Sherlock's father, Sassarian, was not only the president of the Gold Coin Merchant Guild but also the pillar of their family business. Losing the guild president might be manageable, as a new one could be elected, but losing the backbone of the family's enterprise could spell total ruin.
Sherlock understood that since Sassarian's sudden imprisonment, most of their family's employees had been anxious. What they needed most in this crisis wasn't an eccentric heir but a steady leader who could provide them with confidence that he could stabilize the situation.
That's why Sherlock decided to dress up to resemble his father, Sassarian—despite his previous disdain for such appearances.
The Minister of Finance, often referred to as the Chancellor of the Treasury, was one of the most powerful officials in the entire Kingdom of Navia. For him to target a local merchant guild, no mere group of businessmen could stand a chance against him.
To force the members of the Gold Coin Merchant Guild into submission, Arcadio, the minister, first ordered the Red Beard Pirate Crew to attack the guild's trade ships. He also colluded with Naval Captain Roy to increase the difficulty of exporting their goods and replaced the key officials in the area with his own cronies.
To further intimidate the guild members, Arcadio chose a scapegoat to demonstrate his authority.
Sherlock's family business became that scapegoat. Thus far, Sherlock had been unable to rescue his father. Despite his best efforts to maintain the family business, it was increasingly deteriorating due to relentless harassment by local officials. Guild members were too afraid to help, fearing the wrath of Arcadio, who practically ruled the kingdom with an iron fist.
Perhaps deep down, Sherlock's imitation of his father wasn't just for leadership—it might have been a plea for external sympathy. However, his pride prevented him from admitting such thoughts.
Nightfall, within the villa.
After handling another round of inquiries from local officials, Sherlock lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. Worry consumed him: fear for his father's safety and dread that the family business, built over generations, might crumble under his watch.
Only now, surrounded by enemies on all sides, did Sherlock truly understand how difficult it must have been for Sassarian to maintain a low profile in public. Over these past days, he had bent over backward, enduring humiliation from officials who seized any excuse to nitpick. The bitterness of such submissiveness left a sour taste.
For a fleeting moment, he resented the smuggling operation proposed by William that implicated his family. But Sherlock wasn't a fool who only blamed others; he knew he had personally approved the venture. The fault lay with him.
Unable to fall asleep, Sherlock finally sighed, sat up, and decided to recheck the account books in his study.
Most of the villa's servants had retired for the night. Without disturbing anyone, Sherlock made his way to the study. The room bore traces of Sassarian everywhere. In the moonlight streaming through the window, Sherlock seemed to see Sassarian as he used to, sitting behind the desk, sipping wine while reviewing the accounts.
Sherlock's eyes stung. The household was already on edge, and he didn't want the servants to witness his emotional vulnerability. Rubbing his eyes, he grabbed a bottle of red wine and a glass, opened a hidden door disguised as a bookshelf, and entered a cramped, secret chamber.
This secret room, constructed by Sassarian, was designed to store important account books and valuables. The room contained only a table, a chair, and a few safes.
Sherlock lit a candle, closed the hidden door, and retrieved the account books from a safe. The flickering candlelight cast shadows over half of his face, but he paid no mind, slowly reviewing the accounts while sipping wine.
Time passed unknowingly. Suddenly, Sherlock heard faint noises outside the door. His brows furrowed in anger, assuming it to be a bold servant trying to steal from the study, taking advantage of the family's misfortune.
Listening intently at the door, Sherlock recognized the voices of a man and a woman. His heart sank—they were all too familiar. It was his stepmother and the local tax officer.
Years earlier, Sherlock's biological mother had passed away. Sassarian remarried a young, beautiful woman two years later, which strained his relationship with Sherlock.
The pair spoke in hushed tones, wary of being overheard, but their proximity to the hidden door allowed Sherlock to catch their conversation clearly.
The tax officer's raspy voice came through first:
"The Count is a nobleman of high standing. He won't tolerate anyone who might endanger him. That Sherlock—he's no idiot. We need to eliminate him quickly. If he acts recklessly, he could be a threat. Even if he can't harm the Count, my failure to address it would reflect poorly on me."
The woman responded lazily, "Sherlock is focused on keeping the family business afloat. He probably won't act recklessly."
The tax officer retorted, "Better safe than sorry. Besides, it doesn't matter if he does or doesn't act recklessly. As long as the Count thinks he might, that's enough. If I get rid of him, I'll earn favor with the Count. And if we don't remove him, how will you rightfully inherit this estate? My sources say Sassarian is already dead. Once we deal with Sherlock, you'll be the sole heir."
His tone grew playful as he continued.
The stepmother giggled softly. "You're so good to me. How should I repay you?"
After some flirtatious banter, rustling sounds of clothing being removed filled the air. The tax officer's breathing grew heavier.
"When this is over," he said, "there'll be a line of suitors vying for your hand, but don't forget my kindness."
His stepmother responded with a gentle "Mmm," before falling silent.
Behind the door, Sherlock clenched his jaw, his face contorted with rage. Bloodshot eyes and tightly balled fists betrayed his barely restrained desire to burst out, exposing this treacherous pair.
But his remaining rationality held him back. Taking a deep breath, he downed the wine in one gulp and opened another safe. Inside were two pistols.
The gun handles were made of ivory, intricately engraved with ornate patterns—more artwork than weapon. Yet Sherlock knew they were fully functional.
As time passed, the candlelight in the secret room grew dim, and darkness gradually reclaimed the space. Most of Sherlock's figure was shrouded in shadow as he sat, loading bullets and priming the ancient pistols.
______________________________________________
If you want 20 chapters ahead, check out my Patreon:
patreon.com/PureParadox