Transmigrated as a Playboy: I Solve Crime With Forensic

The Ticking Clock

The corridors of Vane Manor were a blur of shadows and whispering portraits.

"Move it, Hollow," a guard grunted, shoving me forward.

My bare feet slapped against the cold marble. I was still in my silk robe, marched like a prisoner through my own home. Servants pressed themselves against the walls, their heads bowed. I could hear their whispers—fear mixed with the grim satisfaction of watching a tyrant fall.

“Finally caught him…”

“Killed a Baroness…”

“House Vane is finished.”

I ignored them. My mind was racing, calculating variables faster than Aris Thorne ever had to in Chicago.

Variable 1: The poison. Nightshade Essence. In my world, Atropine is the antidote. In this world? I had no idea what the botanical equivalent was. I needed a lab. I needed data.

Variable 2: The time. My heart rate was roughly 90 beats per minute due to stress. The faster it beat, the faster the toxin reached my vital organs. I had to calm down.

"In here," the guard barked.

They didn't throw me in the dungeon—not yet. I was still a Viscount, and until the High Inquisitor arrived, I had the right to be held in my "primary residence." They shoved me into my study and slammed the heavy oak door.

Click. Clack. The sound of a magical lock sealing.

"Don't try the windows, Lord Silas!" Captain Draven yelled from the other side. "I've put a Kinetic Barrier on them. You touch the glass, and it’ll break every bone in your hand."

I didn't answer. I waited until their footsteps faded.

Then, I collapsed.

My legs gave out, and I hit the Persian rug, clutching my chest. The adrenaline was wearing off, and the poison was waking up. A cold numbness was spreading from the puncture wound on my forehead down to my neck.

"Think, Aris," I hissed through gritted teeth. "You didn't survive the Chicago Cartel just to die in a velvet bathrobe."

I dragged myself up and looked around the study. It was a monument to the old Silas’s vanity. Bookshelves filled with unread grimoires. A liquor cabinet stocked with bottles glowing with mana-infused wine. A massive mahogany desk covered in gambling debts.

I swept the papers off the desk with a crash. I needed a workspace.

I grabbed a bottle of "Amber Brandy." High alcohol content. Good for sterilization. I ripped a curtain sash to use as a tourniquet, tying it tightly around my head to slow the blood flow to the wound.

It was a temporary fix. I needed help. I needed eyes on the outside.

Click.

A soft sound came from the bookshelf. Not the door—the wall.

A hidden panel slid open.

I spun around, grabbing a heavy brass letter opener.

"My Lord?" A terrified whisper.

It was Elara.

She slipped through the secret passage, her maid’s uniform dusted with cobwebs. She was holding a tray with a pitcher of water and a loaf of bread.

"Elara," I breathed, lowering the weapon. "How did you...?"

"The servants' passages," she whispered, her eyes darting to the locked door. "The guards don't know about them. Silas... My Lord... you haven't eaten."

She set the tray down, her hands trembling. She looked at me—sweating, pale, a tourniquet tied around my head—and a sob escaped her throat.

"You're dying," she said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes," I admitted. I walked over to her. "But I'm not dead yet."

I took her hands. They were calloused from scrubbing floors, warm and alive. "Elara, I need you to be my hands. I can't leave this room. Can you get me things? From the kitchen? From the garden?"

"Anything," she vowed, her gaze fierce. "You’re the only one who never treated me like a slave. Tell me what to steal."

"I need charcoal. Sulfur—look for the yellow powder the gardeners use for pests. Saltpeter—it's in the meat curing shed. And..." I paused, looking at her. "I need you to take off your dress."

Elara froze. Her eyes went wide. A flush rose up her neck, turning her pale skin pink.

"My Lord..." she stammered, glancing at the door. "Now? Here? With the poison...?"

She didn't say no. In fact, her breathing hitched, and she took a half-step closer. The "Old Silas" would have taken her right there on the desk, death be damned.

"Not for that," I said gently, though the tension in the room thickened, heavy and electric. "I need the fabric. The petticoat. It’s cotton, right?"

Elara blinked, looking confused, then relieved, and perhaps... a little disappointed. "Yes. Pure cotton."

"I need filters," I explained. "And I need to check the spread of the poison. It’s moving down my spine. I can't see my own back."

Elara nodded. She turned around, her fingers fumbling with the laces of her corset. The dress pooled at her waist, revealing the simple white shift underneath.

"The poison," she whispered. "Check it."

I ran my hand down her spine—not to touch her, but to steady myself. Then I turned my back to her, pulling my robe down. "Tell me what you see. Is there a line? A black vein?"

Her cool fingers touched my skin. I shivered. The sensation was maddeningly intense.

"Yes," she murmured, her fingers tracing the path of the toxin near my shoulder blades. "It’s... dark. Like ink under the skin. It’s stopped just above your heart."

"Good. That gives us time." I pulled the robe back up. I turned to face her. She was half-undressed, hair messy, looking at me with a mix of fear and devotion.

I reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "Elara. If we survive this... if I survive this... I promise you, things will change in this house. No more hiding in secret passages."

Her eyes searched mine. "You really aren't him, are you? The Silas I knew would be drinking that brandy, not using it to clean a wound."

"Maybe I'm the Silas you deserve," I said softly.

I leaned in. It was a reckless move. I kissed her—hard, desperate, a promise of life in the face of death. She melted against me, her hands gripping my arms, grounding me.

I pulled away before I lost control. "Go. Get the charcoal and sulfur. And bring me a mirror."

She nodded, flushed and breathless, pulling her dress up. "I'll be back in ten minutes."

She vanished into the wall.

I turned back to the desk. Charcoal, Sulfur, Saltpeter. Gunpowder. Primitive, unstable, but effective. If I couldn't use magic, I would bring the boom.

One Hour Later.

I had transformed the antique desk into a forensic lab.

I had crushed the charcoal from the fireplace using a crystal paperweight. I had scraped saltpeter from the damp stones near the window (a lucky find in this humid city).

I was grinding the mixture when the main lock clicked.

I didn't have time to hide the "science." I threw a heavy book over the pile of black powder just as the door opened.

It wasn't Elara.

It was Lady Eleanor.

She swept into the room like a blizzard. She had changed out of her armor into a high-collared gown of midnight blue. She held a fan, but she gripped it like a weapon.

"So," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "You're still alive."

"Disappointed?" I sat back in the chair, trying to look bored, though my head was throbbing like a drum.

"Immensely," she said, gliding closer. She looked around the messy room. "What are you doing, Silas? Destroying the library? Looking for a spell to save you?" She laughed, a cold, sharp sound. "You have no magic. You can't even read the grimoires."

"I'm reading the pictures," I drawled. "They're very pretty."

Eleanor stopped in front of the desk. She looked down at me. For a moment, her mask of ice slipped. She looked... tired.

"Why did you do it?" she asked quietly. "Lydia was a fool, but she didn't deserve to die."

"I didn't kill her, Eleanor."

"Stop lying!" Her hand slammed onto the desk, right next to the hidden gunpowder. "The evidence points to you! You were in the bed! You are a jealous, petty man who breaks things he can't keep!"

"Is that what you think I am?" I stood up. I was taller than her. I stepped into her space.

Eleanor didn't back down. She tilted her chin up, challenging me. The air between us crackled—not with magic, but with pure, raw animosity.

"I think you are a waste of a title," she hissed. "I think you are a drunkard who dishonors my family name."

"Then watch closely," I whispered, leaning down until our faces were inches apart. I could smell her scent—winter mint and steel. "Because this 'drunkard' is about to solve a murder that your precious Royal Guard can't even comprehend."

Eleanor stared at me. Her pupils dilated. For the first time, she wasn't looking at a "Hollow." She was looking at a threat. A man.

"You're feverish," she said abruptly, noticing the sweat on my brow. She reached out, almost involuntarily, to touch my forehead.

I caught her wrist.

"Don't," I said. "Unless you want to be an accessory to my escape."

She yanked her hand back, flustered. "Escape? You can't escape. The windows are sealed."

"Watch me."

She stared at me for one last second, confusion warring with anger, then turned on her heel. "Rot in here, Silas. The Inquisitors arrive at dawn."

She slammed the door.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. She’s smart, I thought. And dangerous. I need to be careful with her.

I lifted the book. The gunpowder was ready.

But I wasn't planning to blow up the door. That was too loud.

I walked to the window. Draven said it had a Kinetic Barrier. If I touched it, it would break my bones.

Kinetic Barriers react to force, my memories supplied. Pushing against it triggers the backlash.

But what about heat?

I poured a line of the black powder along the windowsill. I grabbed a flint striker from the fireplace tools.

"Physics," I muttered, "always beats magic."

I was about to light the fuse when a shadow detached itself from the ceiling.

I didn't hear it. I felt it. A displacement of air.

I threw myself to the right.

Schwing!

A black dagger buried itself in the floorboards exactly where I had been standing.

I rolled, crashing into the liquor cabinet. Bottles shattered, soaking me in brandy.

A figure stood in the center of the room. It was wrapped in bandages, wearing a cloak that seemed to absorb the light.

An assassin.

"The Syndicate sends its regards, Lord Vane," a voice rasped—it sounded like grinding stones.

He raised a second dagger. The blade glowed green. Poison.

I was unarmed. I was dizzy. I was on the floor, covered in alcohol.

And I was smiling.

"You're standing on the rug," I said breathlessy.

The assassin paused. "What?"

"The rug."

I flicked the flint striker.

A spark flew. It didn't hit the gunpowder by the window. It hit the puddle of Amber Brandy soaking the floor between me and him.

WHOOSH!

A wall of blue flame erupted instantly. The alcohol fumes ignited with a roar.

The assassin shrieked, stumbling back as the fire caught his cloak.

"Science lesson number one," I yelled, grabbing a heavy crystal decanter and hurling it through the flames.

It smashed into the assassin's head with a sickening crunch.

He went down.

I scrambled up, coughing in the smoke. I grabbed the assassin's dagger—the poison one—and held it to his throat.

"Who sent you?" I shouted. "Who wants me dead?"

The assassin gurgled, blood bubbling through his mask. He reached into his tunic with a shaking hand. He didn't pull out a weapon.

He pulled out a coin.

He tossed it onto the burning rug.

"The... King..." he wheezed.

Then his body convulsed, and he dissolved into a pile of black ash. A suicide spell.

I stood there, panting, the room burning around me. I looked down at the coin.

It wasn't a normal gold piece. It had the Royal Crest on one side... and the face of Captain Draven on the other.

My heart stopped.

The Royal Guard wasn't just incompetent.

They were the hitmen.