"...Explain yourself. What do you mean, the crisis is over?" Gray frowned, his tone holding no surprise, only disbelief. "Don't tell me you happened to kill one Deepclaw Demon and then stupidly assumed the danger had passed?"
"That's not what happened," Evans said solemnly. "Last night, every Deepclaw Demon troubling the Montfort household was eliminated."
"Are you joking?" Gray looked troubled. "They appeared in packs. That means there's a nest, possibly even an enormous broodmother spawning within a few kilometers."
As soon as he finished speaking, his brow furrowed.
He sensed movement at the far end of the entrance hall. Something that moved, walked, and looked for food.
Vera came out.
She glanced at the count, then at Gray, then at Evans, and discovered to her disappointment that none of the three were edible.
"What's there to eat?" she asked.
"You were the one who took the commission last night?" Gray remembered Vera Cateret. A rising star, formidable in combat, intelligence unknown, fond of eating. Someone would lure her away sooner or later.
"Mm."
"You cleared out the Deepclaw Demons at 7 White Elm Road, the Montfort Ancestral Home?"
"Mm."
"How many?"
"A dozen or so. All I remember is catching six alive. Sold them all." Vera tilted her head.
Dead silence fell over the entrance hall.
Gray had seen far too many hunters inflate their achievements. They killed one and claimed three, or heard a noise in the sewer and claimed they'd pursued their quarry all the way to the riverbank.
But killing a dozen Water Monkeys and capturing six alive wasn't exaggeration. It was dreaming.
"You're saying that you, a Second-Tier Hunter, caught six Deepclaw Demons last night," Gray said.
"I wasn't alone," Vera said.
Ah, that made sense.
Something like this couldn't possibly be done alone anyway. Traps, silver-salt ammunition, multiple Essence Hunters working together-with enough people and money, what were a few Deepclaw Demons?
"Which agency poached my job?" Gray asked.
"A university student did the Baiting. The people from the Old Fish Market hauled the goods. I only killed the ones that came close. The others killed plenty too," Vera said honestly.
How did any of that make sense??
"Miss Cateret," Gray said earnestly, "if you'd really encountered six Deepclaw Demons in the water last night, you wouldn't be standing here discussing breakfast with me."
"I didn't go into the water."
"So they swam out of the mud on their own, lined up to crawl ashore, neither struggled nor resisted, and stretched out their necks for you to chop?" Gray snorted.
"Mm. Exactly like you said." Vera nodded seriously, even a little surprised that he was so clever.
Gray laughed in exasperation. A real liar would have made the story more plausible.
Charlotte entered the entrance hall just then.
Her hair wasn't quite finished, and her face looked weary. At the sight of her father, she paused, then quickly composed herself.
"You were there last night too?" The count looked at his only daughter. "You saw the Deepclaw Demons? Were there many?"
"I didn't count them one by one," Charlotte said. "But there certainly were a lot."
The count's expression finally grew serious.
The butler might be confused. The hunter might exaggerate. But Charlotte had been trained in etiquette since childhood. She knew what could be joked about and what would only earn her a reprimand.
"Who else was there?"
"Gordon," Charlotte said. "The Gordon I told you about."
That young man wasn't an ordinary pauper. He was a high-quality pauper.
Some of his judgments were clever, even too clever for someone of his station. Charlotte had previously relayed a few interesting assessments of his. The count had made money on a railway investment a few months ago and had taken an interest in this commoner student ever since.
But interest was one thing, trust another. Some people got lucky for the first time in their lives and assumed the world would henceforth let them do as they pleased.
"My lord, Mr. Gordon Vick has come downstairs," Evans murmured.
Gordon emerged from the guest room, bleary-eyed. Seeing an unfamiliar face, he perked up.
The count looked at Gordon. This was their first meeting.
"My lord," Gordon said.
"A pleasure," the count said. "I need an accurate explanation of last night's events."
Gordon thought for a moment. Sometimes the truth sounded like the ravings of a lunatic.
So, with complete confidence, Gordon decided to present the distinguished count with an answer grounded in scientific logic.
"The people at the Old Fish Market call it 'Baiting,'" Gordon said. "But that's the folk term. We generally call it Directed Behavioral Induction. As you surely understand, the former is worth no more than a few pounds of corn, while the latter can qualify for imperial funding."
"Directed Behavioral Induction?" Count Montfort repeated, as though trying to savor its deeper meaning-or find the trap within it.
"This is cutting-edge research at the Royal Academy of Natural Sciences University," Gordon said. "Last night, we used this technique to gather all the nearby Deepclaw Demons in one place. Miss Vera Cateret and our enthusiastic partners from the Old Fish Market caught them all in one sweep. The result is clear: your family's crisis is over, and your reputation remains intact."
Gray found this extremely uncomfortable to listen to. He instinctively sensed some enormous conspiracy behind it, but he had too little information to make a reckless judgment.
Professional ethics compelled him to speak. "Perhaps you really did find a way to complete the hunt last night-through luck, bait, or that bunch of lunatics from the Old Fish Market. But only professional Essence Hunters can deal with Aberrants. You've underestimated the great horror behind this affair. From now on, you'd best leave this to a professional. I'll get to the bottom of everything."
Gordon looked at Gray. He could let the man save face, but he couldn't allow Gray to dismiss the whole affair as amateurs making a mess. Any deeper investigation would make things especially troublesome.
The count did not immediately take a position.
"Never mind," he said. "I only want answers. If a great number of Aberrants truly died on the riverbank last night, we certainly won't be the only people who know about it."
At those words, everyone understood what he was waiting for.
Before long, as the sky grew a little brighter, the newspaper delivery boy arrived at the door.
A maid brought the newsboy into the entrance hall. A large leather bag hung from his shoulder, and coal dust smeared his face so thoroughly that his features were hard to make out. He had been running all over the city since early morning to survive. His shoes stopped at the edge of the carpet. He knew perfectly well that he shouldn't step any farther inside.
He looked up and saw a nobleman, a young lady, a butler, a hunter, another hunter, and a university student who was here for some unknown reason.
Everyone was looking at him.
The newsboy immediately realized that getting a tip from this household today might not be easy.
"Um... I've got the Empire Post, the Lundenim Morning Post, the May Square Commercial Gazette, and a supplement on last night's horse races..." he said.
"Have you been to the Old Fish Market? What's the news there?" the count asked.
The newsboy froze for a moment.
In two years of delivering newspapers, this was the first time a nobleman had asked him about a place like the Old Fish Market.
"Um, yes, I know about it. I've been there. It's really noisy over there. Everyone looking for a bit of excitement is there. Deepclaw Demons-do you know them? They're really just Water Monkeys, or that's what some people say. Like little children, only with gills."
He had thought this would be a topic that might amuse a nobleman.
Instead, not a single person in the entrance hall laughed. Every gaze turned extremely severe in an instant, like six knives pressed against his neck.
"Go. On." The count's voice was soft, yet carried an authority that brooked no resistance.
"Live ones, dead ones, they've got both, piled up like a little mountain! A man called Old Baz drove all the individual buyers away. Said he wanted to deal with Aberrant-material wholesalers. There are live ones too. People are betting on which one will die first. Someone got bitten and squealed like a pig being slaughtered..."
"Did anyone mention an Aberrant nest?" Gray's expression darkened.
"No." The newsboy scratched his head and answered honestly. "That old rogue said he'd hardly had to do anything last night. It was practically like someone had done the Baiting for him. If only he'd brought ten more cages..."
"..." Gray fell silent.
"..." The count closed his eyes.
Evans sighed. From this day forward, the word "Baiting" carried weight in this household.
The newsboy still had another delivery to make. He had the good sense to take his leave.
Count Montfort leaned back and gave Evans his instructions.
"Buy the silence of a few informed witnesses. Remove the Montfort name from their accounts. Send the correct version of events to the Lundenim Morning Post and a few other editorial offices." He paused, then added, "And the word 'Baiting' is not to appear in any media outlet in the city."
"Yes, my lord." Evans left.
Morning light streamed into the entrance hall through the towering stained-glass windows.
Count Montfort pictured last night's scene in his mind.
Hunters, Deepclaw Demons, gangsters... It was certainly a sordid episode that could never be entered into the Montfort Family's chronicles. His own Source Substance, [Golden Lineage], was indeed closely linked to the family's reputation, and this sort of noise would damage its power.
But however he looked at it, the crisis was over, his dignity was intact, and even the vultures in officialdom hadn't caught the scent. Those Aberrant materials would keep the people at the Old Fish Market excited for days, while Arthur Gray, with his exorbitant demands, was now stuck like a wooden post, unable to advance or retreat.
Truly... remarkable.
Live long enough, and anything could happen.
Count Montfort had fully accepted these facts. All that remained to consider was what to do with Gordon.
He studied the young man.
Gordon stood politely. He knew the count would weigh the risks and rewards. He wasn't afraid of being scrutinized. Nobles did command resources and violence, but they were still human. Every human had fears and selfish interests, leaving room for negotiation.
"If you're still not serving breakfast," Vera had finally had enough, "then please excuse me. I'll be leaving."
Ah, and there's this one too. The count's head ached. Where did she come from? Does Evans read the price list from bottom to top? He ought to change that habit.
"Prepare breakfast for everyone," Count Montfort instructed the servants helplessly.
Before you continue