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The alley was quiet—too quiet.
Moonlight spilled softly between the narrow buildings, turning the cracked pavement into a silver-gray ribbon. There were no footsteps, no sirens, no voices drifting from nearby streets. Only silence.
Dean stood alone beneath the pale glow of the moon.
He raised his hand and slowly opened his palm.
Nestled against his glove was the Angel's Blood Tears.
"Hm… this thing really is beautiful."
He lifted the gem slightly, angling it so it caught the moonlight. The teardrop-shaped ruby shimmered, refracting a faint, ethereal glow. It was not aggressive or blinding—just quietly mesmerizing, as if it carried a secret meant only for those who truly looked at it.
Objectively speaking, this little act had no practical value at all. Dean didn't need moonlight to confirm what the gem was. Its authenticity had already been verified.
But psychologically?
It mattered.
There was something satisfying about admiring stolen treasure under the open sky, away from alarms, lasers, and watchful eyes.
After a while, however, even beauty lost its edge.
Dean felt a trace of aesthetic fatigue and closed his fingers around the gem before slipping it back into its protective case.
"I'll return it later," he muttered.
Keeping the gem served no real purpose.
Yes, it was valuable—extremely so by ordinary standards—but Dean wasn't short on money. More importantly, he had no reliable way to sell it.
What was he supposed to do? Walk into Gotham's underworld and try his luck?
Please.
Most gangs would offer him one-twentieth of the gem's real value and still think they were being generous. Penguin might push that up to one-fifteenth on a very good day—but even that was pocket change.
And Dean didn't need pocket change.
Returning the gem, on the other hand, had real strategic value.
Think about it.
Which was more intriguing to the public?
A thief who chased money like everyone else…
Or a thief who didn't care about money at all?
A phantom who stole priceless artifacts only to give them back.
That kind of figure sparked curiosity. Debate. Fear. Obsession.
And most importantly—
Astonishment.
Dean never pretended to be a saint. Generosity wasn't his nature. But he understood value, and this choice clearly leaned in his favor.
Unless the stolen object was something truly absurd—like a Mother Box—there was no reason to keep it.
Just as that thought settled, a familiar mechanical voice echoed in his mind.
---
"Congratulations, Host. You have completed a custom mission."
Mission: Steal the 'Angel's Blood Tears' Ruby
Mission Difficulty: Easy
(Easy → Medium → Hard → Extremely Hard → Desperate → Impossible)
Treasure Value: Low
(Low → General → Common → Excellent → Fine → Rare → Legendary → Incalculable)
Note: A treasure must possess at least one extraordinary property to reach 'Common' rank.
Splendor Level: C
(D → C → B → A → S → SS → SSS)
Overall Evaluation: C-
(Slightly above average)
Reward:
514 Astonishment Points (gained mid-mission)
600 Astonishment Points (mission completion)
Total Earned: 1114 Astonishment Points
---
Dean froze for half a second.
Then his eyes lit up.
"Custom mission?"
He hadn't received anything like this during the museum operation last time.
That meant only one thing.
The system had evolved.
Suppressing his excitement, Dean immediately opened the system interface.
There was no mission list. No quest board. No flashing notifications.
But the number was there.
Astonishment Points: 1114
Dean rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"So… no official missions," he murmured. "Everything depends on my own choices."
The system didn't guide him like a game with clear objectives. Instead, it rewarded initiative. Creativity. Chaos.
Do something astonishing—and it responded.
Dean liked that.
He had no interest in becoming a puppet completing pre-written tasks.
"Alright," he said quietly, a smile forming. "Let's see what a thousand points can buy."
---
The Exchange Mall opened.
And Dean's pupils nearly shook.
Not because of excitement.
But because of sheer, overwhelming insanity.
Item after item flooded his vision—each more absurd than the last.
"Multiverse Reality Modifier"
Effect: Freely alter any aspect of reality across the multiverse
Price: 1,000,000,000,000 Astonishment Points
"Five-Five Divine Armor"
Effect: Perfectly reflects attacks from any existence level
Price: 800,000,000,000 Astonishment Points
"Chronos Sands Time Bomb"
Effect: Erases an entire multiversal timeline
Price: 1,000,000,000,000 Astonishment Points
"…Yeah," Dean muttered after a long silence. "Sure. Totally affordable."
He immediately changed the sorting filter.
Price: Low → High
The screen refreshed.
"Cool Beach Panties" – 2 Points
"Discarded Manuscript by an Unknown Author" – 5 Points
"High-Frequency Electric Toothbrush" – 10 Points
Dean stared.
Then scrolled faster.
Most of the low-tier section was filled with junk—daily necessities, novelty items, borderline trash.
He skipped ahead and narrowed the range.
500–1000 Astonishment Points
Finally, the list became reasonable.
Then one item caught his attention.
---
Low-Tier Resistance Talent Card
Effect: Permanently grants Low-Tier Resistance Skin
Price: 1000 Astonishment Points
Resistance Skin (Low-Tier):
Reduces damage from special attributes (fire, ice, corrosion, poison) by 10%
Accelerates recovery from such injuries
---
Dean didn't hesitate.
Defense first.
He wasn't invincible. Not yet. In Gotham, even gods bled if they were careless.
"Exchange."
The points vanished.
The talent activated.
A subtle warmth spread across his body, sinking beneath the skin before fading completely.
Dean exhaled.
"Worth it."
With a satisfied nod, he disappeared into the shadows.
---
Later That Night — Gotham Art Museum
The museum was closed.
Petals littered the exhibition hall. Playing cards were scattered like mocking signatures across the marble floor.
And the Angel's Blood Tears was gone.
Every visitor. Every guard. Every staff member.
All interrogated by the GCPD.
Nothing.
No footage.
No witnesses.
No trace.
Even James Gordon personally oversaw an internal screening.
Still nothing.
Kaito Kid had appeared like a ghost—and vanished the same way.
White from head to toe. Impossible to miss.
And yet… unseen.
Unbelievable.
Gordon sat on the lawn outside the museum, cigarette burning between his fingers.
"I thought you switched to a pipe," a voice said.
Harvey Bullock—or Brock, as Gordon called him—walked over, cigarette in mouth.
"Don't start," Gordon replied dryly. "Any leads?"
Bullock nodded. "Yeah. And you're not gonna like it."
He explained.
A security guard was found tied up in a restroom stall.
Knocked out. Restrained. Left alive.
Timeline didn't match.
According to records, the guard had been unconscious for two hours.
Yet cameras showed him patrolling during that time.
Gordon's expression hardened.
"…That's impossible."
Bullock exhaled smoke. "Unless someone walked around wearing his face."
Silence fell.
Then Gordon crushed his cigarette beneath his shoe.
"This isn't just a thief," he said quietly.
"This is something else entirely."
And somewhere in Gotham's endless shadows—
Dean smiled.
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