Title: The Vampire King of Britannia

Lorien paused, slipping the glass jar back into the drawer as he turned to glance at the clock on the wall.

6:41 PM.

London's autumn remained the same—endless rain and thick fog that swallowed the city whole.

By dusk, the damp air mixed with the greasy, suffocating scent of coal and industry. The massive, overcrowded city was draped in a deep gray shroud, blending the outlines of buildings into a murky blur.

The streets, blanketed by ghostly white mist, swallowed the hurried footsteps of every passerby.

The sun had long set.

This city, despite sharing its name with "London, England," reminded Lorien more of Gotham City from DC Comics.

Crime was rampant, gangs lurked in the shadows, and secret cults proclaiming the arrival of eldritch gods sprouted up like weeds. The so-called "civic spirit" was as brutal as ever.

Most people preferred to stay indoors after dark.

He hadn't expected any more visitors, especially after Elsa Lenz had left a while ago.

Flexing his fingers, he felt the raw power coursing through his veins. Unlike his first two days in this world, he no longer feared that an exorcist or vampire hunter might suddenly show up at his doorstep.

So, after calling out a casual "One moment," he stood up and answered the door.

A tall, lanky middle-aged man stood on the other side.

His face was ruddy, adorned with a neatly trimmed mustache, and he wore a bowler hat tilted slightly forward. His tailored dark suit fit snugly over a gray, unadorned waistcoat.

Lorien's gaze swept over him.

His appearance was rather polished—compared to the starving laborers crammed into East London, he stood out like a nobleman among beggars.

Decent looks, but something was off.

His eyes carried a permanent shadow, a hint of something unclean lurking beneath the surface.

The kind of man whose nose was always pointed just a little too high, as if years of groveling had taught him exactly how to look down on others.

Not a good man.

Lorien leaned against the doorway, making no effort to step aside. "And you are?"

The man cleared his throat and, in a rehearsed tone, rattled off his titles. "I am the butler of Mr. Oliver Winston, an agent of the Oliver Housing Company, a patron of numerous charitable organizations across London—"

Bang!

Lorien slammed the door shut.

From behind it, his voice floated out, sounding almost apologetic.

"Sorry, we're full. No room for so many people at once."

"Hey!"

Bang, bang, bang—

Urgent knocking resumed, more desperate this time.

After a few seconds, Lorien cracked the door open just slightly, his face blank. "Go on."

"I have a case for you!" the man blurted out quickly.

"I'm off the clock," Lorien replied. "That'll cost extra."

"Deal!"

Thirty seconds later.

The two of them sat across from each other at the office desk, steam curling from freshly brewed tea.

Lorien pulled a small hourglass from the drawer, setting it on the table. He squinted slightly, a smile playing on his lips. "Consultations are also billed separately—five shillings per hour. Hmm… Normally, it's eight shillings, but since you're my first client this week, I'll give you a discount."

The man barely reacted, merely waving a hand dismissively. He didn't seem to care about money.

"I assume you are Detective Lorien?" he asked.

"That's right."

Lorien gave a slight nod.

The man looked even less trustworthy up close, but Lorien wasn't particularly picky about his clientele. As long as there were no major moral objections, he was happy to accept money from just about anyone.

In this world of backstabbing and deception, purely transactional relationships were the most honest of all.

After all, even vampires need to eat.

The man gave a brief smile before diving straight into business. "I am Mr. Winston's butler. You may call me Rudolph."

As he spoke, his mustache twitched along with his upper lip, glistening slightly under the lamplight from some kind of oil or pomade.

"Pleasure, Mr. Rudolph."

"It's Mr. Hill," the man corrected.

"Ah, Mr. Hill," Lorien repeated smoothly.

That explained his polished manner. A wealthy household's butler—likely someone accustomed to being a professional lapdog.

Still, Lorien prided himself on treating all clients equally. He offered a friendly smile. "What type of case do you need investigated?"

Judging by the old case files left behind in the apartment, most of his predecessor's jobs involved "cheating spouses" and "job-seeking inquiries."

But a man showing up after dark with an urgent request? It had to be something else.

As expected, Hill leaned forward and spoke in a thick East End accent. "My employer, Mr. Winston, would like to hire you to investigate a suspicious death."

Lorien raised a brow. "Oh?"

He gestured for Hill to continue. After all, the longer the conversation, the more he could bill. If possible, he'd love to keep the man talking until dawn.

Unfortunately, Hill quickened his pace, dashing Lorien's hopes of an all-night payday.

"The deceased is a man named Jack Arnold."

"He was Mr. Winston's personal valet. This afternoon, another servant found him dead in his quarters. The first witness, a laundress named Louisa, discovered his body…"

"A suicide note was left at the scene, signed by Jack Arnold. A preliminary handwriting comparison confirms that the note matches his usual script."

"However, Mr. Winston has his doubts. He would like you to investigate the matter further and issue a formal report." Hill leaned back, waving a dismissive hand. "I assure you, the compensation will be very generous."

Lorien leaned back, silent for a moment.

In post-industrial London, private detectives served as an unofficial extension of law enforcement. Their investigative reports carried considerable weight in legal proceedings—especially those detectives formally registered with Scotland Yard.

And despite rarely landing serious cases, Lorien was an officially recognized detective.

Still, nothing in life came free.

"Why me?" he asked flatly. "Surely you have better options."

Experience told him that when a case this suspicious landed on his lap, it was never a lucky break—it was a trap.

Hill, unsurprised by the question, lied smoothly. "I have long heard of Detective Lorien's exceptional professionalism and skill—"

Lorien chuckled dryly. "Heh."

If he was famous for anything, it was not having a reputation at all.

He was about to refuse when Hill reached into his coat and pulled out a thick, bulging leather wallet, sliding it across the desk.

The visible edges of fresh, oil-green banknotes hinted at a sum large enough to keep him talking for a week.

Lorien's smile widened.

"You've come to the right man."