The thought of Sherlock Hols and Jas Moriarty, original archenemies, both staging their deaths on the sa day nearly made Aiwass crack up.
But he caught a blind spot in York’s narrative.
York could confirm Sherlock’s death because he orchestrated it—drugging him with a sedative and timing the explosion perfectly.
He received news of Sherlock’s death at the expected mont.
His certainty stemd from a deep desire for it to be true.
Despite York’s high standing in Lloyd’s Society, his position was precarious.
He couldn’t afford to be exposed in this case and had to kill Sherlock himself.
If the bomb failed, whether he finished the job or not, he risked revealing himself.
He desperately didn’t want to hear Sherlock survived, so he subconsciously used gathered intel to reinforce his belief, preparing to convince other executives.
From this angle, if Lloyd’s Society confird Moriarty’s death, did they have a hand in it?
Divinations could be disrupted and weren’t always accurate, especially for lower-level seers targeting higher-level figures.
Lloyd’s Society, with access to seers, knew this limitation.
To confirm Moriarty’s death without a body, they likely participated—perhaps sending an assassin who reported his death with evidence, like bloodied clothes.
Only then would they trust a single divination.
Alternatively, they might not need Moriarty truly dead—just socially “dead” to keep him out of Glass Island, buying ti for their plans.
Either way, Moriarty’s staged death was likely.
Both scenarios shared one truth: Lloyd’s Society had no goodwill toward Aiwass.
Their urgency to recruit him, revealing Moriarty’s death early, was to pressure him without giving him ti to verify or think.
Aiwass narrowed his eyes, forming a plan.
He’d seize the initiative with a direct approach.
“You seem in a hurry, Lawyer York,” he said abruptly.
York’s face shifted, his head tilting slightly left, chin resting on his raised left fingertips.
His right hand’s three fingers tapped rhythmically on the armrest, like playing an air piano.
Aiwass stared at him, speaking slowly, pressing him.
“You don’t seem saddened by my father’s death.”
“That’s because…”
“Because it suits your interests,” Aiwass cut in.
“Whether he’s truly dead, missing, or it’s a lie I can’t verify yet.
Telling now, before I see it in the papers or face real trouble, shows you’re desperate.
Waiting would’ve made it easier to convince and recruit .”
Snowy aid trumps sunny gifts.
“Lloyd’s Society is a rchants’ collective,” Aiwass continued.
“For rchants to forgo the safest, most profitable option and activate my line early suggests your position isn’t as stable as you appear.”
Aiwass half-closed his eyes, feigning drowsiness, his voice low and clear, like whispering a bedti story.
“Taking straight from Sherlock’s funeral to Lloyd’s headquarters, putting in that rickety elevator, subtly showing off your photos with big shots, intimidating with Devourer Demons, pointlessly revealing you monitor the Noble Red, announcing my father’s death—you’re piling on pressure.
What do you want to agree to?
Speak plainly; I might say yes easily.”
Aiwass squinted, his lips curving slightly.
“Let guess—you made a mistake recently, so you’re eager to recruit to offset it.
Your eyes tell I’m right.”
“…Aren’t you afraid at all?” York asked, scratching his head, his face showing no nace.
Aiwass smiled, showcasing his value.
“First, I notified Mr. Mycroft before coming here and told Butler Oswald before boarding the train.
You don’t want trouble here, do you, Lawyer York?
Second, you’ve gone to great lengths—telling about Prince Lloyd, the crown’s flaws—because I have unique value you can’t control through threats or bribes.
Lastly, I bet soone’s at the door—Vice President Boca, likely there since we discussed my father’s death.”
“How’d you guess?” a steady voice ca from the door.
A middle-aged man entered, his hair half-black, half-white, with a small mustache.
Dressed in a deep blue suit, his square face was stern, his hair neat but free of gel or wax.
He instinctively clasped his hands behind his back, stepping slowly to stand behind York.
Aiwass smiled warmly, raising his left hand in a mock grab, greeting the man.
“Let’s say hello for now, Mr. Boca.
Since you’re here, does that an York’s credit is lost?
That’s a pity; he seems like a good person.”
“His credit’s intact because your value exceeds our expectations,” Boca said, taking over without consulting York.
Unlike York’s cheerful, soft-spoken deanor, Boca’s words were direct, forceful, and charismatic.
“Do you want to be king, Mr. Aiwass?
Beyond ‘prince,’ beyond just ‘Moriarty.’”
Aiwass raised an eyebrow.
“Who wouldn’t?”
“You have that chance now,” Boca said, his voice low and magnetic, brimming with allure.
“With enough luck, not just king—*emperor*.
It’s entirely possible.
We’re rchants, each with our markets and businesses.
No one wants the stable market smashed, letting so unknown upstart steal the white crown and red candle.
We’re Avalon’s true order-keepers, just as Lloyd’s Society maintains Lloyd District’s order.”
“You value my connection to Isabel?” Aiwass asked bluntly, using the princess’s na directly.
He tilted his head.
“Why should I work with you?”
At that, Boca and York’s lips curled upward in unison.
“Youngsters are spirited; it’s normal,” York said, chuckling to smooth things over.
“Who hasn’t been young?
Especially soone as exceptional as Aiwass…”
“Mr. Aiwass, this is a venture we’ve run for years,” Boca said directly.
“Since Lloyd’s Society’s founding, it’s carried the mission of transcendents.
You’re the newcor.
Pioneers built this stage over two centuries, only for a latecor to stumble in and claim the prize.
If that latecor eats alone, do you think they’d only face the crown?
Compared to the establishnt, we’re the underdogs.
Underdogs don’t fight each other—we unite.”
Aiwass raised an eyebrow.
“The royal curse—you did it?”
“Not entirely,” Boca replied.
“Many wanted it done—Star Antimony, Iris Flower, Roundtable Hall…
Four hundred years ago, Lancelot I led the Roundtable Knights to conquer Avalon Island, renaming it Glass Island.
Four centuries without a break in lineage, no civil war, no rebellion, no shift in power or custom—what does that an?”
Decay—and the need for change.
(End of Chapter)
Reviews
All reviews (0)