, but now a new plan formed rapidly in his mind. In mere minutes, he’d strategized multiple scenarios, each ending with him obtaining the information he needed—even if it meant fighting through the Lower City streets multiple times. To Burton, the path was clear: he would get what he wanted.

  Meanwhile, in a distant suburban manor belonging to the duke, the girl, fresh from her bath, stood in a bathrobe, staring blankly out the window.

  It hadn’t been a good day: her first case had also brought her first punishment. Officer Price was so displeased with Eve’s rash actions that he’d given her leave on her first day of work.

  Despite the disappointment, the thrill of the investigation had added excitement to her mundane life—new experiences, new encounters, and even meeting someone… unique. Eve tried to downplay her interactions with Burton as mere “acquaintanceships.”

  Her hand instinctively went to her neck, but the familiar warmth of her necklace was gone, leaving only emptiness.

  The girl’s expression shifted to shock, then panic, as she realized her precious necklace was missing.

  Where could it have gone? She strained to recall, but her mind was a blank—she remembered nothing.