Luring the journalists to a designated location beforehand, dragging them into a dream to witness the Valente family colluding with pirates, and then having influential newspapers publicize the story.
Lynch had seen this trick all too often in his past life. It was a classic media warfare tactic, using journalists as weapons.
Although it would ultimately cause no material damage to the Valente family due to the lack of evidence, it would not only ruin their reputation but also put them on the defensive for a while.
There was no need to ask; the person from the Dockworkers’ Mutual Aid Association who directly provided the tip was definitely dirty.
The Valente family's carriage followed a dusty, ordinary carriage and stopped by a wide, clean avenue.
The night was late, and the avenue was empty. Only the gas streetlamps stood duty, refusing to shirk their responsibility and go out. Unlike the street further away, where the dilapidated streetlamps had long lost their luster, blending into the surrounding garbage.
This was the residential area near White Bird Port, where the living conditions were bizarrely polarized—a tale of two extremes.
One part consisted of dilapidated, shabby houses where garbage and waste, uncollected for over ten days, piled up in the weeds by the roadside. A dozen burly men crammed into a small room, leaving early and returning late, the stench of sweaty feet and body odor mixing with the garbage smell from outside the window, deterring any passersby from approaching.
The other part was the exact opposite—clean and beautiful, with spacious, bright, detached western-style houses where well-dressed gentlemen and ladies lived leisurely lives.
On one side were the dwellings of dockworkers and craftsmen, while on the other were those of port officials, merchants, and brokers. Sometimes separated by only a single wall, they seemed to live in two completely different worlds.
“Mark, the head of the Dockworkers’ Mutual Aid Association's publicity office. A mid-level manager.”
Maya climbed out of the dusty carriage and pointed at a garden villa not far away.
Lynch's lip twitched. He couldn't understand what it meant for a mid-level manager of an association representing the interests of dockworkers to live in a beautiful, wealthy neighborhood. Not only was it clean and tidy, but there were even blue uniforms patrolling the streets overnight.
However, as soon as the patrol met the luxurious carriage bearing the family crest, they immediately turned down another street, as if they had conveniently failed to see the two suspicious carriages.
“You come with us. The other three will wait outside.”
Lynch made a gesture, scaled the fence, opened the courtyard gate, and led the two ladies into the private residence.
But the moment he stepped inside, Lynch frowned. A slight stinging sensation radiated from between his brows.
This was the stimulation from mysterious filth. Conceptually, sensing filth the moment one entered an area was a classic sign of filth eroding the room.
“Something's happened.”
Lynch shifted his gaze toward the direction where the stinging sensation was strongest. A dark, black shadow lay slumped on the ground. He glanced back at Miss Valente, gesturing for her to raise her gun and stay on guard, then approached with his cane in hand.
It was a large dog lying on the ground.
No, it was a corpse, completely devoid of breath.
There were no visible wounds on the body, though its belly was bloated and swollen.
“Let me.”
Miss Valente's voice came from behind. The noble lady patted Lynch's shoulder. Lynch stood up to stand guard with his gun raised while she squatted down to examine the corpse.
“Drowned. There's still water in its lungs. It died just recently.”
“Huh? Drowned in a garden?” Lynch's eye twitched. In the world of the occult, anything really was possible. “We might be too late. Come on, let's go inside and look.”
“Yeah. Hopefully we're not too late.”
Unfortunately, they were.
Using his phantasmal sound ability to silently kick open the door, the three of them quickly searched the dark house. In the master bedroom on the second floor, they finally found their targets: the master of the house, Mark, and his wife.
The two lay in bed, seemingly fast asleep. However, when Lynch drew close to check, the woman was already ice-cold, and Mark was no longer breathing. Both had drowned. Their bodies were bloated, dirty water oozing from their mouths and noses. There were no signs of a struggle on the bed; they seemed to have lost their lives unconsciously in their dreams.
Deep Ones.
Such a bizarre way to die made the same thought pop into all three of their minds simultaneously. Just as Lynch was feeling a chill run down his spine, he heard Miss Valente let out a soft exclamation.
“This man... his chest still has some residual warmth.” She pointed at Mark. “He isn't completely dead yet.”
“Can he be saved?”
“I'll try.”
The noble lady turned Mark's body face down over the edge of the bed and pounded hard on his back. She managed to force out some dirty water, but he clearly didn't resume breathing on his own to expel the rest.
“No, it's been too long. He's actually dead, just not completely cold yet.”
“We're still too late. He was clearly silenced. Such a bizarre method of execution practically screams the killer's identity, but unfortunately we... wait, did you say he isn't completely dead yet?”
“Yes, why?”
“My turn, then. I have the death ability, End Resonance, though it's a bit...”
Lynch swapped places with Miss Valente. Looking at the pale, middle-aged man whose face was smeared with dirty water, he suddenly felt a wave of nausea.
Did he really have to press his face against this guy?
‘Neighbor, does it have to be forehead-to-forehead? No other way?’
【Yes, Lynch. Pfft, unfortunately.】
‘Wait, why do I feel like your voice is full of malice?’
【That is your imagination. You said you would believe in me.】
‘I might not be highly educated, but I'm not an idiot. Your malice is practically physical at this point. How can a goddess be so wicked?’
Lynch rolled his eyes, gritted his teeth, took off his glove, and pressed his finger against the center of Mark's forehead. An invisible mist welled up from within his body, flowing through his fingertip and into the stiff corpse.
Instantly, a tearing pain ripped through his chest, and his brain sent back a powerful sensation of suffocation. Lynch opened his mouth wide, desperately trying to breathe, but every time he did, mouthfuls of salty, fishy, dirty water poured into his throat.
Damn it, is this death?
The strength in his body seemed to be rapidly drained. Lynch struggled desperately but remained completely trapped, forced to let the dirty water fill his lungs, squeezing out the very last breath of air.
I'm dying, I'm dying. How is this so terrifying?
His vision turned into a sea of white, and his consciousness descended into chaos. Yet at the very final moment of death, Lynch seemed to see extremely blurry images.
The figure of a young woman handed a covered box into his hands. A faint red glow seeped through the cracks of the box. “Go, hand this over to those people. They will tell you what to do next.”
The scene shifted. An ugly, burly man smelling of fish took the wooden box, handed over a handful of gleaming gold coins, and plunged into the sea with the box without a word.
The scene shifted again. Someone stuffed a stack of bills into his hand. “Here's another task for you. Tell them to wait under Shark Tooth Reef at nine tomorrow night. There's big news about pirates.”
The images grew blurrier, and his breathing weaker. Just as his consciousness was about to fade entirely, the white mist instantly retracted into Lynch's body. Lynch stumbled back a few steps, collapsing weakly to the floor. He panted heavily, his chest still throbbing with a tearing pain.
A soft, small hand grasped his. Lynch opened his eyes to see Miss Valente's concerned gaze. The noble lady bit her lip gently, her large eyes staring at him without blinking.
“I'm fine,” Lynch said, squeezing Miss Valente's hand in return. He whispered, “We've hooked a big fish.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Flaming Red Lips was very likely delivered to the Deep Ones by Princess Chloe. I don't know if she wants them to search for something, but if that's the case, we're in trouble. There are still quite a few Deep Ones, and they're about to leave land soon for an unknown destination. Also, someone indeed paid Mark to set a trap for the journalists. I don't know who it is, but judging from the conversation, it's highly likely Chloe as well.”
“So, if we want to secure the gem for ourselves and stop them from finding that mystery relic, our only option is to strike at the Deep Ones?” Miss Valente's face turned pale as she said in distress, “But that's too dangerous. We can't possibly have you sneak in and steal it again.”
“No, I actually have an idea.”
Lynch wiped the sweat from his face and let out a small smile.
Killing with a borrowed knife, driving a tiger to swallow a wolf—this was the wisdom of his past life.
Now was the perfect time to call in back-up.
Manager West, I'm terribly sorry, but I'm coming for you.
Rate on N.U.
