Crown Square Massacre

Lynch sat on his bed, staring blankly at the morning sun outside the window, a wave of melancholy washing over him.

He hadn't slept well last night, having had several dreams throughout the night.

Well, that was hardly surprising. After all, yesterday evening's experience had been a bit too stimulating for someone of his age and background. In the heat of the moment, the intense tension had numbed his senses, but once he fell asleep, the visceral aftertaste came surging back, conjuring all sorts of wild scenarios in his dreams.

Especially the final dream right before waking up—that had been intensely...

Giving himself a light slap on the cheek, Lynch climbed out of bed and straightened the sheets.

The bedding was very clean, carrying the scent of sunshine. Even though he had read in his past life what that smell actually was, he still loved it.

The room was spotless as well. Mrs. Maggie cleaned it every day, a service already covered by the board of one and a half pounds, but Lynch preferred tidying up himself; it gave him the feeling of home.

A little past seven—just the right time. Time to hustle to save his own life.

Rolling up the five-pound notes, he slipped them into an inner pocket of his formal suit, stowed the remaining one-pound note and dozen or so shillings in coins into a coin purse, concealed The Passion of the Blazing Lady in his trench coat pocket, and after double-checking the Watchers' letter of introduction, finally grabbed his cane and left the room.

“Good morning, Mr. Levive.”

The moment he walked down the stairs, he saw Mrs. Maggie poking her head out of the kitchen, flashing a gentle smile. She looked frail and delicate, but recalling her ferocity and madness from yesterday, Lynch couldn't help feeling a chill run down his spine.

“Please have a seat; breakfast will be ready shortly. I haven't quite figured out your daily routine yet, so I wasn't sure what time would be best to prepare it. Thankfully, I didn't make it too early.”

Ah, he had almost forgotten—he would have breakfast provided from now on. Pure bliss.

Lynch took a seat at the dining table. Remembering how pathetic he had looked scrounging for bread crusts yesterday, he couldn't help reflecting that this was how life was meant to be lived.

“Breakfast is usually bread, occasionally with butter, sometimes with eggs, and jam and coffee every day—just ordinary fare. I hope you don't mind. Oh, the coffee's already brewed; it's in the pot, so please help yourself.”

Lynch nodded. Pouring the coffee, he felt an urge to chuckle as yesterday's events came to mind. Mrs. Maggie had evidently thought of the same thing; blushing slightly, she turned back to tend to the oven.

Today's newspaper lay beside the dining table, and Lynch casually picked it up and opened it.

The Rhine City Investigator. Though he couldn't shake the feeling that the name reeked of malice and ill omen, Lynch still skimmed through it quickly.

There was nothing related to mystery. Then again, that made sense; if it were that easy for ordinary people to stumble upon, there would be no reason to call it mystery in the first place.

The incident at the Randall family hadn't even stayed in the news for a single day before fizzling out. The hottest topics in the paper now were Princess Sophia of the Rose family embarking on her tour and the construction of Bester Tunnel. Especially the tunnel: it was reported that the mountain folk of Bester Mountain feared novelties like trains and railway tracks, desperately trying to halt the march of progress. They had already incited several strikes and allegedly caused multiple incidents of sabotage, even claiming lives.

After finishing breakfast, Lynch tipped his top hat to Mrs. Maggie in farewell and left the house, heading straight for the Crown District.

Separated from the King District only by the Lande River, it was a mere half-hour walk away, yet the two worlds were night and day: on one side lay the dilapidated old town, and on the other, the bustling city center.

Crown Square, with the governor's residence and the municipal building as its twin cores, was situated right at the heart of the Crown District, surrounded by flamboyant, ornate Victorian-style architecture. Among these structures, four Gothic cathedrals stood out conspicuously.

They were precisely the objectives of Lynch's trip.

The body's previous owner was no believer and knew little about deities, only that twelve major gods still existed in this world, with over seventy nations, large and small across the globe, each selecting their official faiths from among them.

For instance, the Kingdom of Lande had four official faiths: Tina, the Lord of Wealth; Fiona, the Lord of Suffering; Nyx, the Lord of the Black Night; and Phil, the Lord of Fire and Crafts. These official faiths had cathedrals established in every major city across the country, whereas other unofficial faiths could only build chapels, possessing far less scale and influence.

But Lynch had little interest in these faiths.

Not that he clung stubbornly to atheism—having encountered evil gods, he didn't doubt the existence of the major gods either. But he merely believed in the fact of their existence; as a newly arrived transmigrator, having true faith was simply out of the question.

Therefore, his goal for today was soul alienation. Finding a viable path would be ideal; if not, he at least needed to figure out where his way forward lay.

Yet as he drew near Crown Square, he realized that coming today might have been a mistake.

It was barely half past eight in the morning, yet thousands of people had already converged on the plaza. They not only occupied more than half the square, but also choked the surrounding roads, severely obstructing traffic around the plaza.

Thousands of burly men, dressed in coarse blue uniforms and holding up signs and banners, gathered in the square. Their rough voices blended together into angry roars. Further out, a massive crowd of onlookers crammed the perimeter, packing the edges of the square wall to wall.

“We need to put food on the table, too!”

“We want the tunnel! We want business!”

“When the trains roll, the gold flows!”

“Punish the mountain folk sabotaging the project!”

“Bring the killers to justice!”

Without needing to ask anyone, Lynch realized what these people were doing. He muttered to himself, “A demonstration... It must be over that Bester Tunnel matter from the paper. Looks like they're trying to pressure city hall into cracking down on the troublemaking mountain folk. Wonder who these people are, though.”

He had actually just intended to pester his Travel Companion in his mind, but had spoken aloud without thinking. To his surprise, an immediate response came from beside him: “Railway workers, of course. At least on the surface. They're all wearing railway worker uniforms. It doesn't quite count as a demonstration, just a protest. Like you said, putting pressure on the government. I don't care if they make a fuss, but did they have to pick right now? It's throwing everything off schedule.”

Lynch blinked and turned his head, only to see an unfamiliar old man being jostled by the surrounding crowd right next to him, wearing an equally helpless expression.

The old man was at least sixty or seventy, wearing a set of loose loungewear and a wide-brimmed hat that covered half his face, which made him stand out even more amidst the crowd of gentlemen in formal attire. His complexion was ruddy and he looked full of vigor, though his tone betrayed some anxiety. It seemed that, like Lynch, he was trapped by the gridlocked crowd, unable to advance or retreat.

“Good morning, sir.” Since squeezing through was impossible anyway, Lynch simply struck up a conversation with the old man. “Are you heading to the cathedrals across the way as well?”

“Yes, I'm in a rush to get to the Black Night Cathedral; I'm going to be late for a prayer service.” The old man let out a helpless sigh as well. “Are you heading there too? You don't seem in a hurry at all. Got any way to get through faster?”

“Sure do. Light a fire right here on the spot; that's guaranteed to scare everyone away. Problem is, half the crowd would probably get trampled to death, and you and I might be among them. So we'd better just keep squeezing through.” Lynch shrugged. “What's the big fuss about Bester Tunnel anyway? Isn't it just a railway?”

“It's complicated. Too many issues tangled up in it; hard to explain.” The old man glanced at Lynch, shaking his head without elaborating.

Not my problem anyway, Lynch thought with a shrug, doing his best to shield the old man from the pressing throng as they pushed forward together.

One meter, two meters... Having laboriously squeezed forward a dozen meters, just as the crowd ahead seemed about to thin out slightly, a gentle female voice suddenly rang in his mind.

【Mystery relic detected within perception range: William's Holiday Surprise. I shall do my utmost in exchange for the innocent smiles of children.】

Huh? What was going on?

Lynch instinctively looked around. With so many people, spotting anything out of the ordinary was nearly impossible.

“What is it?” the old man beside him asked, noticing his odd movements.

“Nothing, just felt like something's off.” Lynch was puzzled, asking instinctively, “Sir, what does a 'holiday surprise' usually refer to? Something that makes children happy?”

“Could be all sorts of things. Presents, candy, games... oh, and fireworks.”

Fireworks?

A chill suddenly shot down Lynch's spine.

If fireworks went off in a crowd like this, wouldn't that be even worse than lighting a fire?

Was someone looking to cause trouble, or was someone just happening to carry a mystery relic like him?

Could such a coincidence exist?

His heart leapt into his throat, and Lynch instinctively searched his surroundings.

He didn't want to be blown to bits or trampled to death for no reason, and right now, there wasn't even anywhere to run.

Fortunately, the crowd ahead loosened slightly. Lynch took two brisk steps forward to broaden his line of sight, and then, barely a meter away, he saw a passerby suddenly pull out a box wrapped in colored paper and ribbons. The man casually yanked open the ribbon, his fingers already gripping the lid.

That was him!

Seeing that the man was about to open the box, Lynch gritted his teeth, lunged forward with a violent stride, and swung his cane downward from behind.

Thud! Right on the shoulder.

He had actually aimed for the head, but closing his eyes had thrown off his aim.

Taken completely off guard by the strike, the man let out a howl of agony, and the box slipped from his hands, tumbling toward the ground.

Lynch's pupils contracted. He reached out reflexively, but was far too slow to do anything, left to watch helplessly as the box plummeted toward the cobblestones, its lid sliding looser and looser.

Clap! An instant before hitting the ground, the box was caught by a pair of hands, which firmly held the lid shut in the same fluid motion.

The one who had caught it was none other than the old man who had been beside him. The old man was far more nimble than Lynch; not only did he deftly catch the box, but he also kicked the man who had pulled it out flat onto his back.

“I saw how tense you looked, like you'd spotted something dangerous.” Pinning the fallen man to the ground with a foot, the old man asked, “Is this the thing?”

Phew. Lynch let out a long breath of relief. With the female voice in his head offering confirmation, a smile finally appeared on his face.

“That's it. Thank goodness you were fast; that's the one—”

But before he could finish his sentence, several roaring booms cut him off. From several other corners of Crown Square, explosions erupted almost simultaneously.

In an instant, flames flared, smoke billowed, and deafening blasts echoed continuously.

The plaza fell silent for a single heartbeat, followed by piercing shrieks of terror.

Amid the screams, thousands of people stampeded frantically in all directions.

Lynch gave a deep sigh. What a lovely morning. Hope I don't get trampled to death.

In the very next moment, however, he felt someone yank him by the arm up into the air, leaving him dangling from a lamppost.

It was the old man from earlier. Hanging from the lamppost with one hand, he dangled Lynch with the other, looking at him with a helpless expression.

“Well, at least I don't have to worry about being late anymore. Their prayer service is going to be postponed.”

“Huh? Why postponed?”

“Their archbishop isn't there, so they can't hold it.”

“Where's their archbishop?”

“Hanging from a lamppost.”