At three in the morning, the Cicero Agency was steeped in the musty scent of old paper.
A loud “pa.”
A sheepskin dossier, thick enough to kill a cow, was slammed shut.
Vivian pulled her face out from the pile of books, two massive dark circles hanging under her eyes as if someone had punched her with charcoal fists.
Right now, she felt like she was being forced to attend an endless lecture on “The Dialectic Relationship Between Medieval Theology and Gear Transmission Efficiency,” all without a smartphone or wireless network.
Her brain had turned to mush.
“I can’t take it anymore,” Vivian groaned. “I’d rather go back to early morning study sessions in high school.”
Across the desk, Cicero’s injured left arm did nothing to slow the speed of his right hand flipping through books.
That gold-rimmed monocle perched on his nose, his profile under the gas lamp’s dim halo was like an unfinished marble statue, still rough around the edges.
“What are we looking for?” Vivian collapsed into her chair, a puddle of boneless sludge.
“Trying to find how to curse a Steam Monster in Latin? Or which Repair Workshop will take that pile of scrap iron?”
“We’re looking for the anchor point of logic.”
Cicero finally looked up, adjusting his glasses with his free hand. The pity in his eyes, the kind reserved for illiterates, made Vivian want to chuck her copy of “Holy Geometry” straight at his face.
“It doesn’t matter whether it’s a doll made by Madame Elodie, or an entity summoned by the Twilight Society. In this godforsaken Paris, all the urban legends follow the same core rule—‘Concept is existence.’”
He pointed out the window.
“That Queen Doll embodies the concepts of ‘Bourbon Restoration’ and ‘Ancien Régime Privilege.’ To the royalists, she’s the very personification of power.”
“So?” Vivian dug at her ear. “Are we going to run for president now?”
“We’re going to punch a hole in that concept.” Cicero shut his book. “The core logic of that doll is ‘Legitimacy of Royal Power.’ As long as we deny her legitimacy at the conceptual level, her physical functions will collapse.”
“Like… if you don’t believe money has value, it’s just waste paper?”
“Something like that.” Cicero nodded. “Now, go get me the ‘Code of the Carolingian Dynasty: Textual Criticism’ from the shelf. We need to find the original loophole in this line of theological interpretation.”
Vivian rolled her eyes, dragging her heavy feet to the bookshelf.
Right now, she was wearing one of Cicero’s old shirts—far too big for her, the sleeves rolled three times and still too long, the hem dropping straight to her thighs.
“‘Textual Criticism’… ‘Textual Criticism’…”
Her fingers trailed over rows of yellow-spined ancient books. These must’ve stood here since before Napoleon was born, every gap packed with the dust of history.
She pulled out the hefty tome.
“Bang!”
It was too heavy. Vivian’s hand slipped, and the book corner thumped hard against the desk, making the ink bottle hop.
“Careful, the cover’s made of—”
“Don’t tell me what it’s made of. I don’t need new nightmare material.” Vivian plopped back into her chair and flipped open the book.
A dense forest of Latin.
No illustrations. No paragraphs. Even punctuation was pitifully scarce—it was a full-scale assault on the human retina.
Vivian forced her eyelids open and read three lines.
“…According to the decree of Pope Leo III… royal power comes from… huu…”
Drowsiness crashed over her like a tidal wave. Vivian’s head felt heavier and heavier…
Her vision blurred. The Latin letters started to dance, warping into tiny devils brandishing forks.
“This part about the anointing rite is key…” Cicero was in high spirits, pointing to a corner of the page. “Vivian? Are you listening?”
No answer.
Cicero looked up.
His assistant had slumped over the pile of ancient books. Her cheek was squished against the clause for “Divine Right,” mouth slightly open, breathing evenly.
Worst of all, a glistening drop of liquid was slowly trailing down from the corner of her mouth, about to land on the word “royal power.”
“Lord…” Cicero reached out, about to shake this blasphemer of knowledge awake.
Just before his fingertips touched Vivian’s shoulder—
“…All men are born free.”
Vivian spoke suddenly.
Her eyes remained tightly shut, lashes trembling against her lids, clearly still deep in sleep. But her voice was clear and forceful, like someone desperately cramming before an exam.
“Hmm?” Cicero’s hand hovered in midair.
“Pa!”
Vivian slammed the desk, scaring Cicero so much he nearly fell out of his chair.
Still asleep, brow furrowed, she rattled off a string of words that would sound “radical” even in this era:
“In terms of rights… all men are… and remain always free and equal! No social distinction may exist unless it be based on the common good!”
Cicero was stunned.
Of course he recognized it. It was the opening of the 1789 Declaration of the Rights of Man. Every Frenchman shaped by the Revolution knew it, but it was something you’d only hear at political rallies or in radical newspapers.
“…The aim of every political association is the preservation of man’s Natural and Inalienable Rights!” Vivian’s voice grew louder.
“These rights are liberty! Property! Security! And resistance to oppression!”
Cicero watched her.
Every word she uttered was like a sledgehammer, pounding against the floor of this world, riddled with old tales and shadows.
Cicero’s scalp prickled.
“Resistance to oppression…” Cicero muttered.
That doll’s logic was, “I am queen, you are subjects, so I can kill you.”
To break that oppression, brute force was useless—you couldn’t cut through a “concept” with sword or blade.
You had to overwrite it with another, more universal, more advanced “concept.”
What better to counter “Legitimacy of Royal Power” than “Natural and Inalienable Rights”?
It was magic versus magic! Constitutional sorcery pitted against royalist sorcery!
“Genius…” Cicero looked at the still drooling Vivian, the corners of his lips curling up into a feverish grin.
“You ungainly, miracle-making genius.”
He sprang from his chair, forgetting the pain in his arm.
He began pacing the room, shoes tapping an urgent rhythm on the floor.
“We need an amplifier. No, that’s not enough. We need…”
He rushed to the supply cabinet, rummaging until he found a blueprint. It was the design for a Steam-Pressure Sonic Projector he’d once built to chase pigeons from the square.
“If she can understand ‘concepts,’” Cicero snatched up a quill, feverishly modifying the design.
“Then we’ll give her a law lecture. One so loud it shakes the walls.”
At that moment, Vivian, sprawled on the desk, seemed to have finished reciting the text that had tortured her.
She smacked her lips, rolled over, the red imprint still clear on her face.
“…No cilantro…” she mumbled.
Cicero was about to keep tweaking the blueprint, when suddenly, his ears pricked up.
Vivian’s lips began moving again.
But this time, what came out wasn’t French, nor any known European language.
“&……%￥#@……System……”
A string of short, mechanical syllables.
It didn’t sound like it came from human vocal cords—more like the electronic pulse of fine-tuned machinery performing a self-check.
Cicero’s quill froze. A black blot of ink bled across the blueprint.
He knew Hebrew, ancient Greek, even some Egyptian hieroglyphs. As a priest specializing in investigating the occult, he was familiar with most languages used to commune with gods or demons.
But he had never heard anything like this.
“System?” Cicero repeated softly the one syllable he could vaguely make out.
He turned to stare at Vivian.
This girl lay there, utterly defenseless, a silly line of drool at her lips, seemingly harmless.
“What on earth are you?” Cicero whispered.
Vivian didn’t answer. She simply nuzzled deeper into the page, burying that famous maxim beneath her cheek, chuckling softly in her sleep.
“Hehe… so much money… all mine…”
Cicero sighed, the mysterious atmosphere instantly broken.
“Forget it.”
He bent his head again, continuing to sketch out his steam-punk monstrosity of a sonic cannon.
“I’ll just assume you’re an ordinary, somewhat greedy, drooling, ignorant girl.”
Outside, the eastern sky began to pale.
Parisian mist churned in the dawn, as if drawing the curtain for the grand drama to come.
Cicero rolled up the finished blueprint and whacked Vivian on the head.
“Get up! Your drool’s about to eat through the ‘Code’!”
“Aw!”
Vivian jumped like a cat with its tail stepped on, rubbing her mouth, still dazed.
“What? Breakfast? Is it time to eat croissants?”
“No croissants.” Cicero shoved the blueprint into her arms, flashing that insufferable fake smile.
“Only a recital on Constitutional Spirit. Go wash your face. We’re off to deliver a eulogy… to Her Majesty the Queen.”
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