Transmigrated as a Playboy: I Solve Crime With Forensic

The Masquerade of liars

You smell like a sewer rat dipped in whiskey," Nyx said, wrinkling her nose.

She kicked open a large wooden trunk at the back of her safehouse. "If we're going to the Royal Palace, you need to look like you own the place. Not like you just crawled out of a drainpipe."

I sat on a crate, nursing my throbbing ankle. The antidote had neutralized the lethal edge of the poison, but I was still weak. My hands shook slightly as I buttoned my shirt.

"I need a disguise," I said. "My face is on every wanted poster in the city by now."

"Luckily for you," Nyx grinned, pulling out a bundle of velvet and silk, "The Red Moon Ball is a Masquerade. It celebrates the founding of the city. Everyone will be wearing masks."

She tossed a garment at me. It hit me in the face.

It was a frock coat of crushed black velvet, embroidered with silver thread in the shape of constellations. It was exquisite. Expensive.

"Where did you get this?" I asked, running my thumb over the fabric.

"I stole it from Duke Pendergast’s wardrobe last week," Nyx said casually, slipping behind a changing screen. "He’s about your size. A bit fatter, but the corset will hide that."

"Corset?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Don't complain. It’ll help your posture." Nyx emerged from behind the screen.

I stopped breathing for a second.

Gone was the leather-clad thief of the slums. In her place stood a noblewoman. She wore a gown of deep crimson silk that clung to her curves like a second skin. Her short, choppy hair was slicked back with oil, giving her a sharp, dangerous elegance. She wore a black domino mask that hid her eyes but highlighted her smirk.

"Well?" She did a mock curtsy, revealing a dagger strapped to her thigh through the slit in her dress. "Do I pass?"

"You look..." I cleared my throat, forcing my brain back to the mission. "You look expensive."

"Good. That's the point." She threw a silver mask at me. It was a full-face mask, modeled after a stoic, weeping angel. "Put this on. And for the love of the Gods, try not to limp. Rich people don't limp; they saunter."

The Ascent: 8:00 PM

Vespera was a city of layers.

To get from the Shadow Sumps to the Royal Palace, we had to take the "Grand Aether-Lift." It was a massive glass-and-brass elevator that pierced the cloud layer.

Nyx bribed the operator with five gold coins (my gold coins). We stood in the back as the lift rose.

Through the glass, I watched the world change.

The smog and grime of the Lower District faded away. The darkness turned to gray, then to amber, and finally... gold.

We burst through the cloud layer into the "High Tiers."

The sun was setting here—it was always setting. The eternal golden hour bathed the spires of the Upper City in warm, blinding light. The buildings here weren't made of brick; they were white marble and polished brass. Airships drifted lazily between towers connected by glass sky-bridges.

"It's beautiful," I whispered.

"It's a lie," Nyx muttered, her eyes hard behind her mask. "Look closer."

I did. I saw the mana-exhaust vents pointing down, pumping their toxic fumes directly into the clouds below. The beauty of the High Tiers was built on the suffocation of the poor.

"The Gallery of Sin," I thought aloud. "They harvest the rich to power their machines... but the rich harvest the poor to power their city. It’s a cycle."

"Welcome to Vespera," Nyx said as the doors opened. "Now, remember the plan. We don't have invitations. We have to bluff."

The Palace Gates: 8:45 PM

The Royal Palace was a fortress of crystal and gold. A line of carriages stretched for a mile, depositing Lords and Ladies in extravagant costumes.

At the main gate, a checkpoint was manned by War-Mages in red armor. They weren't checking tickets; they were using a "Truth Stone."

Each guest placed their hand on a glowing white orb. If the orb turned green, they were allowed in. If it turned red, they were detained.

"A Soul-Scanner," Nyx hissed, pulling me into the shadow of a pillar. "It checks your mana signature against the guest list registry. If your mana signature isn't on the list, it turns red."

"We're not on the list," I said. "And I don't have a mana signature."

"Exactly. If you touch that stone, it won't turn red or green. It will stay gray. And then the guards will know you're a Hollow. They'll arrest you on the spot."

I watched the line. The guards were bored. They were relying entirely on the magic stone, barely looking at the faces.

"Science," I whispered. "Nyx, do you have any Flash Powder left?"

"A pinch. Why?"

"And that static-charge gloves you use for climbing?"

"Yes..."

"Give me the glove. And the powder."

I quickly rubbed the Flash Powder (magnesium and oxidizer) onto the palm of the leather glove.

"Listen to me," I said rapidly. "The stone reads Mana—which is just a form of bio-electric energy in this world. I don't have mana. But I can generate a static charge."

"You're going to shock the stone?"

"I'm going to overload its sensor for a millisecond. It will default to 'Green' because that's its fail-safe state to prevent blocking the King."

"That's a theory," Nyx warned. "If you're wrong, we die."

"Story of my life."

I put on the glove. I took Nyx’s arm. "Ready, My Lady?"

We walked up the red carpet. My heart was pounding, but I forced my face to be bored, arrogant.

"Next!" the guard barked.

I stepped forward. I raised my gloved hand.

"Remove the glove, sir," the guard said monotonously.

"And expose my skin to this filth?" I sneered, adopting the persona of a germaphobic Duke. "I think not. Scan it through the leather."

Before the guard could argue, I slammed my hand onto the orb.

I rubbed my thumb against the palm, igniting the magnesium dust with friction.

ZAP-FLASH!

A tiny, blinding spark erupted between my glove and the stone. The static discharge hit the magical sensor.

The orb flickered wildy. White. Gray. Black.

Then—DING.

Green.

"Machine's glitchy tonight," the guard grumbled, rubbing his eyes from the flash. "Move along."

I let out a breath, guiding Nyx through the gates.

"You," Nyx whispered, pinching my arm, "are absolutely terrifying."

The Red Moon Ball

The ballroom was a sea of masks and music.

Thousands of nobles danced under a ceiling made of floating chandeliers. The air smelled of roasted swan, expensive wine, and treachery.

I scanned the room, ignoring the pain in my ankle. I wasn't looking for the buffet. I was looking for the target.

"There," Nyx whispered.

At the far end of the room, on a raised dais, sat the Royal Family. The King—a sickly, pale boy of twelve—looked bored. Standing behind him was Captain Draven, looking smug in dress armor.

But below the dais, standing alone near a pillar of ice, was Lady Eleanor.

She was breathtaking.

She wore a gown of midnight-blue velvet that shimmered like the night sky. She wore no mask, only a circlet of diamonds. Her expression was cold, distant, and incredibly lonely. A circle of empty space surrounded her; no one dared approach the "Ice Queen."

"She's isolated," I noted. "Perfect target for an assassin."

"I see movement," Nyx murmured. "Balcony level. Three o'clock. A waiter who isn't serving drinks."

I looked up. A man in livery was watching Eleanor. His hand was inside his jacket.

"The Gallery," I said. "They're here."

"I'll take the balcony," Nyx said, slipping a dagger from her garter. "You get to the wife."

"Nyx," I grabbed her wrist. "Be careful. These guys aren't street thugs."

"I know. Go."

She vanished into the crowd.

I took a deep breath. I adjusted my silver mask. I limped—no, sauntered—across the dance floor.

The orchestra began a waltz. A slow, haunting melody.

I walked straight up to Eleanor.

A young Count was trying to talk to her. "Lady Vane, surely you must dance..."

"I would rather drink poison, Count," Eleanor said, her voice like cracking ice.

The Count flushed and retreated.

I stepped into the void he left. I didn't ask. I bowed low, extending my hand.

"May I?" I asked, disguising my voice with a rougher, lower timbre.

Eleanor looked at me. Her blue eyes scanned my mask, my velvet coat, my gloved hands. She didn't recognize me. To her, I was just another stranger.

"I am not dancing tonight," she said coldly.

"A shame," I said. "Because the music is dying, and you look like you need a partner who knows the steps."

Something in my tone made her pause. She looked at my hand.

"Do I know you, sir?"

"Perhaps," I said. "Or perhaps I am just a ghost passing through."

She hesitated, then curiosity won. She placed her hand in mine. Her skin was cool to the touch.

I pulled her onto the floor.

We began to waltz. My ankle screamed in protest, but I gritted my teeth, letting the adrenaline carry me.

"You dance with a limp," Eleanor observed sharpely as we spun.

"An old war wound," I lied.

"You hold yourself like a soldier," she countered. " But your hands are soft. Who are you?"

I spun her closer, dipping her low. " someone who knows that you are in danger, Eleanor."

She stiffened in my arms. She tried to pull away, but I held her firm.

"Let me go," she hissed. "Or I will freeze the blood in your veins."

"Don't look up," I whispered into her ear, my lips brushing her hair. "But there is a man on the balcony with a crossbow aimed at your heart. And the wine you are holding? It smells of bitter almonds."

Eleanor froze. She didn't panic. She was a warrior. Her eyes flicked toward the wine glass in her free hand.

"Who sent you?" she demanded. "Is this one of Silas's games?"

"Silas is a fool," I said, my heart aching slightly to say it. "But he isn't a killer. Trust me. Keep dancing. If you stop, they shoot."

"Why should I trust a man in a mask?"

"Because," I spun her again, moving us behind a thick marble pillar, shielding her from the balcony. "Because I know about the scar on your left shoulder. The one you got falling from a horse when you were ten. The one you never tell anyone about."

Eleanor gasped. Her eyes went wide. Only two people knew about that scar. Her father... and her husband.

She looked into the eyeholes of my silver mask. She saw the dark, intense eyes underneath.

"Silas?" she breathed, the name barely a sound.

I didn't answer.

Because at that moment, the glass ceiling above us shattered.

CRASH!

A figure dropped from the skylight, landing in the center of the ballroom. It wasn't the waiter. It was something worse.

It was a woman made entirely of white, polished ceramic. Her face was a painted smile that didn't move. Her dress was made of razor-sharp porcelain shards.

The Porcelain Lady. The second member of the Gallery.

Screams erupted as the Porcelain Lady raised a hand. A wave of white energy blasted outward, turning the guests in the front row into stone statues instantly.

"Eleanor Vane!" the Porcelain Lady shrieked, her voice like grinding pottery. "Your mana is mine!"

Eleanor pushed me back. "Run!" she commanded, her hands glowing with blue ice magic. "You have no magic, you i***t! Run!"

I didn't run.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small, glass sphere filled with a volatile green liquid I had mixed in the safehouse. Nitroglycerin.

"I don't need magic," I said, stepping up beside my wife.

I pulled the pin.

"I have chemistry."