Soft sunlight filtered through the tall windows of the city garrison archives, illuminating dust motes as they floated through the still air. Charles sat in the record room, having navigated a maze of paperwork—written requests, stamped approvals, and entries in thick, official ledgers—all to gain access to these files.
On the worn wooden table before him lay neatly stacked documents. A small inkwell, borrowed from one of the clerks, rested in the corner, next to a freshly sharpened quill. Charles dipped the quill tip into the ink and began jotting notes on a blank sheet of paper he had brought.
'Starting with Michael's disappearance: he vanished without a trace, leaving no letter or message behind. Yet before he disappeared, people often saw him in Old Town, carrying a brown satchel we initially knew nothing about. After investigating Saint Margaret's clinic, however, we suspect the bag might have contained documents related to his research on special potions.
'What puzzles me is: why didn't Michael seek help from the city guard? Did he know he was being hunted? Rather than rely on a force with more manpower, he chose to approach "the Master"—the influential figure in the black market—based on Roland's suggestion.
'As for Roland, he did the same thing: securing the Master's protection. In the end, we found him and then he was released unharmed.
'But the key point tying everyone together is Saint Margaret's clinic—a place where all these people connect. From what I've read, it's a charitable medical facility founded by…'
He paused, recalling the events of the previous night.
'Henry Blackwell… the same person who…'
Charles quickly flipped to the clinic's history. Ten years ago, it had opened with four main doctors on staff—Roland, Michael, Humphrey, and Isaac Blackthorn—offering affordable treatment to the poor in Old Town, funded by donations and some government support. Then, seven years ago, in winter, a massive fire had broken out during an earthquake, consuming the entire building. Isaac and his wife were killed, and the structure was so thoroughly compromised that authorities deemed it too dangerous for the public.
He remembered the day he personally explored the clinic's charred remains. The memory of that hidden basement room stood out sharply—a secret laboratory used for special potion research, something far beyond the scope of a simple charitable clinic.
Charles shifted his attention to Henry Blackwell's background again. Officially, it all looked too ordinary: a wealthy philanthropist who consistently donated funds to help the needy, with no scandal or suspicious rumor. He was well-regarded in high society and credited for founding charitable medical facilities.
Yet the sheer neatness of Henry's public record felt suspicious—especially in light of that secret lab. Clearly, something deeper was hidden, and the documents at the city garrison alone wouldn't suffice. Researching personal histories in depth wasn't his expertise. Charles needed someone with specialized skills in this area, and at the special unit... there might be someone suitable for this task.
As he gathered the scattered papers and organized his notes, Charles decided to return to the Department of Supernatural Suppression and Defense. Perhaps someone there could dig deeper into this man's secrets than he could manage on his own.
Charles headed straight for Edward's office, seeking two forms of assistance: first, the help of an investigator experienced in background research, and second, permission to requisition equipment from the Arcane Science Division to re-explore the sealed-off basement of Saint Margaret's clinic.
Edward glanced up from the paperwork he was engrossed in. "You need something?"
"I need help with two matters," Charles replied, handing over the notes he had compiled. "First, I need someone skilled in investigating personal histories. I've found a possible link between Henry Blackwell and Michael's disappearance, but the background information I obtained from the garrison records seems incomplete."
Edward skimmed the notes thoughtfully. "And the second?"
"I'd like to requisition equipment from the Arcane Science Division. There's a sealed basement at Saint Margaret's, which Joseph and I explored once before. Some areas were inaccessible, so I'll need specialized gear to clear a path."
Edward mulled it over, then nodded. "Equipment is no issue; I'll sign off on that. As for the investigator…" He stood from his desk. "I know just the person. I'll have someone fetch him."
As Edward strode to the door to call a staff member, he glanced back at Charles. "But I should mention first—are you prepared to work with whoever I assign?"
"Of course," Charles answered, unaware of whom he was about to meet. "As long as they can help move this case forward."
Edward opened his office door and instructed Amelia, his secretary sitting outside, to summon the person he needed.
"Take a seat," Edward told Charles. "He's probably in the restricted archives right now, working on an assignment I gave him."
Charles sat down in the chair facing Edward's desk. "About last night..." Charles began, "any progress yet?"
"We're still in the analysis phase," Edward replied, glancing at another document. "The Arcane Science Division is examining what remains of Henry Blackwell's body. We still don't know what infected him. It's unlike anything we've encountered before."
Footsteps sounded in the corridor, growing steadily closer. Charles looked toward the door, which was slightly ajar.
"Oh," Edward said, as if suddenly remembering something. "I should tell you about the person—"
But before he could finish, the door swung open, and Theodore appeared. Charles stiffened, frowning at the sight of the man he had clashed with in Old Town's alleyways—and later in the prison holding cells.
Edward quickly stood, looking between them with concern. He was well aware of their past antagonism. "I know this might be uncomfortable... but Theodore is the best person for this job."
"What is it, Chief?" Theodore asked.
Charles couldn't help recalling the wound in his leg from Theodore's blade, though it had long since healed. "Yes, I hear you're good at digging up people's backgrounds," he said, his tone clipped.
"I'm surprised," Theodore replied, meeting Charles's gaze steadily. "That you'd accept my help, after..." He left the sentence unfinished, but both knew exactly what incident he was referring to.
"I'm not in a position to be choosy," Charles answered curtly, a trace of irritation in his voice. "And after that business with the Script-Decipherers... I suppose we can manage to work together."
Theodore was silent for a moment, as if reflecting on that day—the day when Charles had saved a child hostage. "You did well saving that kid," he finally said. "Good work."
Edward watched the exchange tensely, relieved that a confrontation hadn't erupted, though he could still feel the tension lingering in the air.
"Let's get to business, then," Edward said quickly, seizing the moment as the atmosphere eased. "Charles, share what you've found with Theodore."
Charles nodded, placing his notes on the desk for Theodore to see. "Henry Blackwell, founder of Saint Margaret's clinic. He appeared to be just an ordinary philanthropist, until last night's incident."
"I've seen the reports," Theodore said, scanning the pages. "You think it's connected to Michael's disappearance?"
"It must be," Charles insisted. "I found a secret laboratory in the basement. That place wasn't just an ordinary charity clinic."
Theodore considered this. "I have a friend at the Royal Archives who might help. She's good at uncovering old official records that everyone else overlooks."
"The Royal Archives?" Charles asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Sometimes secrets aren't hidden in the shadows," Theodore explained. "They're buried in stacks of dusty old documents no one bothers to examine." He turned to Edward. "With your permission, I'll go contact her. It might take some time."
As Theodore left, Charles glanced sidelong at Edward. "Are you sure we can trust him, Chief?"
"His methods can be... unconventional," Edward admitted. "But he's never disappointed me. At least not in terms of results. And I think by now, you realize he's not actually a bad person, despite your rough history."
"I hope you're right," Charles murmured, his eyes lingering on the door Theodore had just passed through.
"Now, let's handle your equipment request," Edward said briskly, pulling a form from his desk drawer. "Take this to the Arcane Science Division, explain the condition of the blocked entrance, and they'll provide the appropriate tools."
Charles accepted the form and left the office. While examining it, a memory of that mysterious letter from the Hidden Domain surfaced in his mind—the love letter written in a strange language he'd never seen before, yet had somehow been able to read. It was the same script he'd found on the paper in Robert Thorne's house, the poisoner responsible for several murders.
The phrase "Great Sin Kingdom" echoed in his thoughts, recalling the peddler's words. He then remembered someone who might help: Abigail Huntington. When Edward had introduced the unit members, he had mentioned that she was the unit's expert in ancient languages and legends. She might know something about this mysterious realm.
Charles looked at the requisition form in his hand once more. The special equipment could wait a little longer. If there was a chance that unraveling the secret of the "Great Sin Kingdom" might explain why he could read this unknown script, it deserved priority. With that decision made, he changed course, heading to find Abigail instead.