Year 1160, Past.
On the third day after Roselle had set sail, Bernadette could no longer hold back. She went straight to Edward, begging him to take her to see her father.
This time, she didn't even bother with the three-step prayer. Instead, she ran all the way to 28 Emerald Street and knocked on Edward's door.
"Mr. Sparrow, take me there, please, please, just take me there!"
In the garden, Bernadette clung to Edward's arm, swaying it gently, acting spoiled.
Edward, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a video camera in the other, was recording her. His plan was simple—next time he met that aloof and dignified "Queen Mystic," he'd show her this footage and see how long she could keep up that cold facade.
"What are you doing?"
Bernadette poked the camera with her finger. "You've been pointing that thing at me this whole time."
"Oh, nothing. Carry on."
"…."
Her lake-blue eyes darted quickly. "Even if you won't take me to see Daddy, can you at least take me to see the mermaids? It's been a whole week since last time!"
Her words reminded Edward of something.
After discovering that elementary textbook in the black monastery of the dream, he'd spent several consecutive nights exploring the remnants of the Sea of Ruin, hoping to stumble upon fortune. But then came Akasha's 'assassination' attempt on Count Clair and the whirlwind of events that followed. He truly hadn't been back for a while.
"How about this," Edward said, "if you dance for me, I'll consider taking you there tonight."
"Dance?"
The little girl blinked, scratching her head. "How do I…dance?"
It felt like being dragged to a relative's house during New Year and being forced by her parents to "perform a talent."
"Any way you like."
Bernadette glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then began to sway her little hips and "dance" clumsily. Edward recorded every second with relish.
Perfect. Perfect.
All of this would make excellent blackmail material someday!
After a few minutes, Bernadette panted with exhaustion and glared at him. "I'm done! Is that enough, Mr. Sparrow?"
"Well done, it's time for your reward!" Edward waved a hand. "We'll set out tonight."
"Yay!"
At that moment, Dubois approached with an odd look on his face. "Why do I get the feeling…when Roselle comes back, Bernadette will be closer to you than to him?"
"No way!"
Bernadette immediately retorted, puffing up indignantly.
Dubois shrugged, muttering under his breath: "Camellia."
"Mm, I got it," Edward replied.
"What camellia?" Bernadette tilted her head curiously.
"Secret."
"…."
Edward closed the camera, handed the coffee cup to Dubois, and said, "Take her home."
"Bring me with you, Mr. Sparrow!" Bernadette quickly raised her hand.
"You want to tag along for everything."
Edward flicked her lightly on the forehead, making her pout, then strode away.
—
Back inside, Edward teleported directly to the Aurora Order's stronghold in Quartier de Noël. He entered as though returning home, washing his hands at the basin while a servant approached with a dry towel and a report, "Mr. F, we've uncovered some information about this 'Tarik.'"
"Speak."
"He is a member of Intis's Royal Guard, but only part of the ceremonial unit—an idle position. He lives in the guard barracks at the palace, but we've found no trace of his family background."
"An orphan?"
"No, it seems most of the palace guards are in a similar situation. Likely intentional obfuscation."
"I see." Edward nodded. "If I wanted to meet him, where would I go…aside from the palace?"
"This…"
Knock, knock, knock.
The servant broke off as knocking echoed against the door.
Before either could react, the door creaked open. A man in knight's uniform stepped inside, calmly shut the door behind him, and approached unhurriedly.
"Aurora Order? Mr. F?"
The servant's expression changed, about to speak, but Edward raised his hand to silence him. "Leave us."
"Yes, sir."
The knight stopped before Edward and sat down across from him.
Edward asked evenly, "What do you want from me?"
"Oh, wasn't it you who was looking for me? I thought you had business."
The man in knight's garb—Tarik—spoke flatly.
The two men locked eyes in silence until Tarik finally spoke first.
"You killed Count Clair?"
"That's right."
"Did Marcia hire you?"
"If you mean that woman who came a few days ago, then probably."
"Did she ask you to do anything besides kill?"
Edward's lips curved into a small smile. "I don't betray my employers."
Tarik nodded. "So she did."
Clap!
Suddenly, Tarik reached into his coat and drew out a large, heavy revolver, pressing its barrel directly against Edward's forehead.
"This bullet has been specially treated. At this distance, a shot to the head would kill even a Shepherd instantly."
His tone was cold. "Now tell me—did Marcia send you somewhere to retrieve something? Where is it?"
Staring at the muzzle so close to his face, Edward actually chuckled. "Nice gun you've got there…"
Click!
The next second, the oversized barrel was pressed against Tarik's own head. Edward now held the revolver himself, smirking.
"Now it's mine."
A gleam flashed in Tarik's eyes. "You've…grazed a Marauder?"
"Regression."
Ancient gears turned slowly within Edward's eyes.
But this time, something unexpected happened—the effect of Regression did not cause Tarik's Sequence to fall. Instead, it produced only a sharp, grating, teeth-grinding screech.
Tarik jerked back, retreating swiftly. As he flung several coins into the air, he bolted toward the door.
That was a Reaper's Cull.
Edward blinked out of place, avoiding the deadly coins, and immediately cast several [Thefts] in succession, attempting to steal Tarik's thoughts and abilities.
Failure. Every time.
His first reaction was disbelief. If this man were truly at such a high Sequence that Regression and Theft were both ineffective, would he really need to flee?
By then, Tarik had already smashed open the door and bolted into the street. It was noon; pedestrians bustled to and fro, turning curiously at the sudden commotion.
Edward pursued, flashing forward. Weeds, stones, and debris at the roadside twisted into chains, snaking around Tarik, and a bolt of lightning split the air, crashing down.
Tarik strained, ripping apart the chains, and rolled across the ground to narrowly avoid the lightning strike. Springing to his feet, he pushed off with explosive force to dash away—
Ding!
A small screw clattered from his right leg.
Bang!
The entire limb detonated, scattering into screws and chunks of metal across the cobblestones. Tarik's body pitched forward violently, collapsing in a shower of parts.
Boom!
His form erupted, dissolving into piles of gears, bolts, and springs. Only his head remained intact, rolling several meters across the ground.
For a moment, even Edward froze in astonishment, just as much as the horrified bystanders.
Now he understood. That was why Regression hadn't lowered Tarik's Sequence, and why Theft hadn't stolen any thoughts or powers—because this Tarik wasn't human at all. He was a puppet.
Fortunately, Regression cared nothing for such distinctions. It had reduced him straight into a heap of parts.
"Very good. I'll remember you, Mr. F of the Aurora Order."
Tarik's head rasped mechanically. Then the glimmer of awareness faded rapidly from his eyes, and with a sharp pop it too exploded, bursting into screws, wax blocks, bones, and springs that clattered onto the street.
Edward regarded the wreckage for a long moment. Then he flicked his wand, sweeping the remains into a pile and packing them into a suitcase. With that, he returned inside.
"Mr. F, are you unharmed?" the servant asked nervously.
"I'm fine."
Edward's tone was calm. "But this base is compromised. We'll need to relocate."
"I understand!"
Leaving the suitcase on the table, Edward sank into thought.
When it came to puppets and golems, the most adept were those of the Mother's Pathway—Sequence 4, "Classical Alchemist." But the Savant Pathway could achieve something similar.
Take Horamick, the future Archbishop of Backlund, for example. Most of the time, the "archbishop" people saw was actually a puppet of his own making. His true body lurked hidden elsewhere.
From the abundance of screws, gears, and springs scattered before him, Edward could conclude with some certainty: this Tarik was crafted by someone of the Savant Pathway. In other words, it likely had ties to the Church of the God of Steam and Machinery.
And yet…it was also known that Tarik was associated with the Twilight Hermit Order's mysterious "Intis." Could it be…that "Intis" was in fact connected to the Church of Steam and Machinery?
——
Several minutes later, Edward returned home and logged into the Sefirah Castle to divine: "The origin of this puppet."
He closed his eyes and quickly slipped into a hazy dreamscape.
A figure dressed in the white priestly robes of the Church of Steam and Machinery,wearing a soft priest's cap, pointed at the motionless "Tarik" next to him and asked, "Is this doll acceptable?"
A young man dressed in opulent clothes respectfully replied, "Certainly, thank you very much, Your Holiness."
"Are you sure you don't need me to inject a 'soul' into it, transforming it into a living being?"
"No need, Your Holiness."
The divination vision ended there.
"Hm? That young man refused the archbishop's offer to inject a 'soul' into the puppet…Then how did it gain life?"
Perhaps the young man didn't trust the archbishop and instead found someone else to complete the final step for him.
But that raised a new question: Who exactly was that young man in the vision?
Edward felt as if he were caught in a Russian nesting doll of mysteries, peeling back layer after layer, only to reveal yet another hidden secret beneath.
It truly felt like he was investigating a case.
In reality, his motivations for chasing this trail were twofold: First, he considered "Intis" a hypothetical rival competing for the Conqueror's Beyonder characteristic against Lilith. Second, he wanted to track down "Intis" in revenge for having previously given him the treasure map of the Amon Ruins.
Ah, whatever.
An investigation is an investigation.
He only hoped it wouldn't be a waste of effort.
———
Half an hour later.
Members of the Machinery Hivemind completed their investigation of every household along Camellia Street. Aside from No. 2 Camellia Street, they had found nothing.
"Captain, we've got something here!"
Horamick crouched before the fireplace in Mr. F's bedroom. "There seems to be some sort of mechanism hidden here. But…I can't find how to open it."
The captain arched a brow, striding forward. "That's easy."
He pulled a grenade from his belt and casually tossed it into the fireplace.
Horamick froze in shock. "What???"
———
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