"This is the 'Walnut Cracker'?! The 'Walnut Cracker' of His Grace the Duke of Lancaster?! You didn’t flee from the Duke’s banquet, did you? And stole his most prized racehorse?!" Oleander groaned, clutching his forehead. The horse was practically worth a city, its bloodline stretching further than most noble pedigrees. Breeding it would fetch more than London’s most celebrated courtesan.

"He lent it to me." Ulysses fastened his weapons to the saddle. "Which direction is the Duran estate?"

"Northwest, about two kilometers. There’s a garden flanking its side—easy to spot... Wait, no! Sir, this isn’t the issue! My friend is suffering from a violent, grotesque illness. He needs a physician!"

"Feed him opium tincture if he’s awake. Let him sleep. I’ll return in an hour." Ulysses mounted the horse, ignoring Oleander’s protests, and galloped off with a snap of the reins.

***

One shovel, two shovels...

Yvette dug a hole beneath an oak tree in the woods beside the Duran estate, clutching a spade. Beside her leaned a large bundle wrapped in faded velvet drapery—perfectly sized to hold a body.

A moonlit, eerie forest. A lavishly dressed youth with half a bloodied face. The sound of earth breaking in the silent night. It was a scene ripped straight from the pages of a Gothic novel. Yet as the protagonist, Yvette felt no triumph. Thankfully, none of the servants had stirred. She’d carried the corpse out through the front gates to prevent ordinary folk from discovering Duran’s monstrous transformation.

Though she’d swiftly extinguished the fire in the secret chamber, restored the door, and even remembered to grab the gardener’s spade on her way out, she was still inexperienced in corpse disposal. *Next time, position the wound facing upward*, she chastised herself. This time, she’d slung the body over her shoulder, allowing blood to seep through the fabric and soak her clothes...

Ugh. *No next time*.

Mid-dig, a hand abruptly tapped her shoulder. Yvette jolted, nearly swinging the spade at the unwelcome visitor.

"Good evening, dear nephew." Ulysses stood behind her, smiling, his azure eyes slit-pupiled and unnervingly feline.

"...Could you *warn* me next time?"

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"I intended to visit Mr. Duran’s estate but caught a whiff of blood. Followed it here. Thankfully, the victor was you. But why bury such a 'prize'?" His pupils normalized as he spoke.

*He must’ve swapped his nose for a dog’s and eyes for a cat’s*. Yvette noted the unsheathed sword in his hand. He’d crept here uncertain whether the burier or the buried still lived.

Ulysses prodded the wrapped corpse with his blade, revealing Duran’s nightmarish visage. "Ablation? Beyond 25% corruption—permanent, irreversible. Ablation amplifies a fallen’s power. Even a first-layer [Kingdom] would’ve surpassed your tier."

Yvette nodded silently, omitting that Duran had been a second-layer [Foundation].

"Why not summon us?"

"My friend was cursed by his power. Had I returned to London for help, they’d be corpses by now."

Ulysses sliced his palm with the sword. "I adhere to victory above all. Win flawlessly, and flaws vanish. A slightly tarnished crown still shines for a first duel." His blood-smeared hand grazed her neck, healing the wound.

"—But pray your excuses sway stubborn Winslow."

Yvette’s hopes chilled.

***

The police and "Wolfsbane" arrived almost simultaneously. By then, Ulysses had finished healing—half-heartedly acknowledging Oleander’s gratitude.

He’d merely fed the mortal some of his blood. The injuries were stabilized; rest would suffice. Yvette hadn’t returned to the inn, her bloodstained clothes and shoulder—evidence of corpse disposal—too conspicuous for amateur detectives. Ulysses claimed she aided police investigations while she actually guided Althor’s undercover as officers to retrieve Duran’s body.

All超凡者corpses required retrieval, with merit tiers: same-tiercaptives held highest value, followed by ablated corpses, then humanoid ones—likely reward scaling with difficulty.

"...Sir Ulysses, if I may—which case did Mr. Fisher assist with?" Now that their friend was safe, Oleander and Wolfsbane resumed their inquisitive selves.

Yvette and Ulysses had prepped a cover story. His azure eyes glinted mischievously. "The Red Mill murders—your reason for coming here."

Two sharp inhales.

"The killer was local squire Duran."

Gasps erupted.

"My nephew Ives unveiled his true face." Ulysses diverged from their agreed script, irked by her recklessness. "The key clue was 'Colonel,' the horse slated for slaughter. The stablemaster’s son said they’d left for three days. Returned to find its horseshoe missing, hoof cracked—rendering Colonel lame. Ives interviewed servants: Colonel had remained stabled during those days, at least by day. Horses are runners—even shoeless, hooves don’t deteriorate so rapidly. What could erode them so severely?"

"Rain. As our nails soften in water, hooves soaked by downpours wear faster. It only rained once during those three days—the night the Red Mill family died. Only Duran would abuse a horse so cruelly. Others, finding a lost shoe, would walk rather than force a pained animal to pull."

"...Ives sent Duran a letter detailing his crimes. The wretch begged, bribed. Ives remained unmoved."

"...Cornered, Duran ambushed him. But he chose poorly. My nephew wields France’s finest swordplay. He parried the sneak attack with a half-turn, forced the blade outward, then thrustinto Duran’s shoulder."

"...'Surrender! You’ll face fair trial!' Ives disarmed him. But the damned soul feared exposure more than death. Facing justice, the killer leapt laughing into the