Chapter Thirty: A Sightseer’s Mark

Ethan is undeniably a dangerous character. Ivy had reached this conclusion.

He could describe a fabricated story with such a straight face that it sounded entirely true. Just moments ago, she had completely bought into his tale about the first emperor and stinky tofu, becoming so immersed in his epic narrative that she had even considered visiting the village he mentioned to taste it for herself.

Yet, it was all a lie. In just a few minutes, Ethan had improvised an anecdote worthy of being recorded in the Chronicles of the Apostate War. Marshall, having believed it, paid a heavy price. He was still spitting out a blackened tongue, his expression suggesting that all joy had been drained from his life.

No wonder Ethan considered himself the equal of the noble youths in the Imperial Capital, lacking only an opportunity. Ivy felt that keeping him as her assistant was truly a waste of his talents; such a gift was better suited for politics, perhaps as a spokesperson for some high-level institution. After all, the greatest skill of such spokespeople was the ability to make things that no one believed sound entirely factual.

On the other hand, the blocker had been effective. It was now clear that Marshall’s hysterical laughter was indeed a psychological affliction triggered by contact with a cursed object. Judging by his furious demeanor—swinging a pillow as if it were a flail used by the Kingdom’s soldiers during the Apostate War—he was recovering quite well.

The moment he regained his senses, Marshall expressed his heartfelt sentiments toward his attending physician: "Get the hell out of my house!"

That was perhaps Ethan’s magical charm; he could always make someone raised with refined aristocratic etiquette revert to their primal nature and spout profanities.

"We’ll split up. Miss Chloe and I will go check that cursed apartment, and you stay here to gather information." Even as he was being shooed out of the mansion by a flying pillow, Ethan didn't forget to shout his plan to Ivy. No matter how the situation changed, Ethan always had a plan.

Watching him being carried away on Miss Chloe’s back, Ivy became increasingly convinced that this man was destined to be a politician. Ethan, for his part, was happy to be kicked out of the banker’s home. Tonight’s overtime had come unexpectedly, leaving him no time to organize his business plan. Before leaving Hearth Bay last night, he had stopped by a tavern—the intelligence hub for merchant ships. It was a place where all sorts of people gathered, and one could hear about major events unfolding in any nation across the world.

He had bribed the bartender with one gold lion to advertise for him. The bartender would spread the word that an elemental evoker had arrived in Hearth Bay, specializing in customized magic scrolls for the elite. He would tailor services to the client's specific needs, offering far more flexibility than the fixed spells found in magic shops. Want to experience high-end customization? Want an elemental evoker working solely for you? For just 30 gold lions, you could enjoy VIP treatment! Seek out Heisenberg; he would be at the beach on the southwest corner of the docks every Wednesday night.

After all, he was a man who had lived in the 21st century and witnessed many advanced commercial tactics. Were fireballs and frostbolts out of fashion? Perhaps, but clever merchants had long ago found a solution: take products that had outlived their era, wrap them in exquisite packaging, give them a mysterious and impressive-sounding name, and you could sell them for dozens of times their original price. Some called this an "IQ tax," but the gullible were numerous enough to fill the merchants' pockets.

The frostbolt was no exception. By labeling it as "privately customized" and "high-end service," it could fetch a price of 30 gold lions. He was confident in his product; the only problem was how to attract the first batch of clients.

As he pondered his business plan, Ethan directed Miss Chloe toward the civilian apartments in Riverwood. He was very familiar with the local terrain; when he first arrived in Riverwood, he had seriously considered buying a fifty-square-meter apartment to have a place of his own. Later, he realized he could freeload at the guild’s lodging, so he abandoned the idea.

As they approached the building, a conspicuous billboard caught their eye: "Do you want a new home of your own? The Imperial United Reserve Bank offers various loan services!" When it came to loans, the Imperial United Reserve Bank was always far ahead of the competition. Ethan had heard that the Rofic Consortium had built its first fortune by setting up banks all across the empire.

Ethan stood downstairs and looked up. The entire building was devoid of light, appearing deathly silent. The place he had to investigate was, quite literally, a haunted house.

The apartment’s owner had hanged himself in the bedroom. Before his death, he had owed a massive debt to the IURB, so according to the contract, the apartment was to be repossessed and auctioned off. It was while inspecting this apartment that Marshall had been affected by a cursed object, leading to his hysterical laughter.

The name Ethan saw in the files sent by the Containment Bureau left him feeling a pang of sorrow. This was one of the few people in the small town who had left a deep impression on him. Mr. Loxan was Riverwood’s resident clown. After every event, he would distribute balloons to the children. While not a valuable gift, it always brought joy and laughter to the town’s kids, and he was deeply loved for it.

Ethan had interacted with Loxan several times at guild events. At least on the surface, he was a positive and optimistic man who loved his work, often saying that his mission was to bring joy to others. If the Bureau’s report hadn't mentioned Loxan’s name, Ethan wouldn't even have known he was dead. Recently, the townspeople had been on edge due to the witch scare, and no one had noticed a few familiar faces missing. Yet, it was hard for Ethan to imagine such a man choosing to end his life in his own bedroom with a rope.

Ethan used the spare key to open the door and stepped into the clown’s apartment for the first time.

However, there were few traces of Loxan’s life left in the apartment. The old furniture had been packed up and stacked in the living room; the IURB was already prepared to sell the unit. Had it not been for the cursed object, it would likely have been occupied by new tenants within days.

He turned on his detector and placed it on the empty bedroom floor. This was where Mr. Loxan had hanged himself. Above him hung a wooden beam, which bore a clear scratch mark caused by his desperate struggle as he died.

Judging by the footprints in the dust, Marshall had also entered this room and stood beneath the beam for a long time. Perhaps Marshall had looked up and seen the scratch; he might have even reprimanded the staff responsible for the cleanup, for no one wants to see the marks left by a previous tenant's suicide when they go to sleep at night.

The detector did not emit a sharp alarm, and the needle remained in the blue safety zone. Ethan held his gas lamp high above his head. Beyond the scratch on the beam, he saw something else.

It was a line of small text.

The handwriting was very sloppy, located just a few centimeters from the scratch. It was Loxan’s own hand. Before ending his life, he had left one final message for the world:

—"Loxan was here."