Transmigrated as a Playboy: I Solve Crime With Forensic

The Alchemist of the Slums

Pain was a color. Right now, it was a blinding, throbbing white.

"Stay with me, Vane. Don't you dare die on me before I get paid."

Nyx’s voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. I felt the rough cobblestones scraping against my boots as she practically dragged me through the labyrinth of the Shadow Sumps.

"I'm... not... dying," I wheezed, though my body disagreed. My limbs felt like lead. The numbness from the Nightshade was creeping up my neck, paralyzing my vocal cords.

Time remaining: Approx. 43 hours. Correction... based on heart rate spikes... 40 hours.

We ducked into a rusted archway. The air here smelled of damp rot and old machinery.

"Here," Nyx grunted, kicking open a heavy iron grate. "My safe house. It used to be a pump station for the steam rails."

We tumbled inside. It was a small, circular room made of red brick, illuminated by a single, flickering mana-crystal jammed into the wall. Tools, stolen purses, and scraps of food were scattered around. In the center was a small iron stove.

Nyx dropped me onto a pile of old grain sacks. I groaned, clutching the glass vial in my pocket. The crystallized liver sample. My lifeline.

"You look terrible," Nyx observed, locking the grate behind us. She pulled off her cowl, shaking out her short, chopped black hair. "You're turning blue, My Lord."

"Fire," I gasped, forcing my clumsy fingers to pull out the vial. "I need... fire. And a pot. And water."

Nyx didn't argue. She moved with efficient grace, lighting the stove with a spark-stone. She slammed a rusted tin pot onto the burner and poured water from a canteen.

"You're making tea?" she asked skeptically, crossing her arms. "You have a legendary assassin hunting us, poison in your veins, and a broken ankle. And you want tea?"

"I'm making... an extraction," I murmured. I sat up, fighting the dizziness.

I held up the vial. The purple crystal inside pulsed faintly.

"Nightshade Essence isn't just a plant in this world," I explained, my voice slurring slightly. "The killer mixed it with Mana-Salts to make it bind to the blood. That's why magic healing won't work. The magic feeds the poison."

"So?"

"So, I have to separate them."

I smashed the vial against the stone floor.

Nyx jumped. "Hey!"

I carefully picked up the jagged crystal shard with the sleeve of my stolen tunic. "Nyx, give me your flask."

"My whiskey?" She narrowed her eyes. "That's good stuff."

"Give. It."

She tossed it to me. I poured the amber liquid into the boiling water. The alcohol fumes hit the air.

Science Phase 1: Solvent Extraction.

I dropped the crystal into the boiling alcohol-water mix.

"Physics lesson," I muttered, staring into the pot. "Alcohol dissolves organic alkaloids—the poison. Water dissolves the mana-salts. If I boil this right... the poison will separate from the magic."

I watched the pot intently. It was primitive chemistry. In Chicago, I would have used a centrifuge and a spectrometer. Here, I had a rusty spoon and a thief's whiskey.

The liquid turned a muddy purple. Then, slowly, a separation occurred. A dark, oily sludge floated to the top, while the bottom turned clear blue.

"The blue is the mana," I said, pointing. "The black oil on top? That's the concentrated Nightshade."

Nyx leaned in, wrinkling her nose. "And you're going to drink that sludge?"

"No," I reached into my pocket and pulled out the rest of the Activated Charcoal I had bought from the witch. "I'm going to filter it."

I tore a piece of fabric from my tunic, filled it with charcoal dust, and placed it over a tin mug.

I poured the boiling mixture through the makeshift filter.

The charcoal caught the black sludge—the poison. The blue liquid dripped through into the mug.

"Wait," Nyx frowned. "I thought you wanted the antidote? You just filtered out the poison."

"Exactly," I grinned weakly. "The poison is the Nightshade. The antidote... is the mana that the body created to fight it."

I held up the mug. The blue liquid inside was glowing.

It was Antibodies. Specifically, magical antibodies harvested from Baroness Lydia’s liver. Her body had tried to fight the poison before she died, creating a natural resistance. I had just isolated it.

"Bottoms up," I whispered.

I downed the hot, bitter liquid in one gulp.

For a second, nothing happened.

Then—

PAIN.

It felt like I had swallowed a lightning bolt. My back arched, and I fell off the grain sacks, thrashing on the floor.

"Silas!" Nyx was beside me instantly, holding my shoulders down.

I vomited. Bile, black sludge, and foam. My body was purging the toxin. My heart hammered against my ribs—thump-thump-thump—racing to flush the system.

"Breathe!" Nyx yelled, slapping my face. "Don't you die on me, Vane!"

I gasped, sucking in a lungful of damp air. The cold numbness in my fingers began to recede, replaced by a prickly heat. The vignette around my vision cleared.

I lay there on the cold stones, panting, sweat soaking through my clothes.

"I'm..." I swallowed, my throat raw. "I'm okay. It worked."

Nyx sat back on her heels, wiping sweat from her forehead. She looked at me with a new expression. It wasn't just amusement anymore. It was fear.

"You aren't a playboy," she whispered. "I've seen wizards brew potions for days. You just cured a lethal curse with whiskey and a rag in five minutes. Who are you?"

I wiped my mouth. "I'm just a man who pays attention to the details."

I sat up. My ankle still throbbed, but the headache was gone. I was alive.

"The book," I said, pointing to the leather-bound ledger Nyx had stolen from the Mist-Walker. "Give it to me."

Nyx handed it over. It was cold to the touch, the leather frostbitten.

I opened it.

The pages weren't filled with spells. They were filled with accounting. Names. Dates. Yields.

Entry 402: Baroness Lydia. Yield: 400 Mana Units. Status: Harvested.

Entry 403: Merchant Gallus. Yield: 150 Mana Units. Status: Harvested.

"It's a menu," Nyx realized, looking over my shoulder. "They aren't just killing random nobles. They're farming them."

"Look at the yields," I pointed out. "The stronger the mage, the higher the yield. They're harvesting their souls to power something."

I flipped to the last page. The ink was fresh.

Entry 404: Target Acquired.

Yield Estimate: 2,500 Mana Units.

Date: The Night of the Red Moon Ball.

Status: Pending.

"2,500 units?" Nyx gasped. "That's a Tier-5 mage. That's Arch-Wizard level power. Who is the target?"

I looked at the name scrawled at the bottom of the page.

My blood ran cold. Colder than the liquid nitrogen.

"No," I whispered.

"Who is it?" Nyx asked.

I traced the name with a trembling finger.

Target: Lady Eleanor Vane.

My wife.

"Eleanor," I breathed. "She's a Cryomancer. A powerful one. She has one of the highest mana capacities in the city."

"The Red Moon Ball..." Nyx calculated. "That's tonight. At the Royal Palace. All the high nobility will be there."

I slammed the book shut.

"We have to go."

Nyx grabbed my arm. "Whoa, slow down, hero. You just vomited half your stomach lining. You're a fugitive. The Royal Guard is looking for you. The Mist-Walker is probably thawing out right now and he will be pissed. You can't just waltz into the Royal Palace."

"I have to," I said, struggling to my feet. "Eleanor hates me. She thinks I killed Lydia. She won't have her guard up. If the Gallery attacks her, she's dead."

I looked at Nyx. "I need to get into that Ball. And I need to look like I belong there."

Nyx sighed, rubbing her temples. "You want to break into the Palace? During the highest security event of the year? While half the city wants you dead?"

"Yes."

She stared at me for a long moment. Then, a slow, wicked grin spread across her face.

"It's going to cost you another 10,000 gold."

"Deal."

"And," she poked my chest, "I get to pick the outfit. If we're crashing a party, we're doing it with style."

I looked toward the ceiling of the hideout, imagining the opulent ballroom miles above us in the High Tiers. Eleanor would be there, cold and regal, completely unaware that a monster was coming for her.

And the only person who could save her was the husband she wished was dead.

"Let's go," I said, limping toward the door. "I have a wife to save."