Transmigrated as a Playboy: I Solve Crime With Forensic

The Descent into the fog

The fire was hungry.

The blue flames from the ignited brandy were licking up the curtains, devouring the velvet and turning the exquisite mahogany paneling into charcoal. Smoke—thick, acrid, and choking—filled the upper half of the study.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

"Open this door, Vane! Or we break it down!" Captain Draven’s voice roared from the hallway.

I coughed, holding the sleeve of my robe over my mouth. I had maybe thirty seconds before the Royal Guard broke through the main door. If they found me here, standing over a pile of ash that used to be their assassin, they wouldn’t arrest me. They would kill me and claim I died in the fire.

I looked at the window. The Kinetic Barrier hummed softly—a translucent purple film covering the glass.

"Physics," I reminded myself, my eyes stinging from the smoke. "Energy cannot be destroyed, only transferred."

I grabbed the bag of homemade black powder (charcoal, sulfur, saltpeter) I had mixed on the desk. It wasn't enough to blow a hole in a stone wall, but it was enough to create a thermal shock.

I poured the rest of the powder along the brass hinges of the window frame. The barrier was magical, but the frame was metal. If I warped the metal, the magical anchor would fail.

I grabbed a burning piece of curtain with a pair of iron tongs.

"Fire in the hole," I muttered.

I jammed the burning fabric into the powder.

FZZZ-CRACK!

A blinding white flash illuminated the room. The heat was instantaneous and intense. The brass hinges didn't just melt; they vaporized under the sudden thermal expansion.

The purple hum of the barrier flickered, destabilized by the loss of its physical anchor.

Smash!

I grabbed a heavy iron bust of a previous Vane ancestor and hurled it through the glass. The barrier shattered like sugar, and the cold night air of Vespera rushed in, feeding the fire behind me.

The door behind me splintered. An armored boot kicked it open.

"He's trying to jump!" Draven screamed.

I didn't look back. I stepped onto the ledge, the wind whipping my silk robe, and looked down.

It was a three-story drop to the garden. In my old body—Aris Thorne’s body—I could have made the parkour roll easily. In Silas Vane’s body? This soft, pampered, unathletic body?

I was going to break a leg.

"Well," I grinned, the adrenaline masking the throbbing poison in my head. "Better a broken leg than a noose."

I jumped.

Gravity took hold. The wind roared. I flailed, aiming for the thick hedges of the ornamental maze below.

CRASH.

Branches whipped my face. Leaves tore at my skin. I hit the ground hard, rolling instinctively to disperse the impact. A sharp snap echoed in my left ankle, followed by a blinding flash of white-hot pain.

"Ahhh!" I bit my lip until it bled to keep from screaming.

I lay there in the dirt, gasping. I checked the ankle. Swollen. Sprained badly, maybe a hairline fracture, but not broken. I could walk. Limp, but walk.

"Search the grounds!" Draven’s voice drifted from the burning window above. "He’s in the garden! Shoot to kill!"

I forced myself up. Every step sent a jolt of agony up my leg, mixing with the dull, throbbing ache of the poison in my skull.

Time remaining: Approx. 46 hours.

I limped into the shadows of the hedge maze. I needed to get to the servant's gate.

"Psst."

A hand shot out from the darkness, grabbing my arm.

I almost punched the owner, but the scent of soap and fear stopped me.

"Elara," I breathed.

The maid was huddled in the shadows of a statue. She wore a heavy gray cloak over her uniform and held a bundle in her hands.

"I saw the fire," she whispered, her eyes wide with terror. "I knew you would jump. You’re insane, Silas."

"I'm desperate," I corrected. I leaned against the statue, taking the weight off my bad ankle. "Did anyone see you?"

"No. The guards are distracted by the fire." She thrust the bundle at me. "Here. I stole these from the gardener's shed. Put them on. You can't run through the city in a silk bathrobe."

I opened the bundle. Rough woolen trousers, a linen shirt, and a heavy hooded cloak. Commoner's clothes.

"You're a lifesaver, Elara," I said, quickly stripping off the ruined silk robe. I didn't care about modesty; I was shivering from shock.

As I pulled on the rough trousers, Elara pressed a small leather pouch into my hand. It clinked.

"Gold?" I asked.

"I took it from your bedside drawer," she admitted, looking down. "It’s not much. Maybe fifty coins. But it’s enough to buy passage or... whatever illegal thing you are planning."

I looked at her. This girl risked her life, her job, and her freedom for a man who, until this morning, was known as the city's worst scoundrel.

"Why?" I asked, fastening the cloak. "Why help me?"

Elara looked up, her eyes fierce in the moonlight. "Because yesterday, when the Head Butler tried to beat me for breaking a plate, you stopped him. You told him that 'Nobody touches what is mine.' You’re a scoundrel, Silas, but you’re protective. And in this house... that’s rare."

I touched her cheek. "Go back to your room. Lock the door. If anyone asks, you were asleep. I’ll come back for you."

"Don't die," she whispered.

I turned and limped toward the wall. "No promises."

The City of Twilight: The Lower Districts

Vespera was a vertical city. The Aristocrats lived in the "High Tiers," bathing in the eternal sunset. But as I descended the massive iron staircases and steam-elevators toward the city floor, the light faded.

Down here, in the "Shadow Sumps," it was always night.

The air grew heavy with coal smoke, unwashed bodies, and the metallic tang of raw mana waste. The buildings were crammed together—crooked towers of brick and rust, leaning on each other like drunks.

I pulled my hood low. I was a fugitive. A Viscount in the slums.

My ankle throbbed with every step, but the poison was the real problem. My vision was starting to blur at the edges. My fingertips felt numb. The Nightshade Essence was shutting down my nervous system.

I needed an apothecary. But not a legal one. Legal apothecaries reported to the Tower. I needed a "Witch."

I navigated the labyrinth of alleyways, relying on Silas’s fragmented memories. The old Silas used to come down here to buy illegal gambling tokens and mana-drugs. He knew a place.

The Rusty Cauldron.

I found it tucked between a steam-plant and a slaughterhouse. A crooked wooden sign hung over the door.

I pushed inside.

The smell hit me instantly—dried herbs, rotting newt eyes, and cheap ale. The shop was dark, lit only by glowing green moss in jars.

Behind the counter sat a creature that looked more goblin than human. An old woman with skin like leather and one milky-white eye. She was smoking a pipe that puffed purple smoke.

"We're closed," she croaked, not looking up from her ledger.

"I have gold," I rasped, leaning heavily on the counter. "And I have a need."

The woman looked up. Her good eye scanned me. "You smell like smoke and death, boy. And you look like a noble trying to play dress-up."

I slammed Elara’s pouch of gold onto the counter. "I need Activated Charcoal. Magnesium salts. And Atropa Belladonna leaves."

The woman paused. She laughed, a wheezing sound. "Belladonna? Trying to kill a mistress, pretty boy?"

"Trying to save one," I lied. "Do you have it or not?"

"I have it. But the price just went up." She reached under the counter.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed my shoulder.

"Well, well," a voice sneered from behind me. "Look at this. A lost little lamb in the wolf's den."

I froze. Mistake, I thought. I didn't check the corners of the room.

I turned slowly. Three men stood behind me. They were massive, wearing leather aprons stained with soot. The leader had a brass gear embedded in his forehead—a cheap magical augment to increase strength.

"That's a heavy purse you got there," the leader grinned, revealing rotten teeth. "Hand it over, and maybe we'll only break one of your legs."

"I already have a broken leg," I said calmly. "So that threat is redundant."

The leader blinked. "What?"

"I said," I shifted my weight, gripping the edge of the counter behind me, "I don't have time for this. I have forty-five hours to live, and I'm really not in the mood for a bar fight."

"Get him!" the leader roared.

He lunged.

I didn't fight him. I couldn't. He was 250 pounds of muscle; I was a poisoned, injured aristocrat.

I used Science.

My hand swept behind me, grabbing a jar from the counter I had spotted earlier. It was filled with a clear liquid, holding preserved lizards. Formaldehyde.

I smashed the jar into the leader's face.

"Arghhh!" He screamed as the chemical burned his eyes and filled his lungs with toxic fumes.

"Don't breathe it!" I shouted, kicking his knee.

The other two thugs hesitated.

I grabbed a handful of "Flash Moss" from a basket on the counter and threw it into the open flame of the woman’s oil lamp.

WHOOSH!

A brilliant, blinding magnesium flare erupted in the small shop. The thugs screamed, clutching their eyes.

"Witch!" I yelled at the shopkeeper, who was cackling with delight behind the counter. "The Belladonna! Now!"

She threw a small packet at me. "Take it! I haven't seen a show like that in years!"

I grabbed the packet and the charcoal, scooped up my gold (leaving five coins for the damage), and bolted out the door.

I ran—limping, gasping—into the fog-choked alleyway.

I didn't stop until my lungs burned. I collapsed against a wet brick wall, sliding down to the cobblestones. My heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

Safe, I thought. For a moment.

I opened the packet. Dried leaves. I shoved a handful of charcoal into my mouth, chewing the gritty black dust to absorb the toxin in my stomach, then chewed a small leaf of Belladonna.

It was a gamble. Fighting poison with poison. Small doses of atropine to counteract the nerve agent.

I closed my eyes, waiting for the nausea to pass.

"That was a clumsy exit."

The voice came from above.

My eyes snapped open.

Perched on a drainpipe ten feet above me was a figure. A girl.

She wore tight black leather armor that clung to a lithe, athletic frame. Her face was hidden by a cowl, but I could see her lips—curved in an amused smirk—and a pair of daggers spinning idly in her fingers.

She dropped down, landing silently in front of me. Like a cat.

"You're Lord Silas Vane," she said. It wasn't a question.

I tensed. "And you are?"

"Disappointed," she teased, circling me. "The rumors said you were a useless drunk. But I just watched you blind three thugs with lizard juice. You're... interesting."

She stopped in front of me, the tip of her dagger resting gently against my throat.

"I'm Nyx," she whispered. "And I'm going to rob you. Unless..."

"Unless?" I asked, looking up at her.

"Unless you tell me why a man with a 10,000 gold bounty on his head is eating charcoal in the slums."

My eyes widened.

10,000 gold?

The King moved fast. I was already the most wanted man in the city.

I looked at the thief. She was dangerous, beautiful, and clearly motivated by money.

Perfect.

"Nyx," I said, managing a weak, charming smile despite the charcoal on my teeth. "How would you like to make 20,000 gold instead?"

She paused, her eyes narrowing. "I'm listening."

"Help me break into the City Morgue," I said. "I need to examine a body. Tonight."

Nyx laughed. "You want to break into the most secure facility in the Lower District? You're crazy."

"I'm dying," I corrected, standing up and swaying slightly. "And crazy is all I have left."

She studied me for a long moment. Then, she sheathed her dagger.

"20,000," she said. "Upfront. When we're done."

"Deal."

She offered me a hand. "Come on, 'My Lord.' Try to keep up. The night is young, and you look like you're about to pass out."

I took her hand.

Two hours down. Forty-six to go. And I had just hired a thief to help me break into a police station.

Just another Tuesday for Aris Thorne.