Chapter 1372: Chapter 1372

Straining on his tiptoes, he could just make out a figure in one of the building's windows, but the person inside clearly had no interest in looking out.

"Hello? Is anyone home? I'm here to see Viscount Franca."

Left with no other choice, he stood at the gate and called out loudly. It was terribly impolite, and Jenkins would never have done it if he weren't in disguise.

But his shouting was clearly effective. About thirty seconds later, the main door of the three-story building creaked open. A man who looked like an old butler ambled down the weed-choked path in the courtyard, stopping at the gate to size up the stranger with a cat perched on his shoulder.

"Pardon me, but who are you?"

the old butler asked. Though he served a country nobleman, his accent was thick with the style of Bel Diran.

"Hello. I'm here to see Viscount Franca. Is he in?"

"Hello, sir. May I ask your business?"

"I've come across an old letter addressed to the Franca family. I think the Viscount will be interested."

"You can see from my dress that I'm a respectable man. And I haven't traveled all this way from Nolan just to deceive someone... Besides," he added, "would a con man wear a ring this expensive?"

He flashed his golden Ouroboros ring. Whether it was the kindly face Jenkins had chosen for his disguise or the noble gleam of the ring that persuaded the old man, he couldn't say, but the butler finally opened the gate for him.

The gate's hinges must not have been oiled in ages, for they let out a piercing shriek as they swung open.

The estate wasn't particularly large—it couldn't hold a candle to Dolores's suburban manor, and was even smaller than Marquis Mikhail's residence in Nolan.

Despite its dilapidated exterior, the inside of the house was surprisingly well-appointed. The walls had been recently painted, the sharp scent of it still lingering in the air. The oil paintings were newly hung, and the porcelain vases had clearly been purchased for the occasion—all of which must have cost a considerable sum.

"His Lordship only recently decided to reside here for a time, so we haven't had a chance to tend to the grounds. We're still in the process of renovating the interior."

The butler explained, likely having noticed Jenkins's inquisitive expression as he led him inside.

They passed through the entrance hall to a staircase. On the second floor, the old butler knocked on the second door to the left, announced the visitor, and stepped aside, allowing Jenkins to enter once permission was granted.

The room was a study, its four walls lined with bookshelves, leaving space only for the doorway and a single window. The curtains were drawn, but the room was brightly lit by three gas lamps and a candelabra on the desk, chasing away any gloom.

Jenkins couldn't help but think the room was a serious fire hazard, and he wondered whether he should mention it.

Viscount Franca sat behind the desk. He was a tall, slender, middle-aged man with a long face, brown hair, and a meticulously trimmed beard. A pair of gold-rimmed spectacles rested on his nose.

As Jenkins entered, the Viscount was just setting down a hefty tome. Jenkins couldn't make out the title, but he presumed it was some dense, scholarly work.

"Good afternoon, Viscount Franca. I apologize for the intrusion, but I'm here on a matter of great importance. Oh, and you can call me Pollo. Forgive me for not having a calling card."

"Please, have a seat, Mr. Pollo. Meeting an unexpected visitor on such a dull afternoon is a small blessing, perhaps. Herl, could you please bring us some hot tea?"

He spoke to the old butler, who was waiting by the door. The man gave a quiet assent and closed the door, leaving them alone. Only then did Viscount Franca turn his full, curious attention to Jenkins.

"Mr. Pollo, you seem to be a city man. From Nolan, perhaps? It must have been quite a long journey to get here."

"Indeed. I left Nolan yesterday afternoon, stayed the night in York Town, and crossed the river into Roman Town this morning. The town sheriff was kind enough to give me directions to your estate."

"In that case, has the killer in that string of murders been found yet?"

the Viscount asked curiously.

"I'm not certain. I only know that someone died at the town's entrance last night. I was told he was the third victim in the serial killings." Chapters fırst released on novel-fire.ɴet

"How dreadful. Roman Town is no metropolis like Nolan. There are so few people here... we might go years without a single violent murder. But enough of such grim topics. Let me see this letter of yours."

He reached across the desk for the letter Jenkins had set down, testing the texture of the paper with his fingertips before unfolding it.

Jenkins had already read the letter. It was written in the modern common tongue and contained only a few lines, instructing the bearer to seek out the Franca family for a reward.

Reading it should have taken thirty seconds at most, but Jenkins waited for some time, and still the Viscount did not lower the letter. Jenkins furrowed his brow and tilted his head, trying to glimpse the man's expression, but the Viscount remained as motionless as a statue.

The study fell silent. Jenkins found the atmosphere growing strange, so he patted his cat, hoping it would meow to break the tension. He could then pretend to scold it, which would surely force the Viscount to say something.

But Chocolate, in his current calico form, was utterly uncooperative. Jenkins had no choice but to clear his throat and then offer an exaggerated apology to the Viscount. When the man still didn't respond, Jenkins gave up and spoke softly:

"Viscount Franca, what do you make of this letter?"

The Viscount finally spoke, but his voice was odd. A jolt of alarm went through Jenkins, and he instinctively recoiled. At that same moment, Viscount Franca at last set the letter back down on the desk.

His appearance hadn't changed in the slightest, yet the middle-aged man staring at him now seemed like an entirely different person. If the Viscount moments before had been a gentle, refined scholar, the man before him now was a bottomless abyss. To meet his gaze was like staring up into a sky so vast its end could not be seen. It was a peculiar aura, but one Jenkins knew all too well.

"Good day, God of Lies."

He offered Jenkins a genuine smile. The letter in his hand, touched by the purest divine power, dissolved into motes of light and scattered into the world:

"I am delighted to meet you here, in the material world, on this fine afternoon. I suspect that even without poets or scholars to record this moment, our conversation will be most meaningful."