Chapter 56

The biggest difference between fiction and reality is that, unlike a novel, a real-life story doesn’t end just because you’re alive.

Reality continues until you die, no matter how much drama unfolds.

—Josef Tiss
From “Works of Creation”

The door swung open without warning.

A middle-aged man with his face hidden behind unkempt hair and a thick beard; a young woman as eerily still as a mannequin; and a boy with a sharp, unpleasant gaze that wandered about with sheer boredom.

It was a trio I had never seen before. Or rather, I felt like I might have recently caught a glimpse of the middle-aged man’s face somewhere.

“Well, well. The Django faction all gathered in one place? That’s a rare sight.”

It was the voice of Geralt—my boss standing beside me—that finally clarified the identity of the three before us, or at least the middle-aged man who seemed to be their leader.

Django. A private detective, a rarity in this world of Pangea. One of the Seven Detectives, commonly known as “Django of the Wasteland.” The master of the Genocider, Slaughter, and Unarmed.

We had crossed paths when he suddenly intruded during the curtain call of that incident a month ago.

“So, what business brings you all the way into an official office within the royal palace?”

Indeed, Geralt and I were currently in an office inside the Shark Royal Palace, mid-meeting regarding the future staffing of the detectives.

And yet, here was Django, walking in as if he owned the place.

I highly doubted he had snuck in or forced his way through. Django was rumored to have connections with influential figures in every nation. He likely used that leverage to gain entry, but for his reach to extend into a private office within the palace… his network and power had to be substantial.

Instead of answering, Django stared into a golden, compass-like object in his hand, silently comparing it to our faces.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Geralt narrowed his eyes, and a pressure so intense it was impossible to imagine coming from his thin, aloof frame erupted from him. Standing next to him, I nearly recoiled.

Even under that gaze, Django remained silent. He simply continued to look back and forth between the compass and the young, doll-like beauty by his side.

The young woman knitted her brows ever so slightly and gave a small, slow shake of her head.

“Hmm.”

As Django let out a low groan, I finally realized something.

Wait.

I thought they were maintaining an eerie silence, but that wasn’t it.

Could it be?

Are they… confused?

It was subtle, but Django—no, not just him, but the entire trio—seemed to be struggling to hide their bewilderment. The woman hid it by maintaining a wooden expression, while the boy masked it with an even deeper scowl.

Confused? About what?

Django, his eyes still fixed on the compass, began to circle around Geralt and me.

Geralt and I exchanged a look of total confusion.

After three slow laps, Django returned to his original position.

“It’s the kid,” he muttered.

The boy and the young woman nodded.

When Django turned back toward me, the bewilderment on his face was now unmistakable.

“Van Holmes.”

He called my name, his voice thick with that same hidden confusion.

“I am placing you under arrest as a member of the bandit troupe, ‘The Blue Wolves.’”