Chapter 2
Martnley, a town about three hours by train from Rosen’s capital, Brit, had until a few years ago been a quiet city with only a couple of hotels in its central district.
However, as young nobles heading to Brit for the social season began staying there one by one, things changed.
With two railways crossing through it, wide and smooth roads suitable for automobiles, Martnley became increasingly famous for its coastal scenery along the Retta Sea. Before long, it had established itself as a popular resort where wealthy young nobles gathered both before and during the social season.
A carriage came to a stop in the center of Martnley, where luxury hotels and cafés were clustered together.
The coachman tapped lightly on the front window and called out.
“Sir, we’ve arrived. This is Hotel Gold Blenheim.”
The carriage door opened, and a long leg stepped out to touch the ground lightly.
Through the dust, a refined man slowly emerged, wearing a perfectly tailored three-piece suit and a long coat. Even in the hazy air, his golden hair shimmered with every movement, and beneath it, soft hazel eyes scanned the surroundings with a faint glow.
The coachman, unloading the luggage, found himself momentarily stunned by the dazzling sight. Though he had lived a long life, it was the first time he had ever looked at a man so intently. The man truly had a flawless face.
At that moment, the man—who had been expressionless to the point of being coldly indifferent—curved his lips slightly into a polite smile.
“Keep the change.”
Oh, Lord.
It was the first time in his life his heart had fluttered because of a man.
This guest was certainly nobility. Judging from his clothing, he was undoubtedly a young lord. And the more the coachman looked, the more familiar the face seemed—he must be from an extraordinary family.
What would life be like, living with a face like that? the coachman thought, placing the luggage beside him and bowing respectfully as he accepted the coin.
Just then, an irritated horn sounded from behind. Several carriages and automobiles had already lined up, growing impatient.
“Ah! Have a good day, sir!”
The coachman hurriedly greeted him, jumped onto his carriage, and cracked the whip.
Soon, the halted vehicles began to move again, and dust mixed with dark smoke rose into the air. The man, tilting his hat slightly over his eyes, waved away the haze and slowly turned around.
“Extra! Extra!”
“Damn it, watch where you’re going!”
“Oh my goodness!”
Through the unclear view, the chaotic streets of Martnley came into sight.
Tourists were closely packed together—mostly men and women whose relationships were unclear—filling the streets. Between hotels, vendors pushed carts selling paintings, fans, and postcards, desperately trying to catch attention.
The man, carrying his luggage alone without any servants, was about to pass through the scene indifferently when he suddenly paused.
A postcard depicting a perfectly symmetrical mansion caught his eye—white marble steps in front of a terrace, a green lawn leading to the sea, and an overall sense of harmony.
As he looked closer, he noticed the small word “Windbury” written in one corner of the blue sky.
Come to think of it, Windbury was close to Martnley.
At that moment, a memory from when he was seventeen—completely forgotten until now—unfolded in his mind with startling clarity.
That day had been one of the most miserable days of his life, and at the same time, one of the strangest.
He had met a strange girl that day.
“Good afternoon, young sir. I seem to have lost my way—could you help me? Ah, I forgot to introduce myself. I am…”
The girl’s face was now hazy in his memory. But he remembered she had been strangely calm for a lost child, and her refined manner of speech had been oddly amusing.
Perhaps because of that, even though it had only been a fleeting encounter in his life, she remained fairly vivid in his memory.
The man slowly retrieved that memory and, somewhat impulsively, picked up the postcard.
The vendor, who had briefly been distracted by his face, now looked at him with surprise as he noticed the postcard in his hand. Ever since Windbury had become a symbol of tragedy, the postcards had remained unsold for years.
“I’ll take this.”
Without concern for any of that, the man placed a large silver coin on the postcard. He slipped it inside his jacket and strode toward the hotel entrance, as if unwilling to remain in the chaotic streets even a moment longer.
A hotel attendant respectfully greeted him and opened the door in sync with his steps, while a bellboy beside him took his luggage with a bright smile.
The moment he stepped inside, the air and atmosphere changed entirely. The noise of the street was still present, but it was a different kind of sound that enveloped him.
At the same time, his pace slowed slightly.
He had chosen a hotel far from Martnley’s busiest center, yet familiar faces immediately caught his eye in the lobby.
Unfortunate. Perhaps he should have taken a longer route instead of the train to Martnley. Until reaching Brit, he had intended to spend his time quietly, but he immediately realized that plan had fallen apart.
He slowly removed his hat. Instantly, subtle whispers and blatant stares followed him. He was skilled at not quickening his pace in such situations.
From the moment he entered, the manager—who had already straightened his posture in anticipation—greeted him politely.
“Welcome to Hotel Gold Blenheim.”
“I have a reservation. Julian Harber.”
“We have been expecting you, Captain Harber. Please wait a moment while we confirm your room.”
Fortunately, the manager maintained professional composure. Even when faced with a famous figure often featured in newspapers and gossip columns, he showed no particular surprise or curiosity.
Julian leaned against the front desk with crossed arms, feeling slightly more at ease, and glanced downward.
Neatly arranged newspapers lined one side of the counter. As expected of a large hotel, they carried a wide range—from weeklies to dailies from various publishers. At a glance, there were at least ten, and most of their front-page headlines were strikingly similar.
“Another young woman found murdered in Brit.”
Brit, the capital of the Kingdom of Rosen, was likely one of the most famous cities in the world.
Naturally, countless workers and immigrants gathered there, and hundreds of small and large crimes occurred daily. It was, in a sense, unavoidable.
The chief of police had long refused to acknowledge that a serial murder case was occurring in the capital. But after the sixth victim, he was finally forced to admit it.
That there was a serial killer in Brit, the pride of Rosen, and that six victims had already appeared—yet the police still had no clue about the culprit.
Meanwhile, guests in the lobby were all talking about the case.
“My goodness, they say the police are treating this as a serial murder case! How dreadful!”
“How many victims are there now?”
“Six so far. There may be more. The police have already missed too much.”
“Oh dear. Who would dare go near Brit now? Maybe it’s better to stay in Martnley for the entire season.”
“They say the victims had their heads shaved—how terrifying!”
“They say he only targets young women with blue eyes.”
Someone added in a trembling voice.
“Perhaps it’s just coincidence. Isn’t everyone in danger regardless of appearance?”
The guests, especially the women, were visibly frightened. Even though a new commissioner had taken over the police, public fear had not subsided.
A rather unpleasant article indeed. Seeing Julian’s expression darken, the manager, who had been handing over the key, asked cautiously.
“Captain? Is something the matter?”
Julian instinctively offered a polite smile to the elderly manager who looked at him with concern.
“Nothing at all.”
The manager smiled with relief.
“Then everything is perfect, Captain.”
“Of course it is. Thank you.”
“We will have your luggage delivered to your room.”
Taking the key, Julian turned as if to head off—but then paused.
‘Damn.’
A wave of eager gazes awaited him.
It couldn’t be helped. His face was too well known—and too eye-catching.
From the age of seventeen, when his face first fully matured and he wore the navy academy uniform, crowds of admirers followed him everywhere. At twenty, just before commissioning, he had even saved Sir Hartnett, a diplomat of Midros, who had foolishly fallen into the water.
A single accidental photograph taken at the time had launched Julian Harber into high society.
Sir Hartnett was a relative of the royal family of Rosen, and that photograph capturing the heroic young cadet became a historical masterpiece.
From that point on, Julian naturally secured his place in high society—and at some point, he even grew accustomed to the excessive attention.
But right now, he no longer had the energy or patience to talk with ladies.
Putting on a practiced smile like an actor before a camera, Julian casually pulled out his pocket watch and pretended to check the time repeatedly. He walked as if busy, ignoring hesitant hands and uncertain steps reaching out to stop him. While circling a pillar in search of the elevator—
“…!”
He nearly collided with a woman leaning against the pillar, looking down at the floor.
Fortunately, there was no impact. Neither of them staggered. But the habit of leaning in close and meeting eyes as if to embrace the other person had become second nature to him after years of dealing with noble ladies.
“Oh. Are you all right?”
The words came out like a recorded line.
The woman—her straight hair falling past her shoulders in an awkward length that was neither short nor fully long—lifted her head in surprise.
And the moment he saw her bare, youthful face, Julian froze slightly without realizing it.
Because those strikingly blue eyes, like spilled paint, felt strangely familiar.
