The kidnapping and disappearance of Aiwass Moriarty was likely Glass Island’s biggest news.
It was a serialized drama—first, Aiwass made headlines for thwarting Noble Red’s plots, earning the Holy Sword Badge. Within a week, Noble Red stord the school and abducted him.
“From the battle traces, Aiwass fought fiercely, even taking down stronger Transcendents… but was overwheld,” a roommate said. “Haina, you’re close to Aiwass, right?”
“Hm? Oh…” Haina, distracted, nodded. “Yeah.”
She was wrestling with a question: Was Aiwass safe?
Was his disappearance part of his plan? He’d ntioned faking his death like Sherlock, but now that it happened, she wondered if this was the “fake death” he ant.
Her heart raced.
What if his plan failed? What if this wasn’t staged, and he was genuinely ambushed and taken?
“Why would Noble Red kidnap Aiwass? To torture him?”
“It’s illogical. If it’s revenge, they’d kill him. Dragging a live person makes escape harder.”
“Maybe to interrogate him? He might know so secret, so they needed him alive.”
“But why storm the school? It’s Dean g’s turf. She’s rarely around, but this’ll enrage her.”
“Could it be for a hostage exchange?”
“Possible, but don’t they hang captured Noble Red mbers?”
“Maybe so are alive.”
“No way. The papers would’ve reported it to pressure them.”
“What about trading for a traitor list? That’s how novels do it.”
Haina’s roommates huddled, chattering about the news.
Thanks to Aiwass’s headlines, Noble Red beca a household na. Rural folk knew them, but in cities, educated Inspectors and priests easily spotted their rituals and demons. His exploits forced papers to cover Noble Red, interviewing senior Inspectors and bishops to explain their cris.
“What do you think, Haina?” a roommate asked, nudging her. “Any Bureau insider info?”
The question snapped her out of her hesitation.
She stood, grabbed her coat, and rushed out. “I don’t know. I’m stepping out—keep talking!”
As she left, the dorm fell quiet.
Her roommate, a frequent at the Old Captain’s Bar, sighed. “Haina really cares about Aiwass.”
“Does she like him?” another ventured.
“Who doesn’t? He’s handso, kind, and a Moriarty,” ca the retort.
With no classes, they shifted to gossiping about Haina.
Haina ant to find Dean g but didn’t know where she was. After a fruitless search, she headed for Sherlock, certain his intellect could clarify Aiwass’s situation.
She went to Mrs. Mina’s divination shop, hoping to enter through the back, but found it closed. Her stomach dropped.
Nervously, she knocked on the front door.
Mrs. Mina answered. “Oh, Haina! Early today, huh?”
Bishop Mathers and Mina kept secrets and disliked servants, even a butler. For Round Table figures, this was eccentric but praised as ascetic virtue, given Mathers’s bishop and clerical councilor status.
Mina handled basic chores, borrowing friends’ servants for heavier tasks. Since Sherlock moved in, Haina, delivering intel for Aiwass, helped out casually—habits from Eagle Cape Village, where rigid servant etiquette didn’t exist.
She pitched in without much thought, finding it light work. If it was taxing, she’d nap all day instead.
Mathers and Mina, sharing her mindset, found her endearing, welcoming her after a few ssage runs.
“I’m here for Mr. Sherlock… Is he up?” Haina asked, tense.
Last ti, at nearly 10 AM, Sherlock was still asleep. She waited over an hour, and he woke groggy, snarking instinctively—his tongue sharper half-asleep.
“They’ve eaten and are playing chess,” Mina replied.
Chess? Sherlock and Bishop Mathers?
Haina, puzzled but grateful, followed Mina.
At Sherlock’s second-floor bedroom, a familiar voice rang out: “Check. Ready to switch gas? Bridge might stump … Oh, Haina’s here. Perfect for a four-player ga.”
Haina’s heart leapt, then filled with joy—like a child tasting honey, the world sweetening, the sun sparkling.
She knocked and burst in without waiting.
“You’re okay, Aiwass!”
In the room, Aiwass, free of his wheelchair, lounged back, legs crossed, left leg up, radiating confidence—a stark contrast to his gentle, wheelchair-bound deanor.
Bathed in golden morning light, a red butterfly danced at his fingertips.
Standing equal with Sherlock, Haina realized they were similar in height, but Aiwass seed taller now.
Sherlock, opposite, frowned, elbows on knees, chin in hand, studying the chessboard.
Lily sat close to Aiwass, smiling, first to glance at Haina.
Sherlock ignored her, muttering, “Tricky. I started strong—when did it slip?”
After long thought, he moved a piece. “I’ve lost, but I’ll finish.”
Aiwass smiled. “You miss a principle, Sherlock. Chess isn’t pure logic—it’s psychological. Threats outweigh captures. I didn’t force you to fix a done deal but piled on expected pressure, increasing your ntal load.
“Defensive play weakens you. When you’re impatient, I press harder, coaxing mistakes. Proud people hate errors, so your moves distort. Your goal shifts from winning to solving my puzzles.
“So plans don’t need execution. Their possibility alone works—its impact is the result.”
He placed the white queen. “Checkmate. Three wins, Sherlock. Your aggression blinds you to your own vulnerability.”
“So I’m here,” Sherlock said. “Makes sense.”
Aiwass shook his head. “Attacking doesn’t an advantage; constant attacks don’t an victory. I gave up my attack turns, letting you press, but so yield from weakness, others from strategy.”
“Like you staying put?” Sherlock countered.
“Exactly.” Aiwass held the white queen between his fingers, showing Sherlock. “I leap off the board, no longer a piece. I can go anywhere, making them panic. Panic leads to mistakes. Mistakes lead to death. And in death, they drag others down.”
The platinum-blond youth’s eyes glinted like a fox’s. “Watch, Sherlock. They won’t hold out long. I’ve applied the pressure. Now it’s their move.”
Sherlock looked at Aiwass in the sunlight, realizing he might never have truly known his friend.
(Chapter End)
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