Arknight : The Rise of The Grand Detective

Howard stood on the curb, the crisp morning air biting at his cheeks as the taxi pulled up with a soft hiss of tires against wet pavement.

His old, double-breasted overcoat hung loosely on his frame, its frayed edges whispering of years gone by.

He slid into the backseat, the leather creaking beneath him, and gave the driver an address-

"The Athenaeum, on 5th and Marrow,"

he said, his voice steady but tinged with the weight of recent revelations.

As the car lurched forward, Howard's mind drifted to the abilities he had been granted, gifts that felt both miraculous and unnerving.

*The Tale of Babylon*, the first of his newfound powers, allowed him to hear and communicate with concepts themselves.

It was as though the world had a hidden language, and he had been handed the key.

Thankfully, controlling it wasn't difficult; otherwise, the cacophony of every idea, every abstraction, would have driven him mad.

Then there was Providence, the second gift, born from The Tale of Evolution.

It granted him the power of cellular manipulation, though it was bound by a strict range of thirty meters.

It worked best on his own body, a fact he had tested moments ago by pressing his finger against the taxi's window.

The glass had yielded instantly, as if it was air, his finger phased through without resistance.

He wondered, idly, if he could grant himself more strength-or even the characteristics of another species.

The thought was intoxicating, but before he could explore further, the driver's voice cut through his reverie.

"We're here,"

the man said, pulling up to the curb. Howard stepped out, his eyes lifting to the building before him.

It was the Athenaeum, his workplace, a structure that seemed to defy time. Its weathered stone façade spoke of age, yet there was an odd freshness to it, as though it had been imbued with a quiet vitality.

He pushed through the heavy doors, the familiar scent of old paper and polished wood greeting him like an old friend.

As he made his way toward his office, he spotted Camelia rounding the corner.

She was a Kuranta, her equine features striking-sharp, almost intimidating-but her presence was softened by the warmth in her eyes behind her glasses .

She managed the finances and handled the myriad requests that came through the Athenaeum, a role she executed with precision and care.

Despite her imposing appearance, Howard had always found her easy to talk to, her dry wit a perfect match for his own.

"Morning, Camelia,"

Howard said, offering a small smile.

"You're here early. Did the spreadsheets call you in for an emergency meeting?"

Camelia raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching in amusement.

"Funny, Howard. I could say the same about you. What's the occasion? Did the coffee machine finally learn your name?"

"Oh, we're on a first-name basis now,"

Howard replied, feigning solemnity.

"It even brews my cup extra strong. I think it's starting to like me."

Camelia chuckled, a low, melodic sound. "Careful, Howard. If you keep charming the appliances, they might start unionizing. And then where will we be?"

"Probably out of a job," Howard said with a grin.

"But at least the coffee will be excellent."

She shook her head, though her smile lingered.

"Get to work, you menace. And try not to overwork today."

"No promises," Howard called after her as she walked away, her hooves clicking softly against the marble floor.

He watched her go, the tension in his shoulders easing.

For all the strangeness of his new abilities, the Athenaeum-and the people within it-felt like a grounding force, a reminder that some things, at least, remained constant.

**

Howard pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped into the office, the familiar scent of aged paper and polished wood greeting him just like in his memories.

The room felt like a second home, a sanctuary where the chaos of the outside world melted away.

To his left stood a towering bookshelf, its shelves crammed with leather-bound tomes and scattered curiosities.

On his right, a chalkboard leaned against the wall, half-erased notes from some past case still faintly visible.

In the center of the room, a sturdy wooden table held court, flanked by a well-worn chair and a small lamp that cast a warm, golden glow.

Howard's eyes lingered on the table as he approached, spotting his badge resting beside a framed photo.

He picked it up, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

It was a picture from his induction into the Athenaeum, a younger version of himself staring back with a mix of determination and naivety.

How far you came,

he thought, tracing the edge of the frame.

And yet, how much further there is to go.

He sank into the chair, the familiar creak of its legs grounding him.

Just as he reached for the stack of papers on the table, a sharp knock echoed through the room.

Howard glanced up to see Camelia leaning against the doorframe, her usual composed demeanor tinged with a hint of excitement.

"An interesting commission just came in," she said, her voice carrying a note of intrigue.

"From the Lungmen Guard Department."

Howard's eyebrows shot up. The Lungmen Guard?

They rarely reached out to the Agency, let alone for something they couldn't handle themselves.

His primary skill was evident during interrogations, so he was never given the chance.

His mind raced.

What could they possibly need us for?

But beneath the curiosity, a flicker of hope stirred.

If this involved the Guard, there was a chance-however slim-that he might cross paths with Ch'en.

The thought sent a quiet thrill through him, though he kept his expression neutral.

Without a word, Howard grabbed his badge from the table, the weight of it familiar in his hand.

Camelia rattled off the location, her tone brisk but not unkind. He nodded, already moving toward the door.

"I'll handle it," he said, more to himself than to her.

Stepping out into the crisp air, he flagged down a taxi, his mind already already set on what's to come.

**

The night was alive with chaos, the air thick with the acrid stench of burning steel and ash.

Sirens wailed like banshees, their red and blue lights slicing through the haze as the police force descended upon the scene in a thunderous march.

The skyline of Lungmen was marred by a towering inferno, its flames licking the heavens, casting an ominous glow over the city.

Smoke billowed into the night, a dark shroud visible for miles, a grim beacon of destruction.

But just as quickly as the fire had claimed its dominion, it was subdued, the roaring beast tamed by the relentless efforts of the emergency teams.

Amidst the chaos stood a figure that seemed almost otherworldly-a girl with striking blue hair that shimmered like the ocean under moonlight, her horns curving elegantly from her head, and a dragon tail swaying with an air of command.

Clad in military tactical gear, she was a vision of both grace and ferocity.

Ch'en, the leader of the Special Investigations Unit, stood at the heart of the storm, her sharp eyes scanning the devastation.

Her mind raced, a tempest of questions.

How could this have happened?

The building, now a smoldering skeleton, belonged to the largest bank in Lungmen-a symbol of the city's strength and prosperity.

This was no mere accident; it was a calculated strike, a message sent in flames.

"Ch'en!"

A voice broke through the cacophony, pulling her from her thoughts.

A member of her special forces, a young man with a face hardened showing the traits of a special force member , approached.

His breath came in short bursts, his uniform singed at the edges.

"The fire's under control, but... we've got a problem."

She turned to him, her gaze sharp.

"Report."

"No bodies,"

he said, his voice steady but laced with tension.

"But six people are missing. All of them-bank employees. And..." He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at the ruined building.

"There's a message. On the wall."

Ch'en's eyes narrowed.

"Show me."

They moved quickly through the debris, her boots crunching over shattered glass and charred wood.

The air was still hot, the remnants of the fire clinging to the ruins like a ghost. And there, scrawled in bold, jagged strokes across the blackened wall, was the message:

"We have your people. Pay the price, or they will be lost to the flames."

Her jaw tightened, her tail flicking sharply behind her.

Hostages. A ransom.

This wasn't just an attack-it was a declaration of war.

Her mind raced, piecing together the fragments of the situation.

Bank employees... why them? What do they know? What do they have that's worth this kind of risk?

She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms.

Ch'en," the special forces member said cautiously, pulling her back to the present.

"What are your orders?"

She didn't answer immediately, her mind still churning.

Six people. Six lives in the hands of whoever did this. And they're not just anyone-they're bank employees. They have access to sensitive information. If this is a play for leverage, we're already at a disadvantage.

Her eyes flicked to the message again, the words burning into her memory.

"Gather the team,"

she said finally, her voice low and steady.

"I want every available resource on this. Surveillance, witnesses, anything that can tell us who did this and where they've taken them. And get me a list of the missing-names, positions, everything. If they're targeting bank employees, there's a reason. We need to know what it is."

As the special forces began to move outside the designated area, a taxi pulled up and parked just short of the location where the accident had occurred.

The surrounding area was crowded with police officers.

A police officer, noticing the vehicle immediately, approached it.

Howard stepped out and introduced himself,

"It's me, Howard Leyman, from Athenaeum Private Investigations."

He flashed his badge, and after a quick verification, the officers allowed him entry.

As Howard made his way toward the scene, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of nervousness.

He had barely arrived in this world, and already, he was stepping into what seemed like a major case.