Know thyself.
This was a phrase deeply rooted in the life of Edward Burr.
“Know your place! How dare you covet your brother’s position? You’re nothing but a bastard!”
As a child, while being beaten until his calves burst, Edward Burr learned his “place” with agonizing clarity. He was a lowly bastard, lucky enough to be taken in by the family. No matter how hard he tried, his station was unfit for receiving a title or recognition.
But was that the end of it? Was Edward Burr destined to crawl under his brother’s feet for the rest of his life, a bottom-dweller with nothing to gain? No!
*Even if my station is at the bottom, I will be the most superior person within it.*
Burr prided himself on knowing himself well. Though born to a lowly prostitute, he was smarter and more charming than anyone else. Even if he couldn’t escape his innate status, he would rise to the highest point allowed within those bounds.
“As the second son of the Burr family, I will enroll in the Military Academy and be of service to our house.”
The Imperial Military Academy. A place where commoners dared not enter, and where the eldest sons of noble families had no reason to go—a graveyard for second sons. It was a place perfectly suited to Burr’s station.
Upon entering the academy, Burr quickly became a popular figure.
It wasn’t particularly difficult. He would read his companion and weave words they wanted to hear. A good attitude in class, excellent grades, and perfect etiquette. He showed nothing that could be criticized.
Everything proceeded exactly as Burr had planned. Hiding both his lineage and his true personality, he reached for the ceiling that was permitted to him. Until someone grabbed his ankle.
Yes. The problem was Allen Hessington. That annoying outlier.
Burr hadn’t hated Allen from the very beginning.
Rather, during the early part of the semester, when he heard rumors of the first commoner student, Burr had inwardly sneered at the fool while pitying him.
*To think he entered this place with that background. How foolish.*
Allen Hessington was everyone’s laughingstock.
Burr willingly volunteered to be the poor boy’s friend to improve his own reputation and looked after him with a sense of amusement. However, as time passed, things changed.
Despite the constant barrage of insults telling him to “know his place,” Allen didn’t seem the least bit discouraged. He always fought back, barking like a persistent dog.
Those who tried to bully Allen eventually grew tired and dropped off. Gradually, people began to acknowledge him. Allen’s grades began to climb steadily as well.
Allen hid nothing, yet despite his pathetic lineage and foul personality, he continued to rise. A person of his station had no right!
While Burr sought to touch the ceiling, Allen sought to break through it and keep going. It was irritating. It was unbearable. And finally, Allen overtook him.
“Ed! Did you see? I got first place on this exam!”
“Haha, that’s great. Congratulations, Allen. I suppose I’ll have to learn from you now.”
Even as he smiled to maintain his facade, his mind went blank. He found that orphan brat, crawling over him, absolutely despicable. It was so irritating he couldn’t stand it.
It was then, while Edward Burr was sinking deep into his internal resentment.
“Weeds must be pulled out by the roots.”
A voice reached him. It was the voice of the proctor, who was crouching down and pulling weeds.
“Especially this poison hemlock. If you leave this damned thing alone, it grows without end. If even one small root is left, it’ll cover the whole field in an instant.”
Burr didn’t want to hear anything in his current mood, but maintaining his reputation was important.
Burr offered a casual response to the proctor’s words.
“Ah, yes. I see.”
“It doesn’t matter how much you trample them! These weeds just keep lifting their heads!”
*That sounds just like Allen,* Burr thought.
“Do you know why poison hemlock is so prolific, Ed?”
“I’m not sure. Why is that?”
“The seeds of this poison hemlock latch onto a person’s body and cling to it relentlessly. They never fall off! Look at this. This tiny, sharp thing is the seed.”
The proctor explained that these seeds would get tangled in a person’s clothes or animal fur, annoyingly pricking the skin. Then, they would drop off in a suitable spot and spread rapidly.
Ah, even that resembled Allen.
Using Burr’s kindness to enjoy an easy school life, and now, forgetting that grace and trying to climb over his head…
“Furthermore, it’s incredibly toxic. Poison made from this hemlock was the very execution draught given to that ancient philosopher. You know, that great scholar who said ‘Know thyself.’ That great man died from drinking poison made from nothing but a common weed.”
Yes. Allen was toxic.
“…In that case.”
Edward Burr flashed a bright smile at the proctor.
“To prevent such a tragedy, we should get rid of all the weeds.”
Everything became clear. Burr felt an immense sense of refreshment. The weeds simply had to be eliminated. If necessary, by burning everything down.
“Hmm…”
Mr. Squan felt an inexplicable chill, but he brushed it off as nothing.
“Yes. They must all be removed. But who knows when I’ll ever finish pulling all these weeds out…”
“Don’t worry too much, sir.”
Edward Burr smiled with the face of an angel.
“I will do my best to help you.”
The proctor was delighted.
A short while later, Edward Burr was able to secure a heap of poison hemlock.
With this, the raw material for the poison was prepared.
***
*The smell is stronger than I expected.*
Burr frowned as he looked at the poison he had crafted. The finished toxin emitted a very foul odor. The color was strange, and it even felt unpleasantly viscous.
His “friend,” perhaps because he grew up rolling around in dirty back alleys, was exceptionally suspicious. It was unlikely he would simply drink something like this if offered.
*A way to make him ingest the poison naturally… What could it be?*
Just as the proctor’s grumbling had given him the inspiration for poisoning earlier, the devil once again breathed a wicked inspiration into him through a human voice.
Burr heard Rosie McDowall shouting at Allen at the top of her lungs.
“You lowly thing! Even if you hid your status to enter this school, you couldn’t hide your origins! That filthy lineage seeps out of your every action!”
Oh, that irritating voice.
If Allen hadn’t existed, the person Burr hated most would have undoubtedly been McDowall. However, he couldn’t afford to be openly hostile toward the Duke’s brat.
Just as Burr was about to intervene with a smiling face, Rosie shouted again.
“Do you have any idea how disgusting it is to watch you lick your finger every time you turn a page? No matter how well you hide it, a vulgar upbringing is bound to reveal itself!”
Burr froze.
*The habit of licking his finger…*
A brilliant idea came to mind.
*What if a man who doesn’t know his place dies because of a habit that perfectly suits his station?*
There could be no more entertaining spectacle. Yes, he would put the poison in the ink. If the brat put his ink-stained finger into his mouth…!
It was a very satisfying idea, but there was one problem.
*That bastard is unnecessarily good at handwriting.*
Despite having the vulgar habit of licking his thumb to turn pages, the handwriting Allen produced with the high-end fountain pen his patron gave him was unnecessarily elegant.
It was enough to make Burr’s stomach turn with envy.
*You’re decent at writing with a fountain pen, but you’re just mimicking a person like a clever monkey, aren’t you? Can you even use a quill?*
Controlling the pressure of a quill is not something that can be learned quickly. A commoner who learned etiquette in a hurry would surely stain his hands with ink in an instant.
And then he would die!
All because of that vulgar lineage he could never truly hide!
*Then the problem of the poison’s odor is solved as well.*
Ink naturally has a strong, pungent smell.
Since Allen had likely never even touched quill ink, he wouldn’t notice at all even if another scent was mixed in. If he sent the toxin mixed into quill ink, the boy would die.
*Good. I’ll send a quill and the ink.*
The next step was a method to deliver the poisoned items to Allen without revealing himself.
This, too, was not difficult. As if pushed by a demon, the proctor sought him out at just the right time.
“You’re looking for a way to get closer to the students? Hmm…”
After pretending to think for a moment, Burr suggested with a broad smile.
“…How about this? Sending secret gifts.”
Manipulating a lonely old man to do his bidding was so easy it almost made him yawn.
Burr attracted Allen’s interest by sending gifts tailored to his interests to all the dormitory students.
Now it was time to send the murder weapon itself. On the night before the murder, Burr sent a quill through the proctor.
*Now all I have to do is send the poisoned ink bottle.*
This also had to be disguised as a mystery gift, but this time, he had to send it without going through the proctor. That way, the proctor would know nothing.
Well, it wasn’t hard.
“Since I wasn’t able to give a gift today, I’ll have to think of something else. Could you perhaps bring me some shop catalogs?”
“It’s almost curfew… well, alright.”
Burr deceived the proctor to delay his rounds slightly past the curfew.
When the time came, no one remained in the hallway.
*Of course. The proctor gets angry at any student wandering around during curfew.*
Burr walked calmly through the empty corridor and placed the prepared bottle of poisoned ink in front of Allen’s door. It was the exact same method by which the gifts had been delivered over the past few days.
Since it would be troublesome if the proctor found the gift, Burr knocked on Allen’s door before the proctor arrived.
“Who… Oh, Ed?”
“Hi, Allen. By the way, I wonder who the person sending the gifts is?”
Burr spoke as he gestured with his eyes toward the ink bottle he had placed on the floor. He acted as if he had received a gift as well.
“I know, right?”
Allen picked up the ink bottle without any suspicion.
*It’s done.*
With curfew right around the corner, there was no way for him to cross-check with anyone else. Allen would never imagine that this gift was a trap set only for him.
“Anyway, Burr, what are you doing here?”
“Ah. I have a favor to ask.”
It would be problematic if Allen went around talking about the gift tomorrow morning. Therefore, Allen had to die tonight.
It would be troublesome if he went to bed early or wasn’t in the mood to write anything and thus didn’t use the ink.
“Allen. I’m sorry, but could I borrow the notebook you used to record today’s lectures?”
Allen scratched his head, looking troubled.
“I’m sorry. I haven’t finished organizing them yet.”
*It’s not that you haven’t finished, you probably haven’t even written anything yet.*
Burr had watched him while playing the role of his “friend.”
That orphan brat did nothing but sit in his seat and listen during class. He never even picked up a pen.
Then, in the evening, he would create a notebook summarizing the day’s lessons. Despite studying in such a manner, his grades were excellent, and he never missed a single detail.
*…It’s unfair.*
Burr clenched his fists tightly, while on the outside, he smiled as if nothing was wrong.
“Ah, then could you lend it to me tomorrow morning?”
*Will you use the poisoned ink I gave you tonight? And will you drop dead and stop holding me back?*
“Of course!”
“Thanks.”
“Think nothing of it between friends.”
The two smiled at each other.
***
“Ugh, gag…!”
In the middle of the night, Japhod woke up from his sleep, unable to bear a nauseating sensation.
“Bleargh!”
As soon as he got out of bed, he crawled to the bathroom and retched. He vomited frantically until nothing but bitter bile came up from his throat.
“What is this? What’s that smell?”
Japhod realized that a foul odor was vibrating through the air. Thinking it was the smell of his own vomit, he tried to get rid of it by spraying perfume.
But that wasn’t the truth. The stench was coming from the room next door.
A few hours earlier, Allen had been writing his lecture summary notes as his “friend” had requested. In his hand was the handsome quill he had received as a gift, filled with quill ink. Allen had been working diligently on the notebook… and before long, he died from the poison.
A quill regulates the flow of ink through the delicate pressure of the hand. The moment the victim collapsed, the quill poured a large amount of ink onto the notebook.
That unsightly ink stain slowly dried on the notebook, and the volatile ink began to spread along with the poison. The lingering scent of the toxin traveled through the ventilation shaft and disturbed the stomach of Japhod, who had been in a light sleep.
At the same time Japhod was retching, Allen was already dead. By the time Japhod took some medicine and tried to go back to sleep, Allen Hessington’s body was slowly stiffening behind a wall less than three inches thick.
When more than seven hours had passed since the victim’s death, the culprit appeared at the scene.
*Good. Everything is going according to plan.*
The culprit moved swiftly.
He immediately rinsed the contents of the poisoned ink bottle in the bathroom before throwing it out the window, then retrieved the notebook stained with poison.
“Thanks for lending me the notebook, Allen.”
He also wiped away the ink on the victim’s hand.
Now all he had to do was remove the quill.
*There’s no need to even remove the quill from the scene. It can’t hold ink anyway.*
Unlike a fountain pen, which holds ink inside, a quill just needed to have its nib wiped clean.
What a simple method of murder.
Edward Burr even felt a sense of admiration for his own thoroughness. But then, Edward was struck with panic. Allen would not let go of the quill.
More than seven hours had already passed. Rigor mortis had fully set in; there was no way the quill, which the victim had gripped tightly, would come loose.
If the body were discovered still holding the quill, it would be extremely problematic. People would wonder if the victim had written down the killer’s name!
Naturally, everyone’s attention would turn to the whereabouts of the missing notebook! The notebook that was practically the decisive evidence of murder, covered in poison!
*What should I do?*
Drowning in panic, the culprit racked his brain.
*Ah, right. What if I create a fake dying message?*
The judgment was impulsive, and the action was swift. The culprit opened one of the empty notebooks on the bookshelf and pulled out the fountain pen from the victim’s drawer.
He had to write something immediately. He was flustered and desperate. But what should he write?
*Should I write a person’s name? Like Rosie McDowall.*
No, that would be problematic. That brat frequently skipped school. If she had a perfect alibi, the dying message would be viewed with suspicion.
It wasn’t just Rosie McDowall.
If he pointed to a specific person, that person’s alibi would be scrutinized, and if it turned out they couldn’t have committed the crime, the authenticity of the dying message would be doubted. That would be bad.
*Let’s write something vague. Any word is fine, as long as it looks plausible!*
At that moment, the strong scent of rose perfume stung his nose.
[ROSE]
The sharp nib tore the paper. A twisted dying message, born of the culprit’s desperation, was complete.
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