May 18, 1399, 7:00 AM.
Lynch was woken by the sunlight streaming through the window.
Ever since his first night, he had developed the habit of falling asleep bathed in moonlight. It allowed him to sink into a solid sense of security, though naturally, it also meant being woken by the sun the next morning.
Last night, after enjoying the pan-fried meat patties and vegetable soup carefully prepared by Mrs. Maggie, Lynch had gone to Charles Square to squander the energy he had just barely recovered. His flickering, intermittent form had left behind countless piercing screams and sensational, eerie legends in the square.
Satisfied, he returned to Apartment 221, went to bed early, and immersed himself in the crimson moonlight while lost in thought, holding the invitation.
Friend or foe was hard to tell, and the method was quite bizarre. Lynch actually didn't want to go, even though the black cat was exceptionally beautiful and held a strong appeal for him. Lynch still felt uneasy.
But after a night of reflection, he changed his mind.
Thinking it over, the other party’s behavior had remained consistently polite. They had even intentionally avoided frightening Mrs. Maggie, and the letter itself had been slid through the door crack. It was this specific detail that finally convinced Lynch to go and see exactly who this Countess Hathaway was.
This kind of highly courteous aristocratic style usually didn't involve setting death traps from the start. Since there was no immediate mortal danger, he might as well go and see what this mysterious Countess Hathaway wanted.
Having made up his mind, Lynch stopped agonizing over it. He went to sleep early to rest up, not waking until the sunlight on his face called him from his slumber.
Living a life without being a slave to an alarm clock was truly wonderful.
Considering his plans for the day, Lynch changed into loose casual clothing, tucked his last six one-pound notes into his flat cap, brought his pistol and ring, and then picked up his cane to head downstairs.
As soon as he went down, he saw a gentle, smiling face peeking out from the kitchen. The sight of her wearing an apron and holding a pair of tongs warmed Lynch’s heart. When he mentioned he was skipping breakfast for a morning workout, Mrs. Maggie looked a bit disappointed, but she still wrapped up two slices of toast slathered in thick butter and put them in his pocket, watching him leave the apartment.
It was a truly beautiful world.
After taking a deep breath of fresh air and coughing immediately from the smell of coal smoke and horse manure, Lynch began to briskly march along the main road. Life in this era wasn't leisurely enough to create a demand for morning jogging, but to prepare for future battles, building physical stamina was essential.
For half an hour, Lynch circled the Crown District before finally crossing the Rhine Bridge over the Lande River into the Crown District. Along the way, he happened to run into the bridge being raised.
Two mine cart beds were pushed along small tracks from a dark warehouse to the bridgehead. A group of shirtless workers swung shovels, rapidly shoveling coal from the carts into the boiler room at the end of the bridge.
Within minutes, billowing black smoke poured from the boilers. Then, the sound of gears turning and clashing echoed from under the bridge, and metal connecting rods of various sizes moved up and down rapidly, transitioning from slow to fast. The flat bridge deck slowly lifted, revealing a passage in the middle of the river.
Three three-masted sailing ships dragging pillars of black smoke sailed down the river, appearing to be headed toward the inland docks of the Twin Towers District. According to people waiting for the bridge, these were cargo ships coming from the capital, Norin. Due to the obstruction of the Carlos Mountain Range, trains could not travel directly, and the Lande River was the most convenient method of freight. Dozens of cargo ships traveled it every day.
Lynch sighed among the crowd. No wonder the railway project was meeting resistance. With such high throughput, how many people along the way would benefit from it? Not to mention anything else, opening and closing the bridge dozens of times a day consumed a massive amount of coal; the fuel alone generated enormous profits. Once the railway was built, the losses for these people would be unimaginable. Who else would cause trouble if not them?
He silently noted this information and watched with great interest as the bridge closed again. He truly hadn't expected that even with mere steam technology, such precise bridge lifting could be achieved at an eighteenth-century technical level.
It was just a small detour. Once across the river, Lynch headed upstream toward the Hall of Order.
Passing by Madam Bessie’s prop shop, he glanced inside. The innocent red-haired woman had first been implicated by Donnie, resulting in her home being blown up, and then nearly driven insane by a single glance from an evil god.
This shouldn't have anything to do with the side effects of me attracting the mysterious, right? I hadn't even stepped onto this path back then. It must be that she was just unlucky. It's a pity, but she is an expert after all; I expect she won't be left with psychological trauma. I hope she recovers soon, and I hope the other expert proves more reliable than her and interprets the mystery documents quickly.
Lynch muttered a few things without much self-awareness, then turned toward a cluster of low buildings a few hundred meters away, on the side of the Hall of Order.
It was a two-story Victorian-style building, a hundred meters wide, with four guards standing at the entrance in standard posture, looking clearly like they came from the blue uniforms.
The Rhine City Police Club, a semi-official institution exclusively for exchanges between special practitioners.
Normally, an ordinary private investigator wouldn't be qualified to enter unless Officer Angel brought them in every time. But being a special consultant for the Governor’s Mansion was different. The guard at the door tried to stop him, but Lynch took off his hat and revealed the small badge hidden inside.
It was the insignia of a special consultant to the Governor’s Mansion, delivered two days ago along with the two pages of mystery documents. In truth, it wasn't that specific; it just represented that he was special security personnel belonging to the Governor’s Mansion. It was a bit like the Watchers—not police, but fully qualified to use all police facilities. In an emergency, he could even use the badge to mobilize police resources, though not on the large scale that the Watchers could.
Lynch hadn't had a concept of it before, but after the officer explained it when handing it over, he understood what a great convenience the old duke had provided for his investigation.
Lynch was here today mainly to participate in some training courses. The first place he went was the combat club.
It was still very early, but people were already training inside. Lynch peeked at the door and the first thing he saw was several muscular men grappling and rolling around on the wooden floor.
He took one look and broke into a cold sweat. Lynch felt as if certain parts of his body were aching vaguely. Before anyone noticed him, he quickly left the combat club.
As a Lande gentleman, being so exposed was far too lacking in decorum. Yes, that’s right, I’m definitely not afraid. For such an indecorous matter, I’d better ask Officer Angel for private, hands-on instruction later; that would be at least a little more dignified.
That was decided.
Escaping in terror, fearing that a few hands might reach out from inside to pull him in, Lynch turned and went to the adjacent fencing club.
This department was empty, save for the waitress at the entrance who was bored and touching up her makeup. After asking, Lynch determined that this was more suitable for him.
He could perform basic combat training, mainly with a single-handed sword, but given the popularity of Lande gentleman attire, many people used canes instead of rapiers, which fit Lynch’s requirements perfectly. The only problem was... the annual fee was two pounds. If he requested specialized instruction, it was charged by the session, one shilling per hour.
Meanwhile, the combat club next door only cost one pound and ten shillings.
Hmm, should I go take a look at the one next door again?
Although he thought that in his heart, Lynch still paid the annual fee. In any case, the Night Church still had a fifteen-pound reimbursement quota, and they had said it was for improving his strength; this expenditure perfectly met the requirements.
Lynch didn't start training immediately. He had already planned it out in his mind: whenever he had time, he would practice fencing and physical fitness on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. As for Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays... naturally, that was for practicing marksmanship.
Climbing down three flights of stairs, a massive underground space appeared before his eyes.
This was the shooting club, which also served as a large target range.
The view was quite open. Gas light nozzles as thick as torches were embedded in the walls, and the bright flames made the range as bright as day.
This was cheaper; one shooting lane cost one shilling per hour. If shooting instruction was needed, it was an additional shilling. The prices were clearly marked and charged by the session. But the problem was that aside from the venue, ammunition was the main cost.
The .40 caliber revolver in Lynch’s hand used a relatively common caliber, and the ammunition was relatively cheap—one box of twenty-four rounds was exactly two shillings.
It’s just numbers. Just numbers.
Lynch was already numb. Only this thought remained in his mind. He was increasingly realizing that money simply didn't last; he had to earn more, or he wouldn't even have enough to pay for shooting practice.
Sighing, according to his schedule, today was shooting training time. No matter how much his heart ached, Lynch still paid out four shillings in coins, including hiring a shooting coach. Shooting technique was secondary; first, he asked for a complete demonstration of firearm maintenance procedures, and the coach recommended a full set of maintenance tools before briefly introducing shooting techniques.
The wrist strength, reinforced by his alienated soul, was just enough to hold the heavy pistol. The cold metallic touch gave him a strong sense of security.
He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. A huge blast rang in his ears, and the impact traveled from his wrist into his arm. It wasn't as heavy as he had imagined, seemingly because the gunpowder in this world was less powerful. Even so, it was enough to kill an ordinary person.
"Stop! Why are you closing your eyes? Why are you hitting the gas pipes on the ceiling? What exactly are you aiming at?"
Uh, your questions are too many. The more you know about this forbidden knowledge, the faster you die. Next time, the bullet might come looking for you.
Lynch glared viciously at the meddlesome coach in his heart and raised the gun at the target again.
The difficulty was quite high. Lynch had only practiced twelve rounds today before his wrist was aching badly, and only two shots had hit the target. Although the targets in the other lanes had suffered quite a bit of damage, at least he hadn't hit the coach behind him—it was truly worth celebrating.
However, it certainly felt great. As a shut-in from his past life, he had never touched a real gun; now he finally had a chance to indulge.
Rubbing his sore wrist and clutching his newly purchased gun maintenance tools, Lynch left the underground range, feeling satisfied.
Taking out his pocket watch to check the time, it was past ten. In a while, he would go to the Night Cathedral in Crown Square to get his membership fees reimbursed and collect the money, and by the way... hmm?
As Lynch was pondering his remaining morning plans while walking out of the Police Club, a faint scent suddenly reached his nose.
The stench of rot.
The distinct, putrid smell of a ghoul.
The scent was too iconic. Having smelled it for so long in Maya’s cabin, he couldn't forget it even if he wanted to.
Lynch’s mind tightened, but his movements and expression didn't change in the slightest.
Leaning against the side of the road, he lowered his flat cap to block his face and bowed his head, pretending to wind his pocket watch while his gaze searched for the direction the scent was drifting from under the brim of his hat.
The direction the smell was coming from was... hiss, why is it them?
Lynch frowned. That was one of the three black-trenchcoat-wearing Rangers, but it wasn't Walker, their leader.
This left Lynch puzzled because this scent was very strange.
Yesterday, he and Officer Angel had stayed in Maya’s cabin for a long time, and he had been prepared to be covered in the stench of rot. Yet after they left, they had sniffed each other, and there had been no smell at all.
After getting home, he had even asked the landlady to help test it, and everything had been normal.
Therefore, Lynch had concluded last night that the stench of rot was the scent of a ghoul, which could contaminate the environment but could not be transferred from the environment onto other people.
However, at this moment, the stench was emitting from that Ranger. The smell was faint but persistent; even in the open air, Lynch could clearly identify it.
It seems others can still be contaminated by the smell; I just don't know the method. The question is, where did these Rangers get contaminated?
Could they have found Maya or those hillmen?
A thought stirred in Lynch’s heart. He took two steps back and leaned into the shadows of a building. As light and shadow shifted, his figure disappeared in the middle of the crowd without attracting anyone’s attention.
It’s a truly useful ability, Lynch mused. However, knowing that the other party’s strength was likely higher than his own, Lynch didn't dare to follow too closely, maintaining a distance of three meters as he tailed them.
The other party was completely oblivious.
They weren't familiar with Lynch’s appearance; when they brushed past each other, they didn't notice him at all, let alone know that he had quietly followed them all the way back to the Hall of Order.
Hmm?
Just as he was about to enter the eastern building, the black trenchcoat stopped, turned back in confusion, shook his head in self-mockery, and turned to walk into the east building of the Hall of Order.
A blue uniform came down the stairs. Upon seeing the black trenchcoat, he immediately stood at attention to one side of the stairs, watching him pass by and walk straight up to the second floor. However, the blue uniform saluting looked suspiciously at the black trenchcoat’s back; for a moment, he felt as if he had seen a figure closely following the officer, but it immediately vanished.
"Officer, you..." He wanted to ask, but finding that Eric had already left, the blue uniform could only scratch his head in confusion, assuming he had just seen things.
Pushing open the two folding doors on one side of the second floor, he found a fairly large, open-plan office inside. The other two Rangers were in the corner of the office, whispering to each other across a desk with a stack of documents. The room was filled with many confiscated documents and furniture.
The black trenchcoat was about to enter the room and close the door when he heard a frantic shout from the stairwell he had just come from: "Officer, Officer."
The black trenchcoat stepped back out, cleared the office doorway, and looked around the hallway behind him. But the hallway and stairwell were completely empty. The black trenchcoat didn't see anyone, so he had to assume he had misheard. He cursed a few times and walked sullenly into the office.
"What’s wrong?" Walker glanced at him from afar.
"I don't know who called me. It’s strange, and I kept feeling like someone was watching me the whole way here."
"And now?"
"I don't feel it anymore. I guess I’m just too sensitive," the black trenchcoat said. "I made contact with that group of hillmen. They really are a bunch of ghouls."
"Hmm?"
"Just as that lord said, these dependents of the evil god are targeting that female reporter."
"Of course. That woman heard the whispers of Mordiggian, which is very important to them," Walker said with a cold sneer. "So we must find this person as soon as possible so that the lord won't have to worry about these hillmen causing trouble anymore."
"Damn woman, she’s just too good at hiding. Even the one in the picture frame lost track of her," the other black trenchcoat said, throwing the document in his hand away in frustration.
"Heh, then we’ll have to rely on our old friends," Walker said, no longer as arrogant as before, smiling coldly. "As long as we keep a close eye on those Watchers and provoke them from time to time, they’ll naturally help us find the female reporter. We can just wait with peace of mind. The only tricky thing is that Lynch. Have you found out where this guy popped up from? If he’s too much of an obstacle, clear him out."
"He’s just a useless detective. But the lord in the picture frame says this person is still useful, so it’s best not to touch him. Once he’s finished serving his purpose, we can deal with him however we like."
"Then let’s be patient and see what kind of commotion he and that crazy woman can cause together. We... hmm?"
As Walker was sneering, a red bell in the office suddenly began to ring, growing more urgent and louder.
"Emergency mission, move."
The expressions of the three Rangers changed. Not bothering to say anything more, they grabbed their respective weapons and rushed out of the office. Only the sound of their retreating footsteps could be heard. After another moment, Lynch’s figure emerged from a corner of the Rangers’ office.
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