Title: The Vampire King of Britannia

Detective Vincent stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"At first glance, this appears to be a straightforward suicide," he mused, his voice measured. "But until we find concrete evidence, we can't jump to conclusions. Misjudging a case like this could lead to serious consequences."

It was a cautious, professional answer.

Detective Winnie took a few minutes to examine the scene before nodding in agreement. "I think so too," she added.

Lorien gave a brief nod, offering no comment. He scanned the room, taking in every detail. A quick assessment, a deep inhale to separate the different scents in the air—something was off.

He wasn't sure what yet.

Stepping closer to the corpse, he crouched down and extended a finger, brushing it against the cold, stiff skin.

The texture was nothing like that of a living human. It was rigid, unnervingly solid, like a frozen fish thawing in slow motion.

Vincent shivered just from watching. "Damn…," he muttered, a newfound respect creeping into his tone.

Then—

"Huh?"

Lorien's fingertip had barely grazed the corpse when a sensation crawled up his spine. A strange, instinctive warning.

His body tensed. Something was wrong.

He withdrew his hand immediately.

The other detectives gave him curious looks.

But he ignored them and reached out again, briefly touching the corpse before pulling away once more.

"You found something?" Winnie asked, leaning in with genuine curiosity.

This was her first homicide case, and she was eager to make a name for herself. If she could solve this, she'd finally earn the respect of her colleagues—no more of this rookie nonsense.

Lorien cleared his throat to mask his expression. "Maybe," he said vaguely.

Taking a deep breath, he placed his fingers on the corpse again.

Then it happened.

The mark on his wrist—the strange eye-shaped imprint—began to throb.

And then—

A voice.

Faint, fractured, but unmistakably human.

"…Pain…"

"…Hurts so much…"

"…My head… it hurts…"

Lorien's breath hitched.

As soon as he removed his hand, the whisper vanished—nothing but a ghostly echo left behind.

His pulse quickened.

Was this… a corpse talking?

He tested it a few more times. Every time he touched the body, the voice returned. And each time, no one else reacted. It was clear: only he could hear it.

An aftereffect of his transformation into a vampire?

His mind raced. He needed time to process this.

For now, he kept his expression neutral, filing the information away for later.

Instead, he focused on something more immediate.

The knife.

Prying the corpse's stiff fingers apart, he retrieved the murder weapon. He turned it over in his palm, testing its weight and shine.

Silver.

Interesting choice.

As he carefully examined the wound, Winnie raised an eyebrow. "What exactly are you doing?"

"Investigating," Lorien replied absently.

The female detective frowned. "Then why are you—" She gestured toward the victim's bloodied neck.

Lorien kept his attention on the body as he spoke.

"Every action the human body performs is constrained by bones and muscles," he explained. "No matter how flexible you are, there are limits. Try reaching your hand behind your back to touch the opposite side of your chest—it's impossible. Likewise, the way you swing your own arm will always differ from the way someone else swings a weapon at you."

Winnie blinked.

Then realization struck.

"Wait… I get it now!"

Vincent gave her a blank stare. Get what?

Winnie huffed, smug at her moment of insight. "The angle of the wound tells us whether it was self-inflicted or if someone else did it!"

Vincent finally caught on. "Ahh. So if the angle doesn't match a natural self-inflicted motion, then it's obviously not suicide."

"Exactly!" Winnie said triumphantly.

Lorien placed the knife down and dusted off his hands. Then, turning to Rudolph, he held out his palm.

"The suicide note," he said.

Rudolph quickly produced the note and handed it over.

Lorien gave it a quick glance before passing it back.

"It's a fake," he declared. "This was a premeditated murder. The killer tried to stage the scene, but their cover-up was sloppy. Clearly an amateur—and someone close to Jack Arnold."

Rudolph looked impressed. "That was… fast."

Lorien smirked, tapping his temple. "I'm more competent than I look."

He turned to the detectives.

"Let's go see the rest of the staff. If I'm right, the killer is in that room."

Winnie's eyes gleamed with excitement. "Let's go!"

Next Door: The Servants' Quarters

Seven staff members had been gathered—two maids, one cook, and four footmen. Aside from the deceased and a few absent workers, these were the last remaining employees of Tepes Manor.

It was an oddly small number for a grand estate.

Ever since Jack Arnold's death, the staff had been confined here, awaiting questioning. None of them were allowed to leave until their names were cleared.

The door creaked open.

Conversations halted.

Heads turned.

A tall, lean figure stepped inside—a man dressed in a black high-collared coat with a deep gray scarf.

His sharp features and piercing gaze gave off a cold, unapproachable air. His skin was pale, almost unnaturally so.

Under the dim light, his gray-blue eyes were void of emotion.

Behind him, two uniformed detectives followed.

At the back of the group, moving at a leisurely pace, was Rudolph Hill.

The butler scanned the room before addressing a particular maid.

"Louisa, would you kindly recount the moment you discovered the body?"

The woman—Louisa—stood abruptly. Her hands twisted together nervously.

She was short, no taller than five foot three, with rough hands marked by callouses.

Hardly a physical threat.

"I… I was cleaning the servant's quarters," she began, fidgeting slightly. "When I passed Mr. Arnold's door, I noticed it was slightly open. I called out, but no one answered. I peeked inside… and then—"

She swallowed hard, pressing a hand to her chest.

"There was blood everywhere. He was just—just lying there. I panicked and ran. I-I fell while backing away." She rolled up her sleeve, revealing a red scrape on her elbow.

Vincent narrowed his eyes. "What time was this?"

"Four o'clock. In the afternoon."

"Four o'clock…"

Winnie picked up from there. "Did Jack Arnold have any enemies?"

Louisa shook her head. "Not that I know of."

"At least, not that I ever saw."

Winnie frowned. Nothing suspicious so far.

She pressed on with a few more questions, but everything checked out.

Frustration crept in.

This was supposed to be my moment!

She was expecting to dramatically unmask the culprit in front of everyone. But now, she was getting nothing.

She turned to Lorien for guidance—only to find him walking toward one of the footmen sitting stiffly on the couch.

With a sigh, he said,

"The killer… it's you, isn't it?"

The accused man looked up, startled.

He was young, good-looking even, but his entire demeanor radiated unease.

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

"What? That's ridiculous!" he stammered. "It—it was a suicide! What does this have to do with me?"

Lorien smirked.

"If lying could erase guilt, there'd be no criminals left in the world."

The man broke into a nervous sweat. His gaze darted around, looking for an escape.

Lorien didn't give him the chance.

"You planned this for weeks, didn't you?"

Then, with an eerie calm, he continued,

"Shall I explain exactly how you did it?"

The room fell silent.

All eyes were on him.

And then, with a small smile, Lorien asked,

"Tell me—have you ever heard of the deductive method?"