"So annoying…" Russell groaned, slumped in his chair, watching the countdown tick away second by second.
What do you mean my next target is a princess living in Buckingham Palace—and I even sent a notice in advance?
Who does the system think I am? Some white-clad phantom thief with a monocle and top hat? Or some black-haired transfer student living in an attic with a talking cat?
He suddenly regretted everything.
Why had he gotten excited five minutes ago?
A person really can't empathize with their past self.
If he tried to look on the bright side… at least he had seven days to prepare.
Like homework, people generally fell into three categories.
The first finished everything on day one, then spent the rest of the holiday having fun.
The second built a detailed schedule and chipped away steadily, calm and composed.
The third never cared about time at all. In their eyes, a deadline wasn't a deathline—it was the first productive force.
They would light a lamp on the final night before school, brew strong tea, and, with adrenaline roaring and inspiration bursting, create a miracle even they would admire.
Russell Watson—without question—was the third type.
But this time, he couldn't fool around for days and cram at the last minute.
There was too much he needed to do first.
Buckingham Palace wasn't like Kensington's rich mansions—something you could stroll into and out of on a whim.
He would need certain… "wonderful, magical tools."
And magical tools required magical currency.
Russell looked at his balance.
1370.
For an ordinary "free shopping spree" in the wealthy districts, that was plenty.
But for Buckingham Palace, that might only buy him a tourist ticket.
So his top priority was clear:
Make money.
Build up Malice.
Russell stared at the ceiling, estimating what the operation would cost.
A Teleport Anchor cost 1000. He'd need one placed at Baker Street, then another inside Buckingham Palace—meaning 2000 total.
A Ghost Hand cost 500.
Add a few critical life-saving Mist Arrays, plus miscellaneous tools…
Altogether, it would approach 3000 Malice.
Just thinking about it hurt.
But if he succeeded, that 3000 would come right back.
So—if you can't bear the bait, you can't catch the wolf.
Russell sat up and paced the room, his mind racing as he sifted through potential ATMs.
Perfect timing: London's upper crust had been losing sleep since the Lloyds incident. Nobles and tycoons alike were anxious, barely eating, terrified their secrets would be exposed by Moriarty.
Russell, as a conscientious young citizen of the modern age, couldn't stand to see them suffer like this.
Worried? Why worry? No need to worry.
It's really not worth it.
So from today until the day of the real operation—
every night, he would become London's good neighbor and "relieve" each fearful aristocrat of their burdens.
"If the people at The Times had any conscience, they'd put up a plaque for me," Russell sighed.
All of Fleet Street is riding on my shoulders!
He acted immediately.
With a flicker of intent, the Malice in his "wallet" began to drop rapidly.
In its place, one custom map after another formed clearly in his mind.
"Thank god the maps got upgraded," Russell muttered as he watched the 3D models bloom. "Otherwise I'd have to scout all these places myself. I'd die of exhaustion."
Mayfair. Kensington. Belgravia. Knightsbridge…
It was practically a complete collection of London's wealthy districts.
Each map represented a scandal big enough to shock the city—and a sizable Malice payout.
Russell's lips curled into a dangerous smile, like a shark smelling blood.
"So…" he murmured, "who's tonight's lucky audience?"
Night. Kensington's breeze carried the scent of luxury and high society.
Russell sat soundlessly on a mansion rooftop, his figure almost swallowed by the darkness.
After thinking it through, he decided to start with the district he knew best: Kensington.
Not "targeting"—helping. Of course.
Tonight's recipient of his kindness was a jeweler named Hansen Borel.
After the Lloyds incident, the man had been consumed by fear that his collusion with appraisal agencies—fabricating certificates, passing off inferior gems as top-grade—would be exposed.
The anxiety had destroyed his appetite. Each night he tossed and turned, sleepless.
Truly pitiful.
But not to worry. After tonight, he would no longer need to suffer over vague possibilities.
Because tomorrow, those "possibilities" would be on the front page.
Russell stretched, then dropped from the rooftop.
A light tap on a protruding ledge, then he landed on the second-floor study balcony without a whisper.
Infiltration complete.
Borel's security was a joke to him.
With Stealth (B+), these mansions' defenses were, to Russell, about as threatening as a children's adventure cartoon.
He pulled out his lockpicks. In under ten seconds, the balcony door yielded—like a tamed beast.
A barely audible click.
The door opened.
The study smelled of cigar smoke mixed with old paper and alcohol.
No lights were on—but that hardly mattered.
The boost from Investigation (C++) didn't just sharpen observation.
It improved his vision too.
He moved to the desk, swept his gaze once, and immediately spotted the hiding place.
A section of the bookshelf had noticeably less dust than the rest.
Meaning the corresponding book had been pulled out and replaced repeatedly in recent days.
Russell reached for a thick Bible and slid it free.
He flipped it open.
No scripture. No parables.
Only batches of forged certificate records—distribution routes, client lists, and matching transactions for genuinely high-quality jewels.
Russell whistled softly, tore out several pages, and tucked them into his pocket.
Then he picked up the fountain pen on the desk and wrote a closing line on a blank page—followed by his signature.
When he finished, he returned the Bible neatly to its place and left the study.
As though he had never existed at all.
....
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