The cane's cold tip sliced through the air with a hiss—its aim unmistakable, the angle vicious, all martial courtesy abandoned.
Russell tumbled clumsily along the floor—rolling twice and barely avoiding a fatal strike.
"Hey! Miss Morstan!" he snapped, dusting himself off as he stood. For the first ti, his tone showed real anger. "That's not behavior befitting a lady!"
Russell was now fully on guard, with no courage left to ease up. Leaning back, he barely ducked another strike—the cold cane grazing his nose.
"Are you serious?" He back-flipped away for distance, keeping a solid five or six ters between them.
[Mary Morstan considers your question redundant. Malice Level 80.]
Cursing under his breath, Russell could only keep dodging. Around the spacious room he ran, Mary right on his heels—her cane transford into a deadly weapon, each strike lethal in intention and expert in aim.
He had to admit: he'd severely underestimated the duke's daughter's combat ability. This surpassed re self-defense—this was killing technique itself!
No point risking my life just for Malice.
Just as another attack ca, he sidestepped—but his back hit the wall, the fra of a painting biting into him painfully. At the edge of his vision, colors flashed—a wild, bold painting that stirred a strange familiarity.
She abandoned thrusts, swinging the cane with brutal force straight for his ankle. The move was so fast he could hardly react.
His pupils contracted—a bad feeling surged up. Instinctively, he tried to trigger a cloud-array escape.
But just as the cane was about to strike, Mary's movent halted for half a second. She suddenly withdrew the force in her wrist.
Half a second was all Russell needed.
He seized the mont, tapped his toe, and sprang backward—landing three paces away, safe if not graceful.
"Huh?" Russell steadied himself and looked at Mary with curiosity. Had it just been a mistake? No, that seed deliberate. She'd stopped herself.
But why?
"Can't bear to let it go?" Mary's voice was glacial. She finally tore her gaze from the painting to look at Russell.
"I didn't want to damage that painting. It's his last work."
"This one? Winter's masterpiece?"
"So you do know him," Mary said, a bit surprised. "I thought you only enjoyed angering people."
"I know a little," Russell replied coolly, as if they hadn't nearly just been in a fight to the death. Safe for the mont, he decided to poke further, aiming to test both the situation and the moody young duchess.
"So, what do you think was the cause of his death?" Mary's voice was feathery light, as if making small talk.
"What else could it be?" Russell snorted derisively. "The evidence is overwhelming, the motive clear as day—a greedy apprentice killing his master for an inheritance. That's the plot of every third-rate novel ever written."
"And if not?" Mary shot back. "Do you honestly think the apprentice is innocent?"
"Don't joke, Miss Morstan. You're not so naïve girl to be tricked by tears and lies."
[Mary Morstan mocks your foolishness. Malice Level 30.]
Well, at least it's sothing.
Attacking her intellect really does work better than her looks.
But her reaction… suggested there's more to the painter's death than ets the eye.
"Naïve?" Mary repeated, and a cold smile curved her lips. She didn't argue further—just gripped her cane tighter and tapped its tip against the floor with a thud.
"Enough idle chatter," she declared. "Let's resolve this before soone else gets caught up."
With that, she lunged forward.
Puff!
Suddenly, thick smoke flooded the room.
Mary's cane slashed through it—piercing emptiness rather than flesh.
When the smoke cleared, Russell was gone.
Still in an attack stance, Mary's chest heaved. Her blue eyes brimd with shock and rage after the storm.
Her cane had stabbed not the wall, but—sothing else.
Mary slowly withdrew it, spinning a card between her fingers.
On it, in lipstick script, were just two words: [Good night. Moriarty.]
The handwriting was beautiful, matching exactly the "Moriarty" card from the night before.
Mary's gaze landed on the card, lingering on the window beside the fluttering curtains.
There, quietly left behind, rested her stolen favorite lipstick.
"..."
Mary stood silent for a long mont, holding the "good night" card.
Then, she smiled—a complicated expression blending irritation, absurdity, and the thrill of eting a worthy opponent.
And—perhaps not even realizing it herself—a touch of genuine delight.
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