I Start with a Bad Hand!

“The former Duchess… you mean Rosamond Elexion?” I asked, looking at Yuri, taken aback by this unexpected information.

Yuri nodded cautiously as she answered, “I don’t know the details, but I’ve heard rumors. Originally, the marriage proposal for the former Duchess came from the Cotillion family. But suddenly, Elexion decided not to supply magic stones to Cotillion. Their financial situation deteriorated rapidly after that, and the marriage proposal fell through. The Duchess then married the Duke.”

“And… there’s a rumor that the Count of Cotillion had black hair,” Yuri added, her voice fading to a whisper as I uttered a surprised “Ah.”

As her voice trailed off, the three of us leaned closer to her, almost forming a circle around her.

“So when you first arrived at the Ducal residence, there were suspicions about the former Duchess’s fidelity. The former Duchess’s family estate and the Cotillion Count’s territory were quite close. People wondered why she went to her family estate to give birth when she could have done so at the Ducal residence.”

With that, we fell silent.

I looked down at the documents in front of me, each representing a plausible grudge against Elexion. Despite narrowing it down, Elexion had amassed many enemies over the years. Some of these grudges stemmed from actions they had to take as a ducal house, while others, like the Cotillion story, were due to their mistakes.

‘Which one could it be? Who set fire to the former Duchess’s family estate and then targeted her legitimate child, Dietrich…?’

The clue came from an unexpected direction.

As we stared at the three sets of documents, we paused our discussion to sip tea. Adding sugar to her freshly brewed tea, Agnes mumbled.

“Then what about that fire?”

“Fire?” I asked, curious about what Agnes was referring to as I watched the sugar dissolve quickly in her teacup.

“The fires. Why do I find that so unsettling?”

Irene, who had been drinking her tea with perfect composure, turned to ask, her brows furrowed in confusion.

“…Fire?”

“Yes. As you’ve heard, there were fires at the former Duchess’s family estate, at the orphanage where Dietrich stayed, and on Lymus Street.”

Irene grimaced, “What does that have to do with this?”

I exchanged glances with Agnes. It seemed a longer explanation was needed.

“Actually…”

We spent twice as much time explaining the connection between the incidents and the fires. Irene listened intently from beginning to end without saying a word. Yuri was too shocked to close her mouth.

“No wonder you suddenly… cut your hair so ruthlessly… those beautiful locks…”

Her shock seemed to stem from a different aspect. Then, after sitting in silence for a long time, Irene finally moved. She slid one of the three documents on the table towards me. Everyone’s eyes followed the movement.

“If, as you say, all these incidents are connected, then this family is the most likely culprit.”

Our gazes were fixed on the document Irene had pushed forward. However, her hand obscured the title, preventing us from reading it. Sensing our silent pressure to move her hand, Irene hesitated before speaking.

“But before that, I need you all to take an oath.”

“An oath?”

“A Ground Oath. I need your promise to keep this confidential.”

The sudden request for an oath caught me off guard. Why now, in this situation, a Ground Oath? But the expressions on Agnes and Yuri’s faces turned serious.

“It must be very important. I don’t mind.”

“If it requires such an oath… what is this about?”

Seeing their reactions, I began to reconsider the significance and importance of a Ground Oath in this world. It seemed to hold more weight than a mere promise. The term “oath” carried a solemn connotation, making any associated statements seem almost trivial.

Despite my personal reservations, both Agnes and Yuri had already placed their palms on the floor. Left as the only one standing, I realized they were looking at me expectantly.

“Oh, right. The Ground Oath.”

No matter how many times I did this, I couldn’t get used to it. It felt like something I would never adapt to. Awkwardly, I placed my palms on the floor and began the oath, pledging to Hades not to reveal what I was about to hear. When the somewhat embarrassing declaration was finished, Irene spoke.

“Remember when I mentioned that certain elements are essential for time magic? The archivist, the living beings present at the time, and the comparator?”

We nodded, and Irene continued in a lowered voice. The room, tense with anticipation, seemed to echo her precise enunciation.

“There’s something I didn’t tell you. Even if all those conditions are met, a time wizard cannot always read the past traces. There is one exception. In certain cases, those records can be completely erased.”

Irene paused, and Agnes spoke up.

“Is that… erasing done by fire?”

The atmosphere, already taut, became even more strained. Irene confirmed with a silent nod. As if anticipating the tension, Irene continued in a steady voice.

“Once a fire starts, it’s impossible to read any traces. The records on objects become completely entangled.”

“But weren’t you trying to uncover something with the gem I brought from the Ducal House?” Agnes asked, puzzled.

Irene shook her head.

“That’s a sacrificial object. Reading traces is the job of the comparator.”

Now, Irene looked at the three pairs of questioning eyes directed at her.

“So… erasing traces with fire is very familiar and commonly used to conceal things from time wizards.”

“But… anyone could use fire to hide something,” Agnes weakly argued.

Irene looked directly at Agnes as she replied.

“All the mentioned buildings were completely burnt down, weren’t they?”

“Yes? Yes.”

“Setting fires isn’t easy. Think about the locations where the fires occurred: the Count’s mansion, the orphanage, and the street. To cause such large fires that completely destroy these places requires skill.”

Irene said, a bit embarrassed.

“Knowing those skills is part of a time wizard’s job. Though I may never become an archivist, I still… know those ‘skills.'”

The title under Irene’s hand was revealed.

The Lord Ferris Viscountcy

***

As I neatly transcribed the scattered notes from that day’s discussion into my notebook, I found myself deep in thought. Even if our hypothesis was correct, how could we prove it? I stopped my pen and pondered.

Is this person really within the academy? If so, how can I find them? More importantly, how can we confirm that the suspect is from the family we’ve identified?

With no investigative skills to speak of, I wondered how I could navigate this situation. Then something caught my eye. A stack of play scripts for the next term’s drama festival. We had originally planned to perform “Lamhit,” but had to revise the script entirely to fit the comedic theme.

‘Wait a minute.’

Lamhit. I vaguely remembered the two protagonists’ names and the storyline. And the main plot was probably about…

“In one of the plays I read,” I began, biting on my pen. Agnes glanced at me from the bed where she was reading the script.

“The protagonist tries to find the person who killed his father. He suspects either his uncle or stepfather but isn’t sure.”

Agnes gave me a look that said, ‘So what?’ Ignoring her, I continued.

“So the protagonist stages a play, writing the script to mirror the way his father was killed, to observe the suspect’s reaction.”

“And? Was the stepfather the killer?”

“I’m not entirely sure, but I think so. It’s been so long since I read it that I don’t remember the ending well.”

I spoke uncertainly, trying to recall. Was the stepfather in “Hamlet” the murderer? I think so. While I futilely tried to remember the ending of “Hamlet,” Agnes asked, her voice full of curiosity.

“So why bring up that play all of a sudden?”

“If we suspect that one of the three candidates is the culprit, how can we confirm it?”

More precisely, how can we be certain that the archivist family is involved?

I pondered as I chewed on my pen. Hamlet directed a play to elicit a reaction from the murderer of his father. He wrote and performed the play, ensuring that the story would provoke a response, revealing his uncle’s hidden secret.

‘If I were the culprit, what would be the hardest thing to endure?’

Imagine there’s someone you want to kill, someone you’ve harbored a deep grudge and hatred for. You want to see them suffer, so you’ve meticulously planned a long-term strategy. You’re intelligent, resourceful, and capable of executing such a plan. How could you provoke such a person?

I looked at the stack of documents neatly placed on one side of the desk. The ones Irene had specifically handed to me: the Lord Ferris Viscountcy. They were people who had served as archivists for a very long time. The documents from Icarus detailed their crimes, primarily involving falsification or distortion of records for money, more precisely altering records about perpetrators in exchange for funds. They mostly targeted commoners, which is why their actions remained under the radar. It was only when a noble committed suicide due to their manipulations that their series of distortions came to light.

‘It’s bitter to think that it took a noble’s death to reveal the truth…’

Although I didn’t particularly like Elexion, their judgment in this matter seemed sound. It made Elexion appear relatively less distasteful. That in itself was an achievement. I clucked my tongue and pondered more about Lord Ferris.

‘Despite having a clear target for their grudge, they didn’t push someone down the stairs immediately. Instead, they took the trouble to paint portraits and include Roxanne’s picture under mine.’

This kind of unnecessary effort showed a strange sense of pride. They took the trouble to do things that others wouldn’t understand, feeling a sense of satisfaction when adding Roxanne’s face. They even left my hair and set up various traps that I could fall for, showing a desire to control the situation to some extent.

‘It’s not surprising that these people set fire to the former duchess’s family estate. No matter how you frame it, the Elexion Ducal House must have been a terrifying presence.’

The Lord Ferris family, unable to express their anger directly to their targets, bore a resemblance to the anonymous individual who had tormented Dietrich for so long.

I looked at the ink spreading on the paper and thought. Regardless of the reason, I needed to provoke this person hiding in the academy, to make their long-suppressed anger erupt uncontrollably, to the point they would want to come out and strangle me.

‘But… can I do it?’

I wasn’t a brilliant playwright like Shakespeare, and Agnes wasn’t an exceptional actor like Hamlet. We couldn’t stage a performance as perfectly planned as Shakespeare’s. But that didn’t matter. My goal wasn’t to create a flawless play, but to ensure that the most people possible would see our performance. My target wasn’t the general academy audience but a specific individual. My task was more like aiming an arrow at a clear target rather than pleasing a broad audience.

“Is our play script finalized yet?” I asked.

“No. The professor told us to keep revising it. Why?” Agnes responded.

I glanced at the script for the upcoming drama festival lying in a drawer.

“We’re going to need to make some significant changes to the script.”