“Yes, and also no.” Luwens tapped the tabletop, his knuckles pattering like rain on old wood.

Rexi froze mid-bite, her hand hovering like a bird caught in a gust; a chill pricked her that something foul lurked here.

“I don’t doubt you because you’re an Investigator,” he said, words threading like a loom, “and we’re on the Oli kidnapping. The dead man links to Oli. I suspect you found a lead, and the force behind it blew out Oli’s candle.”

Lucimia nodded, a reed bowing to a quiet wind.

“And I doubt you because another Investigator came today,” he went on, eyes weighing her like a scale. “She showed credentials. Said a serial killer ran from Karan City, a wolf wearing an Investigator’s badge to fool law enforcers, then kill and slip blame like smoke onto someone else.”

He watched Lucimia, a smile tight as a knife-edge. “Funny, isn’t it? This actually happens?”

Lucimia said nothing, her face calm as still water; only a small crease rippled her brow.

“Do you think I’m the fake? Or do you think she is?”

“I don’t know,” Luwens said, memory carved into bone. “Credentials look real by default. You haven’t shown me yours. But the captain told me a black‑haired Investigator would come. I trust him. So I can’t tell which lantern in this fog is true. Maybe both are, and she’s hunting someone else.”

He chuckled, dry as paper. “After all that, could you show me your credentials?”

Rexi glanced at Lucimia, nerves pulled taut like harp strings.

“I’ll show you later. First, take me to meet that Investigator.” Lucimia brushed the request aside, smooth as a sleeve.

A shade of regret crossed Luwens’s face, then faded like mist; she hadn’t said she had no credentials. She even wanted to face the other, which fakes usually fear like fire.

Inside, Lucimia’s heart rippled like a shaken basin. She could guess who flashed credentials—most likely Anliena.

So, from her steps, she wants slander, to end this Duel swiftly? She used an Imagerecording Stone to nail down her identity? She didn’t even play tricks, and the Stone recorded her companion? The two of them sat in a bedroom, eyes on the Stone, until memory washed away?

But aren’t I the Investigator?

Doubt dropped like a pebble into her chest, making rings.

Those who knew the merchant boss was guilty should be the law enforcers—and Lucimia and Rexi.

An Investigator killing the guilty doesn’t break the rules. If I killed them to prove I’m the Investigator… why three?

And how does the memory wipe work? Cleared at death like a snuffed wick, or with a delay like cooling ash? The rule says nothing.

—

They stepped out of the tavern to a waiting carriage, the horse snorting white steam like a kettle.

It was the same carriage Luwens rode in; he’d told the driver to wait like a tethered boat. They climbed aboard, and the wheels rolled, slow as a tide.

Rexi used her Authority Power, pressing a memory into Lucimia’s mind like a folded note. —What now? We’ll get exposed, right?

Lucimia blinked, calm settling like snow, then a spark moved. —I do have a way. But you’ll need to sacrifice a bit.

—What way?

—At the enforcement station, we go to the restroom. I’ll disguise you as a credential.

Rexi’s mouth parted, then closed like a shell; she thought it through. The rules won’t let Lucimia put disguise on others or objects, only herself and a companion. So turning me into a credential passes like water through bamboo. She nodded.

Truth be told, tension needled Lucimia; Anliena’s move was thorny. If the slander lands and the law enforcers believe Anliena, I’m branded a fake, and the match ends like a candle pinched out.

By earlier judgment, the Investigator owns the early wind. Why do I feel becalmed? Yet three corpses say I’m the Investigator.

In this Duel, to guard that early edge, the best move is confirming identity at the start. The serial killer needs tricks most; without tricks, the early game is a barren field.

If I’m the Investigator, why did I leave the tavern? But those three bodies point back to me like iron filings to a magnet.

After a spell of thought, Lucimia said, voice firm as a bell, “Take me to the merchant’s death scene first.”

Luwens stalled, a step stuck like a boot in mud.

“It’s on the way, right? We’ll look first,” Lucimia said, tone like a drawn blade.

“Mm… fine.” Luwens nodded, the word dropping like a pebble. Deep down, he still leaned toward her being the true Investigator, like a needle settling north.

The carriage threaded into the commercial district and stopped at a jewelry shop fenced off like a penned field. A few law enforcers stood by; seeing Luwens, they offered greetings like brief nods of torches.

Luwens led Lucimia inside.

A heavy reek of blood rushed their noses like a hot wind. Lucimia frowned; under the lamp’s pale halo, her pupils jolted like struck drums.

Three bodies lay there, all downed in the dead center, and the deaths were savage as flayed bark.

Their limbs were severed and scattered to the corners like thrown sticks. Flesh looked shaved away, nick by nick from a small knife, pitted like worm‑eaten wood.

Blood had burst everywhere—walls, floor, ceiling, and glittering on the jewelry—red flowers on cold surfaces.

It looked like a vendetta carved into a room.

Lucimia reeled not only from the brutality. The shock was this: were these people truly killed by me?

If I were the Investigator, faking a kill to shake the serial killer, I wouldn’t be this cruel. Even with Reversion to bring them back, I wouldn’t grind them down like this.

She couldn’t make the pieces fit. She searched the place, eyes sweeping like a lantern beam, finding no marks, no hints.

If there’s a mark, it’s only one—cruelty, stamped like a seal.

If I were the serial killer, I would leave a clue, a thread for the cat to see.

“Time of death?”

“Between 20:00 and 22:00,” Luwens answered, the hour glinting like a blade edge.

Odd…

Rexi came back at 23:00. I returned at two in the morning. A witness saw us go in at 20:00 and leave at 22:00.

Why let myself be seen when I could use an invisibility spell like a cloak of mist?

Why did Rexi and I return to the tavern one after the other, not together? What did I do in between?

When did the memory clearing happen? How did it sweep us clean?

Lucimia felt a clue brush her fingertips like a fish in a stream. She almost had it—just a hair shy.