Chapter 23
“Your neck. Or…”
Tatadak, tak!
“That jewel.”
Head, neck, chest, legs.
I dodged all the daggers that somersaulted through the air and aimed precisely at my vital points. As I moved, a box fell from the pocket of my skirt and rolled across the floor.
Whoosh, thud!
The last dagger, slightly off-beat, embedded itself into the wall behind me.
Oh, come on. Why express it in such a violent way?
“You could’ve just said it. With words.”
My neck or the jewel.
Not a hard decision. Definitely didn’t require such dramatic threats.
“Oh? Or do you perhaps prefer physical communication? Fine, take it, take it.”
Without hesitation, I walked over to him and smiled brightly as I held out one of the two things he wanted.
“My pretty neck.”
“…You’re not normal.”
A belated compliment came flying my way.
I, Iris Flang. The con artist of con artists. Of the underworld…
“They call you Black Cat, right?”
“Would you mind not interrupting me?”
“…?”
“And don’t look at me like that either. I’m used to it, but your face is… a bit much.”
To be precise, he made me feel unpleasant and uneasy.
He had already done a background check on me, tried to take my eye the other day, and today he was after my neck.
‘I really don’t like him. Hmph.’
Tap, tap!
I flicked dust off the single armchair in front of the fireplace and glared at him. His already sharp black eyebrows seemed to straighten even more.
‘He’s offended?’
He’s the one who investigated me, so why is he the one getting upset?
The tension remained high, and I casually pointed the duster in his direction.
“So you’re not just called Black Cat — you’re actually a beast? A pitch-black one?”
I wanted to finish him off right there after he mentioned taking my neck, but I held back.
“Are you talking about yourself?”
“I gave you a chance to talk, and now it seems you’re attacking again.”
“Oh, this? You just looked so dusty black — I couldn’t help but try to clean you off.”
The butler, who was either pretending to clean or really doing it, placed the vase on the reception table with a half-smile.
“Enough of the cleaning you’re not even good at. Why don’t we try what we are good at?”
Without a word, both of us tossed aside our cleaning tools.
Honestly, we were only pretending to clean in case Rhonda came by again. We’d brushed off enough dust to make it look real.
That was enough to create an alibi — to say we came here just to clean.
But of course, the real “cleaning” was about to begin.
For example…
“I’m curious if you’re still determined to offer up your neck.”
Cleaning corpses?
This butler, who had now fully revealed his true colors, seemed like the type who’d clean up even my dead body without batting an eye.
“It seems the rest of the mansion staff don’t know what you’ve been up to. Would they be okay if I disappeared overnight?”
“Ah, right. The ones who are still around don’t know. And they never will.”
“…”
I recalled all the data I had compiled over the years — especially the file titled “Forged Identity Protocol: What to Do When You Meet a Certified Bastard.”
First thing: figure out the butler’s true identity.
“If you want to be someone who stays in this mansion, I’d recommend memory loss.”
Natural arrogance, effortless condescension.
“They say the easiest way to lose your memory… is to lose consciousness.”
He sat on the couch like it belonged to him — which used to be the Countess’s — and calmly caressed the handle of a dagger.
‘That sword skill… about on par with my master. Flawless appearance. His posture is so elegant, he must’ve practiced sitting thousands of times.’
Not a high noble, but definitely not a commoner either. He must have a background good enough to be a butler, and a motive to chase after the Star of India.
When I added everything up, this man was…
‘A con artist!’
Definitely one of my kind. And good enough to fool me.
The thought that he might be a noble’s illegitimate child crossed my mind — and then I dismissed it.
‘Being a bastard doesn’t mean you’re not a con artist.’
More importantly, the fact that I didn’t know the name or face of a con like him was the real problem.
This world is small.
The people you can scam are usually limited, and con artists with similar methods naturally run into each other.
If not in the same scam circle, then in prison.
And due to the Empire’s prison system — where convicts are grouped by crime and severity — similar crooks end up in the same places.
I work with all types of con artists, so I’ve met them all.
‘So how could I not know him?’
It’s not like I only know con artists from experience.
When I first decided to become a con artist and began training under my master, I memorized it all — prisoner records from across the Empire, the continent, even overseas. Wanted lists, disciple rosters, even the names of their lovers and neighbors’ spoon thieves.
And all that data came from Lethe, which meant it was perfectly accurate.
‘Was it just that my master and Uncle Vincenzo were too low-ranked in the guild to get accurate info?’
No. All the other information had been spot-on.
Which left only one conclusion.
This butler, Edwin Smith, was—
‘A lunatic. Or worse — a deranged madman obsessed with the Star of India…’
I’d first heard of the Star of India in my sleep when I was twelve.
Rumors about it showing up in a casino began to spread the year I came of age.
‘After the casino, it vanished again — and the wildest rumors flew.’
Some said the casino manager didn’t realize what it was and stuck it in a chandelier, or ground it into powder and used it as wall decor.
Others claimed that Count Chester sniffed it out and stole it, or that Duke Fernand took it from Chester and “erased” him.
Around that time, the Count and his wife died in an accident — and just as the North’s reputation was recovering, it tanked again.
But one thing was certain:
Even with all the rumors, no one could answer the question — “So where is the Star of India now?”
‘Unless it was someone really high-up in Lethe…’
Sadly, my master and Uncle Vincenzo were just regular guild members. So I had only recently gotten a lead on the Star of India myself.
‘If only Master hadn’t kept interfering! I could’ve found it earlier. Tsk.’
Anyway.
This man had been Chester’s butler for over five years.
If, during all that time, he had done nothing but chase the Star of India, then it made sense that no other info about him existed.
‘No — maybe he’s been after it for even longer.’
Whatever the case, he reeked of obsession and madness.
‘…Should I just negotiate?’
In my experience, the more obsessed a con artist is with one thing, the more exhausting they are to deal with.
While I teetered between hard-earned wisdom and my pride — “But I’m Iris Flang!” — Edwin Smith the fake butler seemed to have reached his own conclusion about me.
“Since it looks like you won’t answer, I’ll ask something else. Theft doesn’t seem to be your main line of work, is it?”
What nerve — he’s questioning my profession?
My pride tipped the scale.
He didn’t just deceive me — he dug up this much about me already.
‘Only Lethe could have supplied this level of detail in such a short time.’
After all the money I’ve brought to Lethe, and they sold me out?
My mood dropped five more notches.
“Of course. I don’t steal. I’m not interested in taking other people’s things.”
“Then that box you’re hugging so dearly — is stealing it your new hobby for today?”
