C140: T-04-475: Pipe of Freak and T-04-123: The Lament Mask

The grand estate had been completely cleared of enemies.

The remaining Blood Servants had either been killed, incapacitated, or forced into surrender. Broken furniture littered the hallways, blood stained the floors, and the estate now resembled the aftermath of a battlefield.

As for the surrendered servants, they had all been locked together in a drawing room on the ground floor.

Since Gregory’s Restriction still remained active over the estate, it would be nearly impossible for anyone to escape the estate's perimeter.

Unless they were the Deceiver, of course.

The Proctor Cross assembled within the main hall beneath the chandelier.

“It’s done, captain.” Hazel opened the estate’s front door and greeted Gregory.

As instructed by his team, he had stayed outside, only observing the battle from afar.

“Very well.” Gregory nodded as he immediately walked in. He sauntered toward the grand staircase leading to the upper floor.

The rest of the Proctor Cross followed behind him.

“[Scan].”

Gregory muttered, golden light flickered within his eyes. He carefully swept his senses through the estate as he ascended the staircase, ensuring no hidden threats remained.

Veins bulged against his forehead. A faint headache assaulted his mind.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, exhaled slowly.

Noticing the sudden rigidity in his posture, Naomi gently placed a hand against Gregory’s arm.

“[Regenerate.]”

A soothing wave of cooling relief washed over Gregory's body, and the throbbing vein on his forehead slowly receded back.

“My thanks, Naomi,” Gregory said, slowly opening his eyes.

“Please don’t overexert yourself, Captain,” Naomi replied softly, her voice filled with concern. “Julia shall surely chide me unmercifully if she finds you in such a state...”

Imposing three separate Restrictions within a short span of time while maintaining one active had placed an enormous strain on Gregory’s mind.

Normally, a Silver Sky Stagefarer of the Inspector Path, the Notary, could only impose a Restriction at a time. Each Restriction carried a cooldown before another could replace it. That was the limitation of his current stage.

Additionally, every Restriction consumed a tremendous amount of spiritual energy while simultaneously burdening his mind.

And tonight, Gregory had used too many abilities. He had deployed three separate Restrictions, keeping [Evil Detection] activated without pause. [Precise] to eliminate the first Blood Servant instantly and repeated uses of [Scan] to sweep the surrounding perimeter.

Under ordinary circumstances, his spiritual energy reserves would have been completely depleted.

However, it was entirely due to the properties of his pipe that he was able to sustain this level of exertion.

[T-04-475: Pipe of Freak.]

Gregory’s pipe, designated as [T-04-475: Pipe of Freak], was a Silver Stage Cursed Artifact of the Inspector Path.

Firstly, the artifact functioned as a specialized container capable of storing Harmony Yan spiritual energy, allowing Gregory to gradually accumulate and reuse excess energy when needed.

Furthermore, it enabled an Inspector Path Stagefarer to superimpose an additional layer of Restriction domain, permitting the simultaneous maintenance of two active Restrictions.

Which meant Gregory could maintain two Restrictions simultaneously for a short period despite only being Silver Sky Stage.

Finally, in moments of crisis, Gregory could sacrifice his own spiritual energy and essence, together with the pipe's entire stored Harmony Yan energy, creating an explosive signal powerful enough to petition for divine intervention.

This was the primary reason why Gregory continuously used the pipe whenever he used his abilities. Partially to replenish himself, and partially to ensure enough Harmony Yan energy remained stored inside the artifact for emergencies.

Unfortunately, the pipe’s negative effects were equally severe.

The Cursed Artifact amplified obsessive tendencies. It made Gregory increasingly fastidious, compulsively symmetrical, and deeply obsessed with cleanliness. Misaligned clothing, dust, dirt, asymmetry, wrinkles,... any imperfection irritated him.

Also, should he impose a second concurrent Restriction, the resulting mental pressure would become worse, enough to potentially render him mentally unstable or useless in combat temporarily.

And naturally, the pipe itself was addictive. Though Gregory personally considered that the least concerning side effect.

After all, since when had tobacco not been addictive?

Gregory’s hand slid back into his white coat as he instinctively reached for the pipe.

“Captain... if I might beg your indulgence, please do not inhale the pipe while we are not fighting.”

“...” Gregory’s hand froze mid-motion beneath his coat.

Slowly, awkwardly, he moved his hand upward instead and coughed lightly into his fist.

“Hmm, I merely wished to...” He paused for a moment, seemingly trying to think of something.

But upon meeting Naomi’s highly suspicious, narrow-eyed gaze, he let out a sigh and nodded. “Very well.”

Naomi sighed, her gaze drifting back to Troy, who trailed behind the group.

“Troy dear, there are no enemies left. Please remove the mask,” she said in her gentle voice.

“...”

From earlier until now, Troy had remained completely silent while following behind the group. His faceless white mask stared ahead toward the staircase.

He gripped the leather hilts of his twin daggers tightly, his body remained tense with lingering murderous intent.

He was still clad in his white suit, white coat, though the pristine fabric was no longer pristine. His sleeves were severely frayed and tattered by claws and blades, blood stains had spread over them.

Unlike Hazel, who possessed methods of attacking enemies from afar and could maintain distance throughout battle, Troy had spent nearly the entire fight engaging in close combat.

Naturally, they could have relied on their revolvers, but ammunition was precious. Unless necessary, the Proctor Cross preferred preserving them.

Over Troy's face rested a white mask entirely devoid of features.

[T-04-123: The Lament Mask]. A cursed artifact of the Spy Path, Silver Sky Stage.

The artifact reduced the wearer's presence, allowing him to blend naturally into surroundings without drawing attention. It sharpened his concentration, heightened senses, improved flexibility, increased movement speed, extended perception, and even subtly guided strikes toward his enemy’s weak points.

Predictably, the negative effects were very troublesome.

While wearing the mask, Troy was rendered entirely mute, as no sound could escape the mask.

Furthermore, reality would gradually blur around him. His bloodlust was heightened to such a degree that he would begin to believe he was a cold-blooded assassin, eroding his own sense of self-identity.

Worse, a voice would constantly whisper directly into his ears.

Voices that constantly cursed into his ears, told him to kill, told him everyone hated him, and repeated all the ugliest things imaginable. It spread hatred, sorrow, grief, regret, and attempted to corrupt his resolve.

The longer he wore it, the harder it became to remember where Troy ended and where the mask began.

“Troy dear.” Naomi said, raising her cross-headed cane high and knocking the head against his mask.

*Tock.*

Troy jumped slightly, his body stiffened as the impact echoing.

He looked around the staircase, as if he had just been forcefully snapped out of a trance.

Finally, he raised his hand and removed the mask from his face.

“...”

Troy let out a long sigh and rubbed his temple. His handsome features appeared noticeably pale, sweat clung to his skin, and shadows rested beneath his eyes.

“The negative toll of these Curses are truly vexing,” Troy muttered, his voice hoarse.

“For once, I agree with your words,” Hazel remarked with a nod. She disliked the temperamental arrowhead she was currently using as well.

“At times, I find myself struggling to retain myself,” Troy admitted, the lingering voice of the mask still echoing in his ears. “That thing keeps whispering nonsense into my ears.”

“[Regenerate.]” Naomi gently placed her hand over Troy's.

A warm glow spread through his body and color slowly returned to his face.

Afterward, she reached into her coat, pulled out a small yellow vial, and held it before him.

“Um... Troy, please drink this.”

It was a healing agent. Specifically manufactured using Harmony Yan Essence.

“Naomi, my sweet, you cannot fathom the sheer agony of being forbidden from speaking with you for so long!” Troy cried out, instantly reverting to his usual, boisterous demeanor. He flung his arms wide, stepping forward with the full intention of embracing her.

However, Naomi gracefully stepped aside, dodging his advance, leaving his arms to clasp empty air.

“N-Naomi!”

“There is a proper time and place for everything, Troy,” she replied, shaking her head in mild disappointment.

“...” Troy shrugged his shoulders in resignation, took the yellow vial and drank it.

Meanwhile, Gregory ignored the commotion behind him and continued walking ahead, approaching the 3rd floor.

He reached into his suit’s pocket, retrieved a brass pocket watch, flipped open the lid to read the hands.

“It is nearly four o'clock in the morning.”

The night still stretched. Outside the windows, moonlight continued pouring through the trees surrounding the estate, creating shadows across the floor and walls.

But Gregory knew dawn was not far away. Soon enough, sunlight would rise.

And after several more steps, the group finally reached the end of the corridor.

Standing before them was a pair of massive, polished double doors. Silver handles reflected the moonlight entering through the windows nearby.

Gregory narrowed his eyes.

“This must be her private chamber,”

The Baroness's bedroom. Amanda.

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