The next day, early morning.
As the first ray of sunlight pierced the thin mist, gilding London in a hazy gold —
This city, still caught between dream and waking, was utterly roused by an unprecedented, ocean-roaring clamor.
"Extra! Extra! The Times' headline of the century! Moriarty infiltrates Buckingham Palace!"
"The Guardian — emergency reprint! Moriarty appeared on Fleet Street last night!"
"Morning Post! Daily Telegraph! Jeweler Hansen Boule suspected of forging gems! Earl Harrison carrying on with his daughter-in-law! Sir Phineas Black suspected of espionage!"
The newsboys' cries were sharper and more frenzied than they had ever been.
Like a swarm of missiles whose fuses had just been lit, they tore toward every corner of the city with unprecedented zeal and speed.
This time, there was no need for suspense or any preamble.
The facts were laid out before every citizen of London in the most blunt, brutal way imaginable.
The Chancellor of the Exchequer's Bribery Records were reproduced — untouched, unedited — on the front page of the Daily Telegraph.
Every shocking figure was as clear as if the transaction had taken place only yesterday.
That gem magnate known far and wide for his integrity — his secret ledger of smuggling and tax evasion had become The Guardian's most devastating weapon.
The black ink, like indelible proof of guilt, tore his hypocrite's mask to shreds.
And as for that highly respected Earl — the lurid, lovesick letters he had written to his daughter-in-law were splashed across the headline of the Morning Post's society page, becoming the talk of every drawing room and street corner in the city.
A storm composed entirely of paper and ink had swept across all of London with a violence the city had never seen before.
The decency and dignity of high society were, in this single moment, trampled into nothing.
Those names that had once stood loftily above the masses now found themselves printed on cheap newsprint, lying alongside the filth of street gutters — subject to countless eyes that scrutinized, scorned, and spat upon them.
And at the very heart of this storm, there was one name above all others — a name that everyone, with a tangled mixture of awe, fear, and fervor, kept repeating again and again.
——Moriarty.
He had not merely plundered the secrets of high society. He had plundered Buckingham Palace itself.
The photograph of the gold snuffbox set with rubies had been placed, by every major newspaper and as if by silent agreement, in the most prominent position on the page.
The unmistakable Royal Cipher upon it spoke wordlessly to the sheer impossibility of last night's caper.
Even if no one could fathom how he had pulled it off, that hardly slowed the public's imagination.
Less than half an hour after the papers hit the streets, Scotland Yard had been surrounded so tightly there wasn't a crack for water to seep through.
Furious aristocrats, breathless reporters, gawking onlookers... they had ringed Scotland Yard three layers deep on the inside and three layers deep on the outside, turning what should have been a solemn and stately thoroughfare into a chaotic vegetable market.
Lestrade was run ragged, the telephone ringing one call hard on the heels of the last.
Demands and questions came at him from every direction, threatening to detonate his brain on the spot.
"Damn it — damn it — damn it... that damned Moriarty!"
[Malice Points from Lestrade, +100]
221B Baker Street.
Russell was woken by the System notifications going off endlessly inside his head.
He opened his eyes unhurriedly and stared at the ceiling. Rather than getting up at once, he allowed himself a small, lazy lingering moment beneath the covers.
Inside his head, the mission tied to the Advanced Challenge had already been completed, and the settlement was unfurling at its own leisurely pace.
[Current Mission (Phase One) Completed]
[Successfully infiltrated Buckingham Palace and removed Princess Louise's music box.
Rating: S (No guards or servants were alerted during the operation, and the item taken was the single most precious treasure to the princess in question.)]
[Reward Settlement:
All Malice Points spent during the mission have been refunded (4,000).
Malice Points from Scotland Yard, Buckingham Palace, Mayfair, Kensington District, Belgravia, Knightsbridge, and other districts, +3,000.
Attribute Points +1.
The Shop has unlocked new items.]
[Next Phase Mission Unlocked: Return]
[Next Saturday, return to Buckingham Palace and return the music box you took to Princess Louise.
Until the music box has been fully returned, you must not be discovered by any guard or servant, or the mission fails.]
[Mission Deadline: 24 hours (currently frozen)]
[Mission Reward: Refund of purchase costs, Malice Points yield additionally increased by 20%, special item purchase privileges unlocked, Attribute Points +1.]
[Failure Penalty: Identity exposed.]
[The notice letter has been automatically dispatched.]
Seven thousand Malice Points returned to him in one fell swoop.
Add to that what he had collected over the past few days, plus the fresh wave of Malice Points concentrated by today's news release —
The number in his wallet had now broken into five digits.
This time he really was on his way to a comfortable middle-class life.
System, I'm rich at last.
Russell couldn't help humming softly under the covers.
Well then — first things first. Time to level up.
Bring every existing attribute up to B, then spend the Attribute Point to push Stealth all the way to B++.
[Upgrade Complete.]
[Current Skills: Fighting (B), Stealth (B++), Climbing (B), Sleight of Hand (B+), Investigation (B), Listening (B), Dance (B)]
[Current Malice Points Balance: 3,900]
Three thousand nine. Plenty.
The next phase of the mission was still seven days away, after all — even if he did nothing but lie around motionless, he'd have more than enough to coast on.
Things being what they were, the natural next step was to see what the System Shop had updated.
With that thought, Russell's mind stirred faintly, and he opened the System Shop panel.
Compared to last time, this round of updates hadn't added a great deal of new content — most of it consisted of upgrades to items he already owned.
The Teleport Anchor, for instance, after its upgrade, now allowed Russell to first jump across in a spirit form, observe the surroundings, and then decide whether to commit to the actual teleport.
The Phantom Hand, meanwhile, could now pass through walls — though it couldn't be used to drag objects out from the other side, it could still handle a lock without any trouble.
On top of that, his most frequently used Twilight Shroud had also received an enhancement.
Items already purchased — used but not yet fully expended — would be automatically upgraded as well.
That, at least, was rather considerate.
After lazing in bed a while longer, Russell finally hauled himself up at his own leisurely pace, freshened up, and made his way downstairs.
Charlotte was already seated at the breakfast table. Hot cocoa and sandwiches were laid out before her, a newspaper in her hand, which she was reading with apparent relish.
"What's all the fuss outside?"
Russell, fully aware of the answer, took the seat opposite Charlotte.
"Has Moriarty pulled off something big again?"
"It's a fairly big deal, yes." Charlotte handed the paper across to Russell. "See for yourself."
Russell took the paper, his eyes landing on the lurid headline.
As he spread butter on his toast with unhurried care, he read — with no small amount of relish — the heroic exploits of himself laid out across the page.
He had to admit: the reporters' imaginations really were a thing to behold.
In their hands, he had been transformed into an urban legend who could fly through the skies, vanish through the earth, and stand alone against a hundred.
Phrases like "strolling at his leisure through a hail of bullets," "bullets could not even catch his afterimage," and "his very appearance made the criminals feel the terror of hell itself" —
Anyone who didn't know better would think I was running on cheats.
Oh — wait, I actually am.
Eh, no point arguing then.
"They're only catering to what the public wants to imagine."
Charlotte's voice drifted across from the other side of the table. She lifted her coffee cup and blew gently at the curling steam, evidently having guessed what Russell was thinking.
"People don't want the truth. They want a story legendary enough — fantastical enough — to satisfy their daydreams.
A hero. A villain. An idol they can use to vent their cheap sense of justice and their cheap need for someone to worship over afternoon tea.
Moriarty merely happens to be playing that role. Nothing more."
"And what do you make of it?" Russell asked, swallowing his mouthful of food.
"What do you think last night's performance of his was actually for?"
"How should I know." Charlotte set her coffee down, her tone carrying open, undisguised disdain.
"I told you from the very beginning — trying to deduce that man's motives is, in itself, an entirely meaningless exercise."
"You sound as though you don't particularly care."
"Why waste any emotion on something that was destined to happen and is perfectly logical?" Charlotte shot back.
"If anything, Moriarty's success has only made me more certain of one particular thing."
"And that is?" Russell asked at the proper moment.
"Mycroft most definitely did not pass on the deductions I shared with him to Buckingham Palace."
Charlotte stated it with absolute certainty.
"He and that Moriarty fellow must share some kind of relationship that won't bear daylight."
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