Pokémon Detective Case Files

Chapter 465 Spring Crown on the Eve of Metamorphosis

Chapter 467 Spring Crown on the Eve of Metamorphosis

To explain the whole incident, we need to go back a month—

When Victor Hugo XVI was still on the throne, he was the most honored man in the country. Now, he is a down-on-his-luck "Peter," a vagrant who doesn't even deserve a surname, squatting by a murky river, looking at the reflection in the water that has caused him so much suffering.

All of this stemmed from his romantic fantasy of pursuing "real life," and that damned face that everyone in the kingdom knew.

On coins, in portraits, in celebratory parades—his round, ruddy face, with its slightly curly blond hair and meticulously trimmed goatee, was once the living embodiment of the kingdom's extravagant lifestyle. He used to be proud of it, but now he only wanted to curse it.

It has been four years since I left the palace.

The man, who called himself "Pete," gazed at his reflection in the water.

His beard was unkempt, his skin rough, and there was a shallow scar on his left brow bone from working. But no matter how badly it was ruined, the essence of his face remained unchanged—his slightly curly blond hair was now greasy and matted, and his tired gray eyes were gradually becoming cloudy, but the natural upward curve of his lips still seemed ready to issue some absurd decree at any moment—it was this face that completely ruined his escape.

He left the palace not to achieve any great feat, but simply because he was tired of it.

He was tired of being woken up at the same time every day, tired of having every bite of food tasted for poison by servants, tired of the endless petitions and memorials. Although some said he was acting recklessly, deep down he felt he was the one suffering the most—even less than the lowest commoner. What he wanted was freedom, to do as he pleased! He wanted to sleep until the sun was high in the sky, to eat with his hands, to spit at anyone who displeased him!

It was this desire that gave birth to that crazy idea.

Hugo still vividly remembers the look of horror on Leclerc's face when he heard the words, "Then let him be king in my place."

The Earl—at that time he was just a fledgling court clerk, who came to give a routine report about finding a vagrant who looked exactly like the king, but unexpectedly stumbled upon this long-planned defection.

"Your Majesty, isn't this a bit too much—"

"Too much?" the king interrupted him, casually tossing the scepter, a symbol of royal power, onto the table. "Either you help me complete this plan, or I'll leave now and let the kingdom wake up tomorrow morning to find the king gone. Your choice."

Leclerc yielded. And so the plan succeeded.

In the first few months, this "debauchery" did indeed bring real pleasure.

He ate heartily at roadside stalls with the gold coins he had taken from the palace, frequented cheap inns and gambling dens, and enjoyed the rough pleasures of being unknown to anyone. He thought he had finally touched real life—a life full of sweat, alcohol, and profanity.

But trouble soon followed.

His face was like a royal flag stuck in a pile of dung, too conspicuous.

In the first decent little town, the tavern owner stared at him for a long time, then took out an old coin and compared it back and forth. Suddenly, he knelt down and shouted, "Your Majesty!"

At times like these, any explanation seems pale and powerless. As a result, that night he was placed in the main seat, listening to the mediocre poet recite hymns, eating food cobbled together by the whole town, and surrounded by a group of excited and apprehensive gentry, as if welcoming a holy emperor on an incognito visit.

He wanted to lash out, to claim he was just a vagrant, but faced with those awe-inspiring gazes, he found himself unconsciously straightening his back and habitually flashing that perfunctory yet benevolent smile. That night, he was no longer Pitt; he was still Hugo XVI, playing a familiar role in an absurd, scaled-down version of the court.

This became the norm during his life on the run. His face became a mobile cage.

People either venerate him as a king, carefully keeping him out of the real lives of ordinary people; or they regard him as a fugitive monarch, scrutinizing him with suspicion, greed, or fear, keeping him constantly in danger.

A true king is protected by layers of guards, while a "someone who is suspected to be the king" is like a moving gold coin in the eyes of thieves, bounty hunters, or any farmer who wants to make a fortune by informing—the burning gazes staring at his face are just like the frenzy of a cat seeing a gold coin.

Even escaping to more remote places was of no use. Once, he finally found a job in a riverside village, driving away the rampant tadpoles. After only three days, the village chief nervously asked him to leave because a passing merchant glanced at him a few times. He even stuffed a few silver coins into his hand, looking as cautious as if he were sending away a monstrous flower rock that would bring bad luck.

"free"?

What kind of freedom is this?!

He no longer had to review memorials, but he still had to do tedious manual labor for a few copper coins; he no longer had to attend court banquets, but even eating a bowl of beans at a roadside stall in peace was met with stares! What he longed for was to completely disappear into the crowd, to become a true nameless person, to be able to burp and fart freely, to fight over half a loaf of bread, and to truly and thoroughly "not care"!

But now? He's like a clown in an invisible cloak, thinking he's blended into the crowd, unaware that everyone can see that invisible, magnificent cloak called "the supposed king," making all his "degeneration" a farcical performance.

Finally, in the autumn of the fourth year, in a tavern in a border town, he heard about the "King" again.

The discussion wasn't about him, but about the double in the palace.

People were saying that the "King" had been much more well-behaved lately; although he hadn't accomplished anything, at least he hadn't caused any more of the absurdities of the past. The flat tone made it seem as if they were talking about a—barely passable—object.

At that moment, what welled up in Hugo's heart was not anger, but a kind of cold resentment and jealousy.

That double, that puppet, that fake!

What right does he have? What right does he have to sit comfortably on the throne, enjoying even limited power and comfort, while I, the legitimate heir, have to wander like a wild wolfhound, experiencing even the most basic freedom in such a stifling way!

A thought, like a serpent coiling in his heart, crept up on him: as long as the "King" was alive, this "Pete" of his would never be real.

It wasn't that he wanted to go back to being king—good heavens, he didn't miss that damned throne at all! What he missed were the fine vintage wines in the palace cellars, the flaky pies made by the royal chefs, and the soft velvet beds of the dancers—but he certainly didn't miss those responsibilities and constraints.

What he wanted was a complete break.

If the identity of "Victor Hugo XVI" becomes a stumbling block to his experience of "true freedom," then he should remove it.

What he aims to accomplish is a transformation even more thorough than Zoroark shedding his "phantom"—not only changing his form but also killing the soul of his past.

Only when the "king" is dead, and publicly and undeniably dead, can his face transform from a "suspected living king" to a "pathetic creature resembling the deceased king." The latter, while still attracting attention, will at least no longer draw kneeling, probing, or the gaze that links him to power and responsibility.

He could truly become an insignificant, unrestrained ordinary person.

So, following the course of that stream, he returned to the capital, like a drop of sewage flowing into the city's drainage ditch.

He sat down in the darkest corner of the Black-Eyed Crocodile Tavern, spent his last few silver coins on a drink, and then began muttering indistinctly to a seemingly bored old guard next to him—

"I once had a friend who worked in the palace—that king is no longer him—no longer—" He had to make sure these words drifted intermittently to the ears of those who cared.

Count Leclerc of the Black Moon, the former scribe, his loyal Leclerc who weaves information networks like a spider, will surely notice these rumors.

This is the bait that lured him out.

Less than a day later, Hugo saw Leclerc by the moldy bed in that cheap tavern.

The former scribe was now the powerful Earl of Black Moon, his demeanor changed considerably. His silver-gray hair was meticulously tied back, his clothes were luxurious, and he exuded an aura of high status and power. However, when he looked at Hugo, that familiar humility remained unchanged, as if he had long anticipated his return.

Hugo silently followed him, stepping once again into that familiar garden passageway.

To his even greater surprise, Leclerc had already put the imposter back into confinement without him even having to say a word.

Everything was arranged in perfect order, as if the power to rule the kingdom was merely a treasure temporarily entrusted to the earl, which was now being rightfully returned to him.

The process of returning to the court was so smooth it was almost unbelievable. After trimming the messy beard that had grown over the past four years and applying some powder to his brow bone, his face in the mirror was not much different from four years ago, enough to fool all the ministers and guards—it was hard to tell whether this was something to be happy about or sad about.

Perhaps because the double had kept a low profile for four years, no one noticed anything amiss. The only minor incident came from a girl named Luna, who tilted her head, her bright eyes fixed on him, and suddenly screamed incoherently in front of everyone, spewing incomprehensible gibberish.

"Send this fellow to the garden; he's giving me a headache." Hugo waved to the unsuspecting servant, easily dismissing the minor anomaly.

Everything seemed to be back under control, proceeding smoothly and in an orderly manner.

Until Leclerc, in the study, asked the most crucial question in the calmest tone, "Your Majesty, what do you wish to do with that thing in the tower? Send him home, execute him secretly, or exile him beyond the borders?"

"No, Leclerc."

Hugo, or rather Pete, slowly shook his head.

See the picture poorly.

"I need you to help me—kill 'myself'."