“He’s here! Catch that thief!”

  Paris, night. It had always been the center of attention in the nation of France, bustling with visitors in every hour of the day — truly deserving of the title “City of Light.” However, this time, the city had caught attention more than it could handle.

  When one thinks of Paris, one would make the assumption that the Eiffel Tower would be involved, but not this time. Today, all eyes were drawn to another attraction, the art museum Louvre, for a very special exhibition.

  Said exhibition was now in the hands of a gentleman in a pure white tuxedo, sporting the same kind of monocle and tophat — all of which would make their appearance similar to a gaudy magician.

  But, they were a thief nonetheless. And a rather famous one at that, seeing that trailing behind their steps were the largest crowd of officers one could imagine.

  “Stop, in the name of the law! We won’t hesitate to shoot!”

  Shouts of similar content echoed through the cold Paris air, but it only managed to make the thief smirk, the monocle shining a masculine, youthful face under the disguise. As a citizen himself, he knew that the French police were too much of a coward to actually harm its people, and so, there was no reason to fear their empty threats.

  Well, it’s not like they’d hit me if they grew a spine anyway.

  As the thought ran across the thief’s head, however, a flash of flare shone behind him, and the feeling of a speeding projectile grazed his cheek, sending a chill down his spine.

  Quelle horreur! They’re actually doing it?

  Behind him, meanwhile, a smile formed on a certain young man’s face:

  “Keep going! We have him where we want him! But don’t aim at his vitals!”

  Gee, thanks for the consideration, asshole!

  The game of cat-and-mouse continued with rounds of shots being fired all over, adding even more flare to the already heated party. With each turn, the thief managed to get just a bit further, but at the same time, the bullets were just a tad closer to him than what he was comfortable with. His suit was already torn in certain areas on the arms and legs, while his tophat had been littered with holes. Disregarding the command, the policemen chasing him either were so competent that they could nail non-lethal shots without fail, or so incompetent that their willy-nilly firing actually worked in their favor. Naturally, the thief would have never guessed it to be the latter.

  And he was right. After enough rounds of random firing, what was bound to happen indeed had happened.

  A stray shot was aimed perfectly, piercing the young man’s chest without so much of a hesitation. As the white figure collapsed on the ground, panic ensued among the police force:

  “W-Who was it? Who shot him!”

  “I’m not gonna have my salary deducted!”

  “Quick! Maybe we can still save him!”

  With their monthly wages in line, the group of policemen rushed to the supposedly dead thief’s side. But what awaited them, was…

  “What the heck is this?“

  “This is...”

  “We’ve been had!”

  While the police was stomping on the ground in frustration, in a certain apartment complex in Lille…

  “Hahaha! Fell for the oldest trick in the book, bozos!”

  A certain young man in white was laughing his behind off.

  “I knew that they’d get sucked into a chase,” he mumbled. “Just get a somewhat workable frame, and boom!…”

  “Les Enfants Blanc in action, am I correct?”

  He was interrupted by a sudden click, and the cold feeling of steel pointed from behind his neck.

  Putting his hands in the air as an act of reflex, the young man stuttered:

  “W-Who’s there?”

  “Oh, now you’re just rude. Am I not the voice you’ve heard the most?”

  “You’re… Detective Pierre Jardin!”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  “In the flesh.”

  “But… how? I could have sworn you were…”

  “Giving orders back with the rest of the group?” The other man, now Pierre, smirked. “If you can remote control a team of robotic skeletons to do your biddings, then I don’t see why I can’t attempt a simple body double trick.”

  “You…” The thief was speechless, for he never realized that his cover had already been blown.

  Les Enfants Blanc — unlike the regular image of a gentlemanly thief roaming around France to steal from the rich and evil, this was a group of thieves with a concise plan and a bountiful pool of resources. Their numbers reached the dozens, all sporting the same outfit as the legendary phantom of old, and their heists had been all for the sake of challenge — the more heavily guarded the object was, the more they wanted them. There was no special meaning behind it; the objects of their choice weren’t particularly helpful to the poor, nor they would benefit the rich. Their aim were national, guarded secrets and heritage, yet they had always escaped the clutches of the French police. And it was all thanks to one simple trick.

  “I must say, this is quite the elaborate base,” Pierre glanced at the walls behind the thief. Or rather, his massive collection of monitors plastered all over everything, with cameras recording every inch of French territories down to even the smallest speck of dust.

  “How many of those robots do you have?” The detective asked.

  “Around a hundred or so.”

  “Where do you keep them?”

  “They’re foldable. I usually keep them in… anyway that’s not important!”

  True to his words, there was no group from the start. “Les Enfants Blancs” had been a one-man show all along, with this young man — a rather shabby-looking, scrawny youth with a crow’s nest for a hairstyle covering his eyes — in the front and center of it all.

  “And you use all of these monitors to control your robots?” The detective continued.

  “Of course, what else do you think?”

  “Then color me impressed.” With a whistle, Pierre exclaimed. “Now, my most important question: why?”

  “You mean my motive?”

  “Yes. From what I’ve seen of your heists, you’ve never stolen anything of actual value, just historical pieces or arts. What gives?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Though his eyes didn’t show, the boy exuded a sense of confidence in his words. “Because it’s fun, duh.”

  “It’s… fun?”

  “Yeah, hella fun. Breaking through the cracks in your so-called defense system, living the thrill of the chase, then pulling a wool over your eyes — some of the most elite soldiers in the nation — don’t you feel exhilarating?”

  “So… everything is just a game to you?”

  “Are you offended?” A flash of grin could be seen through the boy’s messy bangs.

  Any normal person was justified to be angry at him. Of course, it meant the same for the detective in question. And he was close to blowing his top as well, but at the last moment, an idea struck him.

  “… So, I take it that you only want to find some excitement in your life?”

  “Huh? What’s this all about?” The boy was puzzled. “I guess you could say that, but if this is some boring old lecture about how helping society could bring me meaning, then…”

  “No no, of course not. I’m not that much of a hypocrite.” Pierre snickered. “I’m talking about the thing you just stole.”

  Just in time for a secret passageway to open from above the two, a package fell from the ceiling right down on the boy’s lap.

  A quick unwrap revealed the object in question to be a rather old rifle, which aside from its beauty in antiquity wasn’t much else of note. “What about it?” The boy asked.

  “Do you know what it is?”

  “Of course. It’s Napoleon’s rumored rifle, right?”

  Napoleon Bonaparte. The most well-known military general in France, and one of the most prominent figures in modern history. A genius strategist and outstanding officer, he brought France’s name to a new level in his regime. There weren't any particular rumors about him having a favorite rifle in history, but for some reason, the news of the object present had circulated France for months until today.

  “Correct… At least, that is what I would have said. Now, crack it open.”

  “… Huh?”

  “I said crack it open.”

  Of course, there was no way for the phantom thief to believe his ears. Why on earth would a detective, a police officer, order him to break a historical artifact?

  However, in the boy’s eyes, the prospect of breaking national property with his own hands was too tempting to refuse. With a swift twist of the wrist, the handle was already separated.

  At the same time, a certain object fell from within the gun outside.

  “What’s this?” Twirling the object in his hand — a small cross with a shade of deep red like the rising sun — the boy asked.

  “Hold it in your hand tightly,” ordered the detective. “Then look at me again.”

  “O…kay? I don’t… AHHH! What is that!?”

  The boy couldn’t believe his eyes. The moment the cross touched his skin, he could see something. It had no distinctive features, but its silhouette of a woman-like upper half and a fish tail was clear enough to reveal its identity. Yet, it wasn’t the most insanity-inducing fact — the shadow was clearly that of a mermaid, yet it was floating in the air, and most importantly… it was attaching itself to the detective, the end of its shadowy tail swirled like smoke coming from underneath the officer’s chest.

  “I knew it. You were a chosen one.” With a sly grin, Pierre answered, revealing beneath his suit a shining cross of a deep blue color. “Now, listen carefully…”

  “Nuh-uh! I want excitement, but I don’t wanna die! Adieu, ma ennemie! See you never again!”

  As the words left his mouth, a similar trap door opened, but this time right underneath the thief himself. Letting gravity do the work, the young boy fled from the scene, disappearing into the dark of the night and leaving behind a stupefied detective in his old home.

  “My King, was it too early to reveal our cards?” Beside him, the shadowy figure spoke.

  “Nah, everything is still according to plan.”

  As he answered with a confident smile, the detective took out his phone and quickly pressed a number.

  “Hello? It’s me. The target is on the move. Male, around 15 or 16 years old, lean build. White hoodie, khaki pants, messy black hair with bangs over his eyes. If you happen to get his ID, then…”

  Realizing his mistake, the detective chuckled.

  “Ah, silly me. I never even got to ask for his name. No matter, I’m in the target’s room anyway, give me a moment…”

  And a moment it really took, as Pierre quickly returned to the call with a note in hand.

  “… My, what an unusual name. Arsene Pierre. Well, there you have it. Map his escape route for him.”

  As the detective turned off the call, the figure responded in understanding:

  “I see. A brilliant move, my King. We…”

  “Settle this on the sea, as always.” Pierre answered with a confident smirk. “Time to show our heir to Napoleon who’s the real naval warfare master around here.”