By the time Ebel had finished dressing himself, nearly ten minutes had slipped by.
Lloyd, Shrike, and Joey sat upon the disordered sofas, their cushions still bearing the imprint of last night’s indulgence. Across from them, Baron Ebel reclined in languid composure.
With the Baron’s awakening, the mansion itself seemed to stir from slumber. Servants moved quietly across the marble floor, sweeping and tidying in hushed obedience. Lloyd leaned back in his chair, watching them from the corner of his eye.
Just as Shrike had said—they were indeed remnants of Gaul Nalo. Lloyd had once stayed in Gaul Nalo for a time; he knew the features, the bearing, the muted sorrow in their faces. There was no mistaking it.
The servants worked in silence, their expressions tightly drawn, until Baron Ebel finally spoke.
“So—what business brings you here?”
His gaze fell upon Lloyd and the others, sharp and unfriendly. The humiliation of his earlier display had not yet faded, and no noble ever welcomed uninvited witnesses.
“We are the investigative unit from the Suya Lan Hall—”
Shrike cut in before Lloyd could speak, smoothing over their prior discussion, shifting certain details, and ultimately placing the matter upon Suya Lan Hall’s authority. Lloyd had not expected such fluency in deception from a man with such earnest eyes.
Yet Baron Ebel showed little interest in cooperation. After only a few sentences, he waved his hand impatiently.
“It has nothing to do with me. Nothing at all. I haven’t left this house in nearly half a month.”
He denied everything. And since Shrike possessed no concrete evidence, there was little room to press further.
Then Lloyd spoke, his voice sudden and level.
“Hughes is dead.”
The words fell like frost across the room.
From the moment the Baron awoke, Lloyd had been observing him. The man had seemed natural—too natural. So natural that it threatened Lloyd’s suspicions. If Ebel was guilty, then he was a master of composure. If he was innocent… then the world was far more twisted than Lloyd had assumed.
He had waited for this moment.
At the mention of Hughes’ death, Baron Ebel froze for a heartbeat. Then confusion overtook his features, as though he truly did not understand what Lloyd was implying.
For an instant, doubt flickered in Lloyd’s own mind.
Had he misjudged?
“Gentlemen,” the Baron said coolly, irritation creeping into his tone, “though I may be seen as incompetent by some, I am still a noble. Today’s humiliation should suffice, don’t you think?”
Anger simmered beneath the civility.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“I would like to ask about your employment of the refugees,” Lloyd continued.
Ebel met his gaze without flinching.
“And what of it?”
For the first time, Lloyd felt a strange sense of futility creeping into his chest.
Then he understood.
To a man like Ebel, employing these remnants was entirely ordinary. Low wages. The weakest of classes. It was what every noble did. There was no moral dissonance—no discomfort. It was as natural as cats eating fish and dogs tearing into meat. A fact of life, absorbed into routine.
This structure had long since hardened.
Lloyd turned his eyes to the servants again. They continued their labor, heads bowed, as if nothing in this exchange concerned them. As if nothing were amiss.
A chill crept along Lloyd’s spine.
They were all human—and yet, at some unseen spiritual threshold, they had diverged into separate species.
Perhaps that was the true aberration.
Ebel had done wrong. But he did not know he had done wrong. The death of a refugee. The death of a gang leader. What weight did such lives carry in the ledger of a nobleman? Why would he sense danger at all?
Lloyd steadied his voice.
“Many of the refugees you hired have died.”
“That’s quite normal,” Ebel replied lightly. “They need money. They work themselves to death—or attempt to please me. Casualties are inevitable.”
He smiled faintly.
“You may not understand the market. Each of these refugees supports several family members—elderly or children who cannot work. Without them, those families starve.”
His smile widened.
“They may suffer. The work may be dangerous. But they are grateful to me. I give them employment. I allow their families to live.”
Lloyd glanced toward the servants.
A few of those dull, emptied faces nodded almost imperceptibly.
It was a deadlock. A rotting cycle feeding upon itself.
Lloyd was about to speak again when Joey, who had remained silent until now, gently stopped him.
“Mr. Holmes,” Joey said with clinical clarity, “our purpose here is not to champion the vulnerable.”
Cruel—but true.
The vengeful demon was their priority.
“Then let me ask differently. Baron Ebel—do you recognize any of these names?”
Joey produced the list of the deceased. Ebel scanned it. Some names sparked recognition; others did not.
“I know these two.”
His finger rested upon the file of the Aide couple. Surprise colored his voice.
“They were intermediaries—responsible for connecting us with laborers.”
“Between you and the refugees?” Lloyd asked.
“Yes.”
The chain became clear.
Rovi and Doren transported the refugees. Hughes coordinated operations. The Aide couple found employers.
Lloyd’s earlier deductions had been correct. All were linked by this trade.
Which left one final question.
Who would the demon choose next?
“I heard,” Lloyd said evenly, “that your wife passed away recently.”
His eyes sharpened. None of Ebel’s wives had lived long. All had been refugees.
“Yes.”
“You do not seem grieved.”
“I will soon have another,” Ebel replied casually. “Or perhaps merely a mistress.”
He lit a cigarette, inhaling with languid satisfaction.
“You killed her?”
“No. She killed herself. Perhaps she could not adapt to life in Old Dunling.”
His indifference was unbearable.
“She will be grateful,” Ebel added with a faint smirk. “Her family will receive a considerable sum.”
“She died because of you?”
“I have certain… personal tastes. She was unable to accept them.”
He pulled aside his collar, revealing a lattice of half-healed wounds—cuts shallow enough not to kill, deep enough to torment.
He laughed softly.
“Are you here to enforce justice? Or has Suya Lan Hall established a Refugee Protection Society?”
He leaned back, smoke curling into the air.
“I am merely a minor player. You should look into the clinical trials. Participants are refugees. They do not expect to survive. Death relieves their families of burden—and provides compensation.”
Lloyd did not respond.
Malice saturated the room—thick, suffocating.
“So there are many employers like you?” Lloyd finally asked.
“Of course,” Ebel answered smoothly. “Everyone has peculiar tastes. We pay. They offer their lives. Fair exchange.”
The conversation collapsed into stalemate.
And so did the case.
If Ebel spoke truth, then every noble who traded in refugee labor could be a target of vengeance. Perhaps the demon’s enemy was not a man—but an entire class.
Lloyd had found the object of revenge.
It was simply too vast to protect.
