The Fifteenth Mystery – Part 04

Within the prison’s confines, day turned to pitch-black night.

The young girl, brought out of the carriage, let out a small breath that turned white and cold as ice.

Whether she was a political dissident or a dangerous criminal guilty of heinous acts, none of the prison staff knew. Her small, delicate figure in a uniform resembled a porcelain doll, radiating beauty, yet at the same time appearing incredibly powerless. Everyone watched her suspiciously.

Navigating the dark corridor of stone—floor, walls, and ceiling alike—they wandered in circles until the entrance became indistinguishable. Eventually, they reached a small square room at the end of the corridor. Nudged on the shoulder by an officer, Victorique stumbled into the room. At the center sat a crude chair.

After the officers and Inspector Blois left, Victorique, moving like a doll, settled onto the chair.

Clang. The door was locked from the outside.

Victorique gazed into empty space. All that had transpired until now—being transferred to Saint Marguerite Academy, granted the library tower and the candy house, gradually warming up to her homeroom teacher… Encountering and forming a friendship with Kazuya Kujou, a young man hailing from a distant foreign land. Conversations shared with individuals such as Avril Bradley. All these occurrences felt like a fleeting dream, delightful but unattainable.

Did it all really happen? Did a man named Kujou genuinely exist?

As she grappled with these thoughts, a dull ache jolted from her chest to her back, as though affirming her questions.

He was real. She had met the Black Reaper from a foreign land. They shared enjoyable moments.

And she had lost it all.

Days of reminiscence were about to unfold.

Victorique closed her eyes softly.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of her glossy, cherry lips. Something warm flitted across the square room like an illusory golden butterfly.


Later that evening…

A carriage rolled to a stop at the enormous prison, Soleil Noir.

A middle-aged man—an aristocrat, it appeared—disembarked gallantly. He had long, silver hair pulled back like a horse’s tail and a stylish monocle on his nose. Officers from the Ministry of the Occult clustered around to welcome him.

Marquis Albert de Blois narrowed his eyes and turned to an officer. “How is it doing?” he asked.

His voice was low and tinged with an unplaceable vileness. His fierce gaze contrasted with the slight curl of amusement touching his lips.

The officer nodded gravely. “It’s quiet, for the time being.”

“Don’t let your guard down, or it will bite you.” The man seemed ready to burst into laughter. “Their kind is ferocious. Understandable, given they’re not human. Descendants of the silent beasts, contained within them all the wisdom of the Old World. Infused with my blood, it has become an entirely new instrument. A splendid weapon!”

A chorus of agreement rose from the officials.

Marquis de Blois moved silently, as if gliding across the floor. He walked down the stone corridor and entered a room deep within. A stone door with a small, grilled window emerged from the shadows.

Next to it stood a pensive Inspector Blois. One hand resting on his waist, the other arm extended in a contemplative pose, he was wearing an unusually deep frown. He turned at the sound of footsteps, and upon seeing his father, immediately stood at attention. He was still terrified of the Marquis.

“Good work, Grevil!” said the Marquis in a deep voice. His lips quirked into a sneer. “Did the wolf stay calm on the journey here?”

“Yes. They were very quiet this morning,” the son replied nervously. He glanced through the iron bars. “Even now.”

“Stay vigilant!”

“I understand, but…” Inspector Blois shut his mouth.

Marquis de Blois pulled his eyes gaze away from his son, nodded, and continued forward. Inspector Blois shuddered and swiftly distanced himself. Peering through the iron bars into the chamber, Marquis de Blois grinned delightfully. Yellowed molars peeked out from behind his colorless lips.

“It appears to be in quite a weakened state,” he said melodiously.

Beyond the iron bars, in the cold stone room, Victorique de Blois sat limply on a shabby chair. Her deep green eyes were vacant, her lips slightly parted, giving her the air of a discarded doll. She seemed to almost slide off the chair.


Marquis Albert de Blois emerged slowly from the grand prison Soleil Noir.

Despite it being early afternoon, the distant sun seemed noticeably dimmer, as if the flames of purgatory were beginning to burn. Ministry officials in black suits encircled the massive structure that concealed their valuable weapon within. The sunlight, darker than night, shone bleakly on them.

Marquis de Blois squinted. He thought he saw a small, golden butterfly flutter past his field of vision. Behind the monocle, his green eyes, icy spheres of resignation and desolation, quivered faintly.

A product of his imagination, it seemed. There couldn’t possibly be a butterfly in the middle of winter.

Marquis de Blois resumed his strides. His pointed leather shoes clacking, he passed through the row of officials and boarded the carriage. The large black vehicle was among the finest in the nobility, adorned with golden rivets, scrollwork, and felt curtains. Two magnificent horses whickered, high and mournful.

With a shockingly sadistic flourish, the coachman cracked his whip. The horses reared and whinnied, and the carriage rocked into motion.

“Finally,” Marquis de Blois mumbled to himself, staring at the patterns on the felt curtain.

His green eyes, partly cloudy, carried an eerie serenity that hinted at decades wading through the pits of despair, while his pale, colorless lips were curled in an unabashedly wicked smile. His red tongue slithered like a serpent.

“The second storm is coming!”

Hooves clattered ominously. Thunder rumbled in the distance in anticipation of the impending storm. Now and then the carriage, making its way along the outskirts road, rocked violently as if buffeted by the wind.

They were passing by a forest. An owl hooted, and Marquis de Blois narrowed his eyes. The cry stirred memories from long past.

The pattern on the curtains seemed to move of its own accord, shifting shape with the carriage’s motion.

Past events surfaced on the fabric. A revolving lantern projecting the chronicle of Marquis de Blois’ blood-stained soul.

Time rewound in the Marquis’ mind, then suddenly stopped.

The pattern on the fabric transformed into the visage of a familiar man. No, not a man. A puppet.

A few years back…

In a corner of a circus he had dropped by at a whim, he discovered an antiquated automaton. A Mechanical Turk, a puppet in the form of a comical man, with a turban, curly mustache, and a swarthy complexion.

After paying a nominal fee, he engaged in a chess match with the enigmatic mechanized doll. Throughout the game, for some inexplicable reason, he felt a curious, hair-raising tension and excitement.

The game against the puppet concluded in a rare stalemate, where neither side could capture the other’s king or move any pieces. And so Marquis de Blois left the circus, carrying an inexplicable frustration in his chest.

Why was he remembering that now?

The curtain stirred, ushering the ripples of memories deeper into the past. The chess pieces in the fabric, blown away by an illusory gust of wind, transformed slowly into human shapes. Marquis de Blois himself was among them. He grew younger and younger until he turned into a young boy, and then even smaller.

His mind transported him back to his days at Castle de Blois, times spent with his lovely and frail mother, as well as his brilliant elder brother.

Though his mother seemed to love both her sons equally, this wasn’t enough for the younger Albert. To him love meant dominance, a wonderful light to be monopolized. His brother, kind and gentle as his mother, was a boulder obstructing his path.

An enigmatic old woman—an ancient one—living in a forest cave imparted a magical incantation to Albert, which he diligently recited day in and day out. Then one day, his brother fell into the garden pond and drowned. While his mother deeply mourned the loss of her son, young Albert on the other hand…

The pattern on the felt curtain revealed the sinister smile that filled his young face.

Until now, he still didn’t believe it to be a mere accident. At a young age, Albert learned how to acquire what he desired and uncovered life’s answers. This incident marked the beginning of his strong belief in the existence of ancient arcane forces. He offered gold and pearls before the cave as a gesture of gratitude to the supernatural being.

Though not his initial intent, Albert ended up taking over as head of the family, a position that was reserved for his brother.

In time, his mother fell ill and passed away, leaving only Albert and his father within the castle.

The curtain showed the image of a young boy standing alone by the window. Driven by an insatiable desire to bring back his mother’s soul, believing it possible, he initially exhibited remarkable composure, even on the day of the funeral. However, when he hastened to the forest cave, what awaited him was the lifeless form of the elderly woman, gold and pearls still proudly displayed on her chest. Rage surged within Albert, and he reclaimed the gold and pearls. It was at that moment that he shed tears for the first time. He then trudged back to the castle, alone.

Over time, Albert came to the realization that he had truly lost his mother, and there was nothing he could do to bring back her soul or body. But instead of feeling sorrow, he burned with anger and bitterness.

It was around that time when Albert developed an interest in the Ministry of the Occult, where his father was a member, and swiftly immersed himself in magic and alchemy. He delved deeper into the occult, believing that it could serve Sauville, a kingdom he loved just as much as his mother.

Back then, he yearned to conquer the world.

And he wished to conquer love, too.

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