The fairy maid cheers for her deceased master today.

The first parchment only introduced the rules of the game.

X immediately flipped backward, and then he frowned deeply.

Because the subsequent reasoning passages... seem extremely bizarre.

The problem isn't the handwriting. The handwriting on these articles is identical, clearly copied by the same person, and not Catherine's. After all, Ax had seen Catherine's handwriting at the detective agency.

The key issue is the content.

……

The First Chapter: The Bells by the River

I stood by the window, watching the Thames River ripple.

The river water is green, no, it's blue, maybe it's purple? Swans are swimming on the river, wearing little hats and singing opera.

The Big Ben in the distance is chiming, not with a "ding-dong," but with a "meow-meow," like a group of cats having a meeting on the roof.

My room has four walls, but sometimes they become three or five, depending on my mood.

There's a painting on the wall. The figures in the painting move, they wink at me, and tell me secrets.

The secret is about a place with iron bars and high walls, but the walls aren't for imprisoning people; they're for painting.

I heard music downstairs, it was a Viennese waltz, but the dancers were all penguins.

They were dressed in tailcoats and twirled gracefully.

But where does the music come from? Perhaps it comes from Westminster Palace across the river, but Westminster Palace isn't on the other side; it's in my head.

No, my mind is a mess. I need to take this opportunity to organize the key clues.

Hmm... key clue: the bells are pointing north, and the penguin dance suggests a cold place, so I'm at the Tower of London.

No, not in the Tower of London, but at the top of St. Paul's Cathedral.

Wait, the cathedral didn't have a roof; it was taken away by the airship.

Looks like I was wrong. Since I can see penguins... as everyone knows, penguins live in Antarctica.

So I'm retracting my previous conclusion: I'm located in Antarctica. It's quite cold here, but the room is fairly warm.

However, we still need to know the specific location.

I asked the paintings on the wall, and they told me that only by finding the Cheshire Cat could I know my location.

It seems I need to further refute my theory. The Cheshire Cat is a story from a fairy tale.

So, I should be in a dream world right now, in Alice's Wonderland.

There aren't many houses in Wonderland. But I remember there's a Queen of Playing Cards? So there's a Playing Card Castle.

I remember the path to the castle was very difficult; you had to find a deck of cards as springboards. These weren't ordinary springboards; stepping on them would send you soaring hundreds of meters, so everyone, please bring your parachutes when you come to find me.

Safety first. I've always believed that.

The playing card castle has several floors.

The doors on each floor were glued to the walls with melted chocolate. I couldn't open the door on the third floor—it had suddenly turned into a jelly that would jiggle and shake when touched with my fingertip.

The floor of the fourth floor is made of popping candy. With each step, you can hear a dense "pop" sound, like countless little insects rolling under your feet.

The king of the castle was a gray mouse wearing a golden crown. He said he would award me the medal for "the most dreamy person," but the medal was made of glass marbles and melted as soon as it touched the sunlight that leaked in through the window crack.

I asked it where the Cheshire Cat was, and it pointed to a hole in the ceiling—a sighing cloud floated through the hole, saying that the Cheshire Cat was "singing in a place with iron bars."

Singing from the iron railings? Was it like the whistles of the Tower of London guards? I can't remember, because my shoes suddenly turned into two yellow ducks, quacking and dragging me to the window.

The sky outside the window smells like strawberries, and the raindrops are like cotton candy, leaving sweet marks on my face.

An owl stands atop a distant spire, holding a crooked sign that reads: "Time is flowing backward; you must run forward."

Where does running forward lead? To the bottom of the river? I think I see a treasure chest at the bottom of the river, a chest containing all the forgotten bell sounds—could those "meowing" bell sounds be hidden inside?

But suddenly the duck jumped into my pocket, and the handkerchief in my pocket turned into a butterfly. It flapped its wings and said, "The wall is not a wall, it's a painting; the lock is not a lock, it's candy."

……

The first article ended abruptly.

X shook his head and gave the article to the two fairies to read.

Angel's eyes widened as she looked at it: "Master, Master, what is this thing?"

Irene also seemed quite confused.

As Ax just mentioned, this is a deduction text left to them by the kidnappers and Catherine.

If we can find clues in the text and deduce the reasoning, we can find out where Catherine is being held.

But this article... is completely incoherent.

It's as if he says whatever he dreams about.

"It's as if it was written when...my mental state was unstable."

Ex narrowed his eyes.

"If this was really written by Catherine, then she... must have been injected with a drug that caused severe hallucinations. Even her ability to think was impaired."

"What!" Irene's face turned pale instantly.

"But don't worry, it shouldn't cause any major health problems," Ax immediately reassured her. "Anyway, that's why the kidnapper was willing to let Catherine write the mystery."

Because these articles... have basically lost their logic.

Thinking about it carefully, it makes sense.

Catherine is, after all, a detective with real achievements. If she were to focus on writing a mystery, she could probably deduce her location of imprisonment in no time and reveal it to the detective agency.

The other party must have ensured that Catherine was in a state of unconsciousness before they would let her write this garbage.

X shook his head and took out the second parchment.

Sure enough, the content above was equally crazy and illogical.

……

Part Two: Brick Wall and Rose

My room is small, yet spacious. The walls are red, like roses, but they feel cold to the touch even with gloves on, as if they were made of ice. No, they're made of brick, Victorian brick, each with a different pattern.

Outside the window lay ruins, but beautiful roses grew amidst them. The roses were blue, not red, and they glowed in the moonlight. Hidden among the roses was a path leading to a secret garden with fountains and statues.

I smelled smoke in the air, not from chimneys, but from underground. There were tunnels underground, and people inside. What were they digging for? Maybe they were digging for gold, or perhaps they were digging a passage to freedom.

So the key clues: the pattern on the brick wall points to East London, and the blue rose represents hope, so I'm in the Whitechapel district.

The rose gardens there are famous, but there are no rose gardens in the Whitechapel district, only slums and factories.

As I ran my fingers along the cracks in the brickwork, the patterns suddenly came to life—a swarm of ants carrying tiny rose petals, crawling along the brickwork toward the corner of the wall.

There's a hole in the corner of the wall, and a faint light shines through it. In the light, shadows dance; the shadow is me, yet it's not me.

I tried to catch the ants, but they burrowed into my fingernails, causing a stinging pain.

There was a sound amidst the stinging pain—a woman's cry, coming from the underground tunnel. The cry was mixed with the crisp sound of metal clashing, like a key unlocking a lock.

I looked down at my hands, which were covered in blue rose juice. The juice dripped from between my fingers onto the ground, forming a small river.

The river water washed over my feet, icy cold, and I realized I wasn't wearing shoes; my soles were covered in broken bricks and rose thorns.

"There's no rose garden in Whitechapel," I said to the air. "Then where do the roses come from?"

The air answered me, its voice like a rusty iron gate: "From within the walls, from the blood beneath the earth."

Yes... I suddenly realized who kidnapped me.

Those are—the kobolds underground!

These damned kobolds dared to covet my detective agency's treasures and try to steal them.

How pathetic I am, how pathetic the detective agency is.

This world has never been beautiful. Never.

Men of the Detective Agency, remember this: eliminate these kobolds who bring tragedy.

……