Ironhand scanned the room. Massive bookshelves covered every wall, stretching all the way to the ceiling. Hundreds of volumes filled the shelves—ancient bindings, technical manuals, philosophical works. The air of the room revealed the mind of the man who had lived here.
Without taking his eyes off the shelves, Ironhand spoke.
"So the victim enjoyed reading."
Pearl Keytech nodded slightly.
"It was his greatest passion," she said calmly. "He believed that learning was the greatest gift granted to mankind."
As she spoke, her gaze drifted toward William's lifeless body. For a brief moment, her eyes met his empty stare. A flicker of sorrow crossed her face before she quickly turned away.
Ironhand noticed.
"When did you marry Mr. William?" he asked.
Pearl straightened herself.
"About three years ago."
"Fairly recent," Ironhand remarked.
"We had known each other for five years before the marriage," she added.
While speaking, Ironhand examined the desk—scattered documents, unfinished notes, a few objects knocked out of place. He turned back to her.
"If I'm mistaken, forgive me," he said, "but Mr. William was married before you, wasn't he?"
"Yes," Pearl replied coldly.
At that moment, something on the floor caught Ironhand's eye. A sleek pen lay near the desk, as if it had slipped from William's hand. Ironhand bent down and picked it up, weighing it between his fingers.
"Just a guess," he said, "but is it possible your relationship began while he was still married to his first wife?"
Pearl lost her composure for the first time.
"That is none of your business," she snapped. "Why are you asking me these questions?"
Ironhand calmly turned the pen in his hand.
"You requested the best service. I'm providing it. This murder could have many motives. It could even have been committed by a family member."
Her expression tightened.
"You think I did it?"
"It's a possibility."
"No. That's impossible," she said firmly. "I loved him. William gave me everything I could want. He loved me."
"He likely loved the woman before you as well," Ironhand replied.
Pearl fell silent.
Ironhand continued,
"But I don't believe you did it."
She looked at him, surprised.
"Because Mr. William fought back," he said, holding up the pen. "Do you see this?"
She looked but clearly didn't understand.
Ironhand twisted the pen, revealing its hidden mechanism.
"This is a weapon disguised as a pen. Press the trigger, and it fires a single round. Quite useful, actually. I might need one myself."
She frowned.
"And how does that prove I didn't do it?"
"Because you're unharmed," Ironhand answered. "A shot was fired. This weapon may look small, but it's powerful and silent—strong enough to tear out an implant. Yet you're standing here perfectly intact."
Relief washed over her face.
"What if he missed?"
" There were no bullet holes in the walls. I checked when we entered."
Pearl allowed a faint smile.
"You're thorough. Very professional."
"Absolutely," he said, then grew serious. "But the real mystery isn't the absence of a bullet hole. It's where the wounded person went, how they entered, and how they managed to escape after being shot."
"The security staff didn't see anyone unfamiliar leaving the building," Pearl replied.
"Wounded?" Ironhand asked.
"There's no information about that," she said.
At that moment, the door slammed open. Someone burst inside and screamed—
"FATHER!"
Pearl Keytech's face tightened. The young man collapsed to his knees the moment he saw William's body, sobbing uncontrollably.
Amid the chaos, Ironhand observed.
The young man's left arm was wrapped in bandages. A high-grade implant glowed faintly in his eye, with another visible in his right arm. But what truly caught Ironhand's attention was the young woman standing beside him.
Unlike Pearl and the boy, she had no implants at all—yet she was strikingly beautiful. She appeared to be in her early twenties. A small handheld camera was tucked discreetly in her hand. She was investigating something.
Ironhand was about to approach her when the boy suddenly rose from his knees and lunged at Pearl, gripping her throat with his right hand.
"You did this!" he shouted. "You killed my father, didn't you? Greedy bitch!"
Ironhand rushed in, forcing them apart. The boy struggled violently, screaming.
"What else do you want to take?! You took my father! You destroyed our family! Are you still not satisfied?!"
Ironhand saw the pure hatred burning in the young man's eyes.
The boy swung a punch, trying to break free. Ironhand ducked and drove his iron arm into the boy's abdomen.
The young man vomited instantly and collapsed to the floor, stunned by the impact.
Ironhand looked down at him and thought—
Now we can finally talk to the suspects.
The room slowly fell silent.
Ironhand pulled a chair from the corner of the empty room and sat down. Across from him stood the young man, still breathing heavily. Ironhand reached into his coat, pulled out a handkerchief, and held it out.
"Here," he said calmly. "There's still some vomit at the corner of your mouth."
The boy took it, wiping his face with an awkward smile.
"So… you're the famous Ironhand," he said. "I always thought you were just a legend."
Ironhand chuckled.
"As you can see, I'm very real."
"I felt that," the boy replied with a weak laugh.
A faint smile appeared on Ironhand's face. He leaned back slightly and spoke again.
"Since we failed rather spectacularly at introductions earlier, shall we do it properly this time, Mr. Andrew Keytech?"
Andrew let out a short laugh.
"Feels like we already know each other. What's the point of formalities now?"
"Don't say that," Ironhand replied. "A proper introduction is one of the finest displays of gentlemanly conduct. You young people truly have no appreciation for such small details."
"You keep saying 'young people,'" Andrew shot back. "There can't be more than a three-year difference between us."
Ironhand laughed.
"I'll take that as a compliment."
Then his expression sharpened, his tone turning professional.
"In that case, I should practice what I preach. Good evening. My name is Charles Ironhand. I'm a detective. And you are?"
"Andrew Keytech," he replied. "William Keytech's son. Journalism student. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Ironhand."
"The pleasure is mine," Ironhand said. "And my condolences for your loss."
Andrew lowered his gaze.
"I should be the one apologizing for what happened earlier. I lost control. But… seeing my father like that…"
"I understand," Ironhand said quietly. "Were you close with him?"
"We used to be," Andrew answered. "But I hadn't seen him much since my mother passed away."
Ironhand's interest sharpened.
"When did your mother die?"
"About two years ago. She had Iron Blight. The doctors said she wouldn't last two months—four years ago. But she fought it. She really did. She survived far longer than anyone expected, but…"
Andrew's eyes filled with tears.
Ironhand handed him another handkerchief.
"I've heard Iron Blight is extremely painful. How did she last that long?"
"She fought," Andrew said. "She was strong. Independent of my father, she owned a significant share in Fate Industries. She even led their chemical research division. Ironically, she was researching a cure for Iron Blight there… but she never found one."
The words caught in Andrew's throat.
"It's alright," Ironhand said, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "Take your time."
Andrew looked up.
"Why are you asking me all this? Aren't you supposed to be investigating my father's murder?"
"I am," Ironhand replied. "But right now, my focus isn't your father. It's you."
"Me?" Andrew frowned. "What does my personality have to do with this case? No offense, but nothing you've learned so far convinces me it's useful."
Ironhand laughed softly.
"Useful? With what I already know, I could probably build a case proving you committed the murder."
Andrew laughed in disbelief.
"Oh really? And how would you do that?"
"Tell me, Andrew," Ironhand asked, "do you know what a pressure rifle is?"
"Of course," Andrew replied. "We learned about it in history class. It was the weapon that turned the tide during the Connection Wars—gave the Connection City soldiers their victory."
"It wasn't just a weapon," Ironhand said. "It was a work of art. Fast, no overheating, no ammunition to carry—because it drew its power from the Paradise Fragment inside it. Only one problem."
He unlocked the mechanism at the center of his iron arm. With a metallic click, a pressure rifle unfolded from within.
"Learning how to control it takes a very long time."
Andrew's eyes widened.
"What is that doing in your possession? I thought those only existed in the military."
"They're considered too dangerous and expensive now," Ironhand said lightly. "That wasn't always the case."
"But the sale of pressure weapons has been illegal for over sixty years," Andrew said.
Ironhand smiled at him.
"How old do you think I am?"
"…Older than you look?"
"Good enough."
Ironhand's smile faded. He leaned forward.
"Back to the point. Accessing these weapons is extremely difficult. Even retired soldiers' rifles are little more than collectibles now. Restoring one requires serious knowledge and serious resources."
Andrew narrowed his eyes.
"What are you getting at, Ironhand?"
"Simple," he replied. "That you could repair one of these."
Andrew stiffened.
"Are you implying—"
"Why not?"
"You're saying I killed my own father with one of these weapons?"
Ironhand said nothing.
"How can you even think that?"
"Let's go step by step," Ironhand said calmly. "You told me your mother was a chemist, a major shareholder at Fate Industries. I'm sure she had connections. Connections that could help you acquire or restore a pressure rifle."
"You're losing your mind."
"No. I'm just getting started. You had problems with your father. You blamed him—at least partially—for your mother's death. And rightly so. When his wife and son needed him most, he ran into another woman's arms."
"Stop."
"You lost control. You wanted to kill him quickly. No guards stopped you. Meaning you likely entered the same way the killer did."
"No!"
"You aimed the weapon at him. Before you could fire, he shot you with the pen-gun. But at that exact moment, you fired as well. Am I wrong?"
"Enough!"
Andrew lunged for the weapon on the table and pointed it at Ironhand, pulling the trigger. The recoil sent the shot slamming into the wall beside Ironhand.
"Told you," Ironhand said calmly. "Hard to control."
Andrew broke down, tears streaming down his face.
"I didn't kill him. I would never do that."
"I know," Ironhand replied.
"Then why did you do all this?" Andrew asked through sobs.
"I needed to see whether you could handle a weapon under stress," Ironhand said. "And you can't. With those control skills, you couldn't hit a giant."
Andrew exhaled shakily, relief washing over him.
"Then… did you figure out who killed my father?"
Ironhand stood up slowly.
"No. But I'm close."
He turned toward the door.
"And I will find them. No matter what."