The morning paper carried death.

Noah sat in the Chrome Hearts base, a cigarette burning low between his fingers as the inked words caught his eye.

[ "The Saint of St. Eldred Found Dead. Cause Unknown. Relic Involved in Incident."]

He stared at the line for a long time. The air in the old theatre—the headquarters they had turned into a base—felt colder, thicker. Outside, the city of Victoria was loud as always: carriages on cobblestone, shouts from vendors, a fog of coal smoke hovering like a ghost. Inside, it was silent.

He lowered the newspaper slowly, his silver mask resting on the table beside him. The polished metal reflected his tired eyes. Chrome Hearts members whispered across the hall, too afraid to ask what he'd read.

Because everyone knew—the Saint's death would not end with mourning. It would begin with blame.

Noah exhaled, his tone calm but edged with thought.

"Where did this happen?"

A young member, a courier barely eighteen, shuffled forward. "Southern Continent, sir. At the Holy City of St. Eldred. Reports say she died touching a relic. They called it 'The Hand of the Saint.'"

Noah's fingers froze mid-air. The name hit him like a spark to gunpowder.

The Hand of the Saint.

He'd seen that name before—at the black market auction beneath Victoria's old parliament vaults. A relic sealed in glass, its surface cracked, veins of gold running through petrified flesh. They had said it belonged to a "person from another era."

He hadn't forgotten.

"Did they say how she died?" Noah asked quietly.

"Burn marks," the courier said. "But not fire. More like… light. The report said she was glowing before she collapsed."

Noah leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. The memory of the relic's faint hum came back to him—the strange energy that wasn't mana, that didn't belong in this world at all. His hands clenched slightly. He'd walked away from that auction thinking it was just another odd artifact. Now it was murder.

And the South was already calling it sabotage.

---

Later that day, Chrome Hearts' headquarters filled with the murmur of worried voices. Papers and letters poured in from across the city—rumors, accusations, even bounties.

The Southern Continent had issued a formal charge: "The Northern Continent is responsible for the Saint's death."

Nobles in Victoria panicked, fearing trade cuts and war. Merchants hoarded supplies. And beneath it all, someone—someone unseen—was pulling strings.

Noah knew what that meant.

Someone was framing them.

---

By evening, rain began to fall over the capital, washing soot and gossip through the narrow streets. Noah stood by the tall glass window of his office in the theatre, watching droplets crawl down the pane.

Behind him, one of his lieutenants entered. "Boss, word is spreading fast. Even the Church in Victoria is moving. They say the relic came from our territory—an auction piece, sold by smugglers in the North."

Noah didn't turn. "And what name did they attach to the sale?"

The man hesitated. "...Machiavelli."

The sound of that name—the name he'd used in the underground world—made the room feel heavier.

Noah's expression stayed calm, but his voice lowered to a whisper.

"So now I'm the one who killed a Saint."

He didn't look surprised, only thoughtful. He had expected consequences the moment he'd stepped into the black market months ago. Still, the timing was perfect—too perfect. Whoever was orchestrating this had waited, watched, and then struck when the world's attention was on religion and morality.

A Saint dying was bad enough.

A Saint dying because of him—that was war bait.

---

Noah finally spoke again, quietly, but every word measured like a blade.

"Find me the records from the auction. Who handled the item, who transported it, who touched it. I want every name, every route. And make sure none of our men are traced back."

The lieutenant nodded and left immediately.

When he was alone, Noah sat back down, staring again at the article. The Saint's name—Lady Rosaline—was written in elegant letters. She had been known for her healing miracles, her pure mana, her connection to the divine.

But he couldn't stop thinking about the relic.

Why would a Saint—a person who could sense mana corruption—touch something so unstable?

Unless she didn't know.

Noah closed his eyes for a brief second, remembering Maya's letter from weeks ago—her handwriting soft, her tone gentle. "I've joined the Church of St. Eldred. They're good people, Noah. They're helping me understand faith."

He hadn't replied.

Now, he wondered if she had seen that same relic… or worse, if she had been near the Saint when she died.

---

A knock came at the door.

Noah opened his eyes and said simply, "Enter."

A young messenger stepped in—rain-soaked and pale. "Sir, there's word from our contact in the Southern docks. They say the Church is calling for an inquest. A public investigation."

"Into the relic?"

"Yes, sir. Into the Saint's death. And they mentioned… you."

Noah's jaw tightened slightly. "How?"

"They believe Machiavelli, the Chrome Hearts' leader, sold the relic illegally to a smuggler connected to the Saint's attendants."

He stared at the boy. "Did they have proof?"

"No, sir. Just claims. But the Church doesn't need proof. They only need faith."

Noah gave a humorless smile. "Faith, huh. That's a weapon sharper than any spear."

---

Night fell deep and heavy.

The old theatre glowed dimly with oil lamps. Chrome Hearts members moved quietly through the halls, packing crates, burning papers, hiding traces of deals made months ago. Noah walked among them like a shadow, silent but certain.

In his private study, he unfolded a small envelope. The seal was unmarked—but inside was a copy of the Church's official decree, already stamped and ready for public release by morning.

"The Hand of the Saint—tainted by northern hands. The Northern Continent shall answer for its sins. The false dealer known as Machiavelli is hereby declared an enemy of faith."

He let the paper drop from his fingers. It landed softly on the desk.

Outside, thunder rolled across Victoria's skyline.

So this was it.

Not a coincidence. Not random. Someone had dug up his past, pieced together the trail from that auction, and placed the blame squarely on him. A frame designed to burn everything he had built—Chrome Hearts, his name, and his mask.

Noah leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers pressing into his temples. His breath came slow, steady, controlled.

For a moment, his thoughts drifted back to the auction room—the masked crowd, the smell of candle wax and money, the shimmer of the relic in its glass box. He remembered how it pulsed faintly when he walked past, as if recognizing something in him.

Now, that same relic had killed a Saint.

And someone wanted the world to think he had planned it.

---

Hours passed. The city slept under the storm, but Chrome Hearts didn't.

Reports arrived one after another: the Church had closed its northern trade posts, the Bluerose family received inquiries about their new "guard," and even the Parliament discussed emergency measures to "contain syndicate threats."

Noah's existence was slipping through cracks—half rumor, half danger.

He finally stood, sliding his silver mask into place. The polished eyes reflected nothing but cold resolve.