Moriarty's mind should have raced to rationalize, to calm himself down — the weight of his actions should have crushed his sanity. He was well aware of that fact, and yet he felt nothing, as though what he had done was merely logical, mundane, routine.
This was the unfathomable difference between William James Moriarty and Xianshi. As Moriarty's thoughts brewed, he began to grasp a strange truth. Due to his transmigration, he was no longer entirely himself. He was not Xianshi, nor wholly Moriarty. Rather, the experiences of both had fused together, forming someone new. His outlook on certain matters no longer reflected either of his past lives. Acts of violence — once something he would avoid — now failed to stir even the faintest sense of reservation within him, even when the deed was deliberate and premeditated.
Realizing this truth, Moriarty's mind calmed — not because of the corpse lying before him, but due to a dislocation between his own understanding of being and presence. And in coming to understand himself, he accepted his current state: neither his past as Xianshi nor as Moriarty, but his present self — a composite of both. Whether transmigrator or mathematician, both were one. Both were him.
With such a conclusion, his focus shifted toward the body. Moving to the bedside, he pulled and scattered the sheets, making a mess as if someone had been sleeping there. Then, grasping the fat, bloated mass adorned in a well-tailored suit, he dragged it to the bathroom. Once there, he placed the corpse in the porcelain tub — one of Emperor Roselle's many inventions. Moriarty felt a fleeting sense of gratitude toward his scener of transmigration for such conveniences, for now he could recreate a common, miserable end — one where a man, burdened by life's hardships, chose to drown himself.
Grabbing a knife that lay beside the bed, half-pierced into a green, half-rotten apple, Moriarty placed the blade into Dudlene's stubby, cold hands, ensuring the man's fingerprints marked it. Moriarty himself wore gloves — though they had made climbing up to the balcony rather difficult.
As Dudlene's already congealing, half-mutated blood mixed with the bathwater, staining his clothes, Moriarty left the bathroom. He moved efficiently to cover his tracks. Though Emperor Roselle's inventions had advanced civilization, this era still lagged behind modern forensic methods. If this were Victorian London, such preparation would have been more than enough. But this was a world of mystery and the supernatural — a world where a Beyonder could divine the truth from whispers of fate. Hence, Moriarty had to ensure the narrative told by the scene left no loose threads.
The only marks on the body would be the faint bruising and indentation left by Dudlene's own golden chain — a sign of accidental strangulation. Moriarty retrieved the said chain and hung it from the coat stand in the corner, positioning it so it appeared snagged on Dudlene's jacket, as if he had tripped and choked himself. It was an absurdly illogical scene — almost cartoonish — as though Dudlene had been cursed with terrible luck.
And that, precisely, was what Moriarty intended. If Beyonders truly had ties to divinity and fate, then surely one who could inflict misfortune existed. Such a clue would mislead investigators toward that pathway. Furthermore, communicating with Dudlene's spirit would be impossible, or at least perilous. From what Moriarty understood, a great danger to Beyonders lay in losing control — thus, whatever madness had consumed Dudlene might still linger within his corpse. Any attempt to summon his spirit would likely yield nonsense, corrupted evidence, or worse — the corruption of the investigator themselves.
Alongside this, Moriarty had scattered a few pills and powdered medicines he'd purchased from a discreet apothecary — substances that promised to restore a man's "vigour." He had bought them in disguise, under a false name. His makeup skills, though learned under less-than-pleasant circumstances — memories of his older sisters dressing young Xianshi as a doll — had proven useful.
Having finished setting the scene, Moriarty's sharp eyes surveyed the room once more. Everything depicted the story he wished to convey.
The disheveled room, the shattered glass vial lying near the bedside — once filled with the potion Dudlene had consumed.
Dudlene Roesbrewy: an aristocrat, a professor, a gentleman with eccentric habits — and a heretical Beyonder, operating outside the law. Perhaps he had finally obtained the next Sequence potion recipe, or in desperation, attempted advancement without proper knowledge. The narrative was clear: his failures and misfortunes — losing academic recognition to a rival, his waning vigour as a man, and his eventual farcical death by his own chain — painted the picture of a man crushed by bad luck and hubris.
Moriarty then approached the open black suitcase lying by the bed. Inside was a folded paper with two distinct headlines:
Sequence 9: Criminal
Sequence 8: Assassin
Below each, ingredients and proportions were listed. Moriarty immediately drew the logical conclusion — these belonged to a single Beyonder pathway. He had heard only of two pathways before: Sailor and Spectator. Thus, he inferred the name — Criminal Pathway — a fitting one indeed for William James Moriarty.
He couldn't help but mutter to himself with dry amusement, "Ah, splendid… now I can truly become a criminal mastermind. Call me the Napoleon of Crime, huh."
Taking this opportunity, he pulled out a small notebook and, with a charcoal pencil, carefully copied down the details.
Sequence 9: Criminal
Main Ingredients:
Abyss Demonic Fish Blood
Grass of Madness
Supplementary Ingredients:
80 milliliters of repeatedly distilled liquor
3 drops of Poison Hemlock
Sequence 8: Assassin
Main Ingredients:
Root tendrils of the Shadow Poison Flower
Black feathers of a Serpent-Bodied Monster Bird
Supplementary Ingredients:
100 milliliters of strong vinegar
Three petals of the Shadow Poison Flower
10 drops of buttercup essential oil
One live spider
After copying the content, Moriarty walked to the balcony, closed the glass doors behind him, and exited quietly through the main entrance. As he did, he pulled out a thick pair of glasses and ruffled his neatly combed golden hair. To any casual observer, he now appeared as a slightly disheveled, bespectacled young gentleman — refined yet inexperienced, careless in his grooming but not in his purpos