Grand Museum of Rhine City

Lynch's plan was not a spur-of-the-moment decision. In fact, he had started planning ever since his archaeology professor, old Mr. Dartmond, had brought the even older President Olei to shamelessly swindle knowledge out of him. However, he had to wait for Miss Valente to wake up and consult her and Elder Nikolai of the hillmen before putting it into action.

The news about the manifestation grade mystery relic he had learned at yesterday's reception only strengthened his resolve to carry it out as soon as possible.

“He has directly or indirectly caused the deaths of hundreds of workers. I’ve disliked him for a long time,” Lynch explained only after climbing into Miss Valente’s carriage. “But he threw the Railway Workers’ Union under the bus as a scapegoat, clearing himself of any responsibility for the Crown Square Massacre. As for the workers devoured in his factory, dead men tell no tales.”

Miss Valente rested her chin on her hand, tilting her head to look into Lynch's eyes. She said softly, “Actually, even if there were evidence, it wouldn't be of much use, would it?”

This girl's analysis of the situation was as sharp and to the point as ever.

Lynch sighed. In truth, just as Miss Valente had said, the Watchers had long known Chairman Grant was behind it, and the Duke's mansion certainly knew as well, yet no one seemed to want to dig any deeper.

After all, workers in this era were worth very little, and no one valued their lives. The only reason the Crown Square Massacre was investigated at all was because of its terrible public fallout. Having the Railway Workers’ Union as a scapegoat to appease the public's anger was enough; there was no reason to continue tracing the blame up to the higher-ups.

This was a limitation of the times, something that couldn't be forced. Lynch could understand their attitude, but he still felt quite displeased. Thus, he resolved to punish Grant in his own way, using the man's desperate desire for the tunnel project to proceed smoothly to bleed him dry in the name of the various factions' interests.

“For people who only love money, stripping away their wealth is sometimes far more painful than killing them. I’m sure he won't be sleeping well for a long time, and those innocent victims can be considered to have received some small measure of solace.”

“But what if he doesn't accept your demands?” Miss Valente asked with some concern. “All those compensations combined must amount to tens of thousands of pounds. Very few people can produce that much cash in a short period. Aren't you afraid of backing him into a corner and forcing him to fight us to the end?”

“I'm not afraid. I know this type of person all too well.” Lynch smiled. Back when he was a corporate slave in his previous life, he had seen plenty of capitalists. “What they fear most is bankruptcy; once they go bankrupt, they lose everything. To avoid bankruptcy, Grant will definitely be willing to pay the price. Earlier, when I was at the Edmond Douglas Bank, I heard their conversation—even a wealthy banker can barely scrape together a few thousand pounds in cash each month. Estimating from that, with Grant’s resources, he can still scrape together tens of thousands of pounds if he exerts all his strength. It won't push him to risk his life against us. So, he will eventually see reason. Let's toast to his wisdom in advance.”

“You really are something...” Miss Valente rolled her eyes at him, though her expression held a trace of admiration. Lightly biting her lip, she said, “But don't you think you've left something out?”

“Ah?”

“Someone has been busy for so long, thinking even of victims he doesn't know, but what about himself?” Miss Valente gazed softly at Lynch, her voice gentle. “Legend has it that the nobles of the Mythological Era were highly principled, taking the protection of the people as their duty, regardless of personal gain or loss, and unafraid of sacrifice. Could that person be trying to emulate those ancient sages?”

I have no idea what your ancient sages were like.

The moment this thought crossed his mind, a soft chuckle echoed in his head before he could speak.

Tsk, is it really that funny? Fine, let's not be so blunt.

Lynch blinked and smiled. “It can't be helped. Someone used her actions to show me how a young lady from a medieval noble background balances the conflict between morality and duty, demonstrating what sacrifice truly is. If I don't learn from her, what if she blows my head off with a shotgun?”

“Hee-hee, I would never.” The noble lady laughed, her nose wrinkling as she playfully waved her folding fan. “I only brought a fan today, not a weapon.”

“Really?” Lynch began to roll up his sleeves.

“Of course, just a very ordinary fan. See...”

Clack... The sound of a gun bolt sliding inadvertently came from the fan.

Silence instantly filled the carriage, save for the awkward rumbling of the wheels. Through the front window, the old butler driving the carriage could be seen twitching from behind, as if he were suffering a stroke.

“Ahem, sorry, Mr. Lynch, I brought the wrong fan.”

“I'd be a fool to believe you. You're a wicked young lady; no wonder they say nobles are the most deceitful creatures alive.” Lynch rolled his eyes, but after a moment of thought, he explained seriously, “Actually, I didn't forget my own benefits. It's just that if I took them from Grant, the nature of the act would change. It would be equivalent to being bribed by him, or colluding with him and condoning his harm to the public for money. Maybe no one would blame me, but I don't want to sell out my morals for profit, so I'd rather not take anything from him. Besides, all he can give me is money. The things I truly, urgently want are things he cannot provide. I can only get them from the other party.”

“The Archaeological Association?”

“Yes. When it comes to ancient mystery relics like the Gate of Falsehood and Reality, the Archaeological Association is likely the non-governmental organization with the deepest understanding of them. If we want to resolve the threat of this relic as quickly as possible, we will inevitably need their help. Moreover, archaeology naturally involves frequent contact with ruins, meaning they know a lot about mystery relics and evil gods. For certain reasons, I happen to need this knowledge. Hmm, and they might even have information on the Red Moon Memories I need. Asking for help usually invites cold shoulders, but if I show up with a grand gift, those professors surely won't kick me out, will they?”

“Explaining it so clearly isn't nearly as touching as what you said just now, you know.”

Miss Valente blinked, a faint smile playing on her lips.

“Would you not have known if I didn't say it?”

Lynch sighed deeply, staring somewhat blankly into her beautiful eyes. Whenever he recalled how he had actually found this girl a bit dim-witted when they first met, he wanted to slap himself. He wondered if it was already too late to realize it now.

“Hee-hee... Too late.”

Amidst her music-like laughter, the carriage swiftly entered the city. After weaving through the dense crowds of the Crown District, it turned onto the edge of the district.

Appearing ahead was a massive, stone, circular-domed building. It resembled a grand concert hall from his previous life—tall, imposing, simple, and solemn, standing out remarkably among the beautiful Victorian-style buildings surrounding it.

The Grand Museum of Rhine City.

Very few people were entering or leaving. There were only two human-shaped stone statues at the entrance. Supposedly, one was Karlga I, the first King of Lande, and the other was the founder of the Archaeological Association, Jones Drake, who was active in the mid-Fourth Age—the statue with only one arm.

The moment he drew near the concert-hall-like building, Lynch felt a splitting headache. Although it quickly returned to normal, the sharp pain still left a deep impression on him.

He immediately realized he had come to the right place. This place was filled with mysterious filth, absolutely related to the information he was seeking.

However, this museum was truly deserted. Upon entering, there was a massive, open lobby of at least several hundred square meters, so empty that echoes could be heard.

In the lobby, only a young girl was slumped over the counter asleep; not a single visitor was in sight.

The receptionist had a red mark on her forehead from sleeping. She rubbed her eyes drowsily, her gaze sweeping over the two's attire, and immediately beamed as she pushed forward a donation box.

A donation box.

Admission to the museum was free, but they accepted donations. Looking at the empty box, Lynch offered a sympathetic smile.

Even if you look at me with loving eyes, there's no way I'm donating. I'm not here for a tour; I'm only here to find your president.

Her hope was instantly replaced by disappointment, her smile vanishing in a flash with a heart-wrenching familiarity. The receptionist resentfully tossed the empty box back under the counter before leading Lynch around to the office area behind the museum.

Beyond a magnificent door lay a long corridor. The moment they stepped inside, a sudden burst of brilliant light flared before them, and a streak of flowing light reached the space between Lynch's eyebrows in the blink of an eye.

Holy shit.