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Well, if I couldn’t recall it right away, it probably wasn’t important.

…Though for some reason, Cestlavie looked like he wanted to say something. But not wanting to interrupt Marina any further, I subtly held up a hand to keep the peace.

“Returning to the topic—the first victim appeared six months ago, and it was a female fortune teller.”

“Six months ago? That’s around when Adelheid arrived in this city. —Hey, maybe she’s involved? Just kidding, don’t take it so seriously.”
“Actually, Lady Clara and her associates’ alibis have already been verified. There’s no cause for concern.”

Eliza’s jab made me momentarily suspicious—could it be…?—but Lawrence immediately denied it.

But wait…

“—Does that mean I was a suspect?”
“And judging by that ‘associates’ remark, it looks like they had their eyes on me and the useless one, too.”

Cestlavie spat bitterly.

“Still, revealing that information outright suggests they see us as allies… or at least neutral parties, doesn’t it?”
“Even so, that’s a bit too blatant. It sounds more like ‘I’m constantly monitoring you. Also, your panties is white today,’ to me. In short, a not-so-subtle warning.”
“…I’d rather not think about it.”

While we were caught up in our concerns, Marina continued her explanation.

“At first, the threatening letter was thought to be a prank. However, on the night in question, the fortune teller was actually attacked. Several pieces of jewelry were stolen, along with something extremely important to her profession.”

“Something extremely important to a fortune teller?”

A crystal ball? Tarot cards?

“…Her ability as a fortune teller—her ‘intuition.'”

“ “ “ “Haaah—?!” ” ” ”

Eliza, Kaisa and Margit from Twinfang of the Snowy Peaks, and I all cried out in disbelief at the unexpected answer.

The guild officials, Father Lawrence, and the templar knights must have already known, as they showed no reaction and remained silent. Meanwhile, Sir Simon, a third party to all this, looked amused and muttered, “Hoho.” The others, however, seemed confused, tilting their heads.

“At first, it was assumed that the attack had simply disrupted her abilities. However, every subsequent victim has been someone with a unique talent, and all of them lost their abilities after being attacked. And following each incident, there have been indications that Red Ram began demonstrating the very same abilities.”

For example, a ranger with the ability to ‘unlock’ was attacked, and whereas magical locks had previously been broken through brute force, afterward, Red Ram started opening them effortlessly.

A doctor skilled in hypnosis was targeted, and after losing their ability, Red Ram began using hypnosis as well.

…And so on.

“In other words, the ‘precious thing’ that Red Ram speaks of refers to the abilities of gifted individuals—what you might call talents or skills. And once stolen, the original owner loses their ability entirely.”

As Marina cited examples from the documents, I couldn’t suppress a shudder at the sheer horror of it.

“So far, they’ve successfully stolen an ability nearly once a month… and not only that, but they also loot valuables indiscriminately? Just how vile is this person?!”

“Indeed. And one more thing—the reason Red Ram’s true face remains unknown, not to mention whether they are male or female, is due to the testimonies of victims and those who have encountered them. They all say the same thing: ‘Before I knew it, they were right beside me.’ ‘It was someone I recognized, but they were Red Ram all along.’ Based on these, we suspect they possess either an advanced disguise technique or a shapeshifting ability.”

A heavy silence fell over the room. Instinctively, we exchanged glances, as if subtly trying to gauge one another.

♢♦♢♦♢

In the thick fog, so dense that not even a single merte ahead could be seen, Colin Thomson, a trainee reporter for the Daily Septentrio, trudged along on his way home. He came to a halt and let out a weary sigh.

“I really thought I had a major scoop…”

The moment he was released from the Adventurers’ Guild, Colin had sprinted straight back to the office.

By the time he arrived, it was far beyond just ‘late’—he was met with the editor-in-chief’s furious shouting. As he fumbled through his explanation, the editor’s expression darkened, and he was abruptly dragged into an empty room.

The editor-in-chief was a hardened veteran, once a squad leader in the Northern War a decade ago. Pacing around the room like a bear before hibernation, he let out a heavy sigh.

“…There’s no way we can publish this.”
“W-What?! Why?! Are you afraid of the Church’s pressure?!”

Colin’s voice rose in protest, filled with disappointment.

The editor stroked his stubbled chin.

“It’s true—the higher-ups in the Church have sent a very strong warning to our publisher. But that’s not what’s stopping me. No amount of pressure could crush a journalist’s spirit.”
“Then—”
“But our subject is none other than the most talked-about person right now—Lady Clara. If we recklessly stir up a sense of crisis, it could spark riots in the Holy City… No, scratch that. Riots will happen.”

Colin furrowed his brows, unconvinced.

“Isn’t that a bit of an exaggeration?”

“Listen, kid… What kind of journalist doesn’t keep his antenna up? Right now, she’s being hailed as the ‘Shrine Maiden Princess Clara’ and the ‘Cattleya Flower’—there’s no one in the city who doesn’t know her name. Given her looks and personality, I can see why people would want to put her on a pedestal.”
“…Huh. Is that really how it is?”

Colin couldn’t help but think that Clara’s beauty was so divine, so otherworldly, that she didn’t seem like someone who could be the subject of an equal romantic relationship. Though perhaps that was partly because he already had someone he was pining for.

Seeing Colin’s less-than-enthusiastic reaction, the editor-in-chief smirked knowingly.

“Heh. So you prefer my sweet Maria instead?”
“Wha—!? I-It’s not like I… that—!”

Colin’s face turned bright red as he tried to protest, but his words were drowned out by the editor’s loud, boisterous laughter. As both his boss and Maria Lou’s father, the man clapped Colin on the shoulder—lightly, at least by his standards, though it still nearly sent the scrawny trainee stumbling.

“For now, why don’t you write an article about that ‘Dwarven Apple Pavilion’ you mentioned earlier? If it’s interesting enough, I’ll put it in tomorrow’s morning edition.”
“U-Understood!”

Overwhelmed by the sheer force of the editor’s presence, Colin hastily pulled out his notepad, where he had scribbled down his rough notes.

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