Unexpected Gains

May 18, 1399, 7:00 AM.

Lynch was awakened by the sunlight streaming through the window.

Ever since his first night, he had developed the habit of falling asleep bathed in the moonlight. It immersed him in a grounded sense of security, though it naturally meant being woken by the sun the next morning.

Last night, after enjoying the pan-fried meat patties and thick vegetable soup that Mrs. Maggie had carefully prepared, Lynch had gone to Charles Square to burn off the energy he had just recovered. His flickering, half-visible figure had left behind countless piercing shrieks and sensational, bizarre urban legends across the square.

Returning satisfied to the 221 apartment, Lynch had gone to bed quite early. Soaking in the crimson moonlight, he had stared at the invitation, lost in thought.

With no way to tell if the sender was a friend or a foe, and given the rather eerie delivery method, Lynch hadn't actually wanted to go. Even though that black cat was remarkably beautiful and held great charm for him, he still felt uneasy.

However, after thinking it over all night, he changed his mind.

Upon closer reflection, the other party had maintained politeness throughout, deliberately avoiding startling Mrs. Maggie by sliding the letter through the crack beneath the door. It was this detail that ultimately made Lynch decide to go and see just who Countess Hathaway really was.

A courteous aristocratic style like this rarely involved laying a fatal trap right from the outset. Since his life was not in immediate danger, he might as well go see what this mysterious Countess Hathaway wanted.

Having made up his mind, Lynch fretted no longer. He simply went to sleep early to gather his strength until the sunlight fell across his face, rousing him from deep slumber.

Not being a slave to an alarm clock was truly wonderful.

Thinking over his schedule for the day, Lynch changed into loose casual clothes, stuffed his last six one-pound notes into his flat cap, and put on his revolver and ring before picking up his cane and heading downstairs.

The moment he came down, he saw a gentle, smiling face peeking out from the kitchen. The sight of Mrs. Maggie holding cooking tongs while wearing an apron brought warmth to Lynch's heart. Hearing that he was skipping breakfast to take a morning workout instead, Mrs. Maggie looked a little disappointed. Even so, she wrapped two slices of toast thickly slathered in butter and slipped them into his pocket before seeing him out of the apartment.

What a wonderful world.

Taking a deep breath of fresh air—and immediately coughing from the stench of coal smoke and horse manure—Lynch began briskly walking along the main road. Life in this era had not yet grown idle enough to give rise to the concept of morning jogging, but exercising his physical fitness was essential to prepare for future battles.

In half an hour, Lynch took a wide loop through the King District before finally crossing the Rhine Bridge over the Lande River into the Crown District. Along the way, he happened upon the opening of the bridge.

Two mine carts were pushed along a small set of tracks from a dark warehouse all the way to the bridgehead. A group of bare-chested workers swung shovels, rapidly shoveling coal from the carts into the bridgehead's boiler room.

Within minutes, billowing black smoke poured from the boiler. Then came the clattering and clanking of gears turning beneath and alongside the bridge. Metal connecting rods of various sizes moved up and down at an accelerating pace as the flat bridge deck slowly lifted, opening a passage in the center of the river.

Three three-masted sailing vessels trailed dark columns of smoke as they sailed down the river, seemingly headed for the inland port in the downstream Twin Towers District. According to people waiting by the road, these were cargo ships arriving from the capital, Norin. Because the Carlos Mountain Range blocked direct train passage, the Lande River was the most convenient freight route, with dozens of cargo ships traveling back and forth every day.

Standing in the crowd, Lynch sighed inwardly. No wonder the railway project faced so much opposition. With such massive cargo volume, countless people along the route profited from it. If nothing else, opening and closing the bridge dozens of times a day consumed a colossal amount of coal—the fuel alone generated immense profits. Once the railway was built, there was no telling how much these people stood to lose. Who else would cause trouble if not them?

Silently noting this information, Lynch watched the spectacular sight of the bridge closing with keen interest. He had truly not expected that steam technology alone could achieve such precise bridge-lifting mechanics under eighteenth-century technical limitations.

It was merely a brief interlude. Once across the river, Lynch followed the bank upstream and headed straight for the Hall of Order.

Passing Madam Bessie's prop shop, he peeked inside. That innocent red-haired woman had first been dragged into Donnie's mess and had her home blown up, and then was nearly driven mad by a single glance from an evil god.

This shouldn't have anything to do with my side effect of attracting mystery, right? I hadn't even embarked on this path back then. It must just be her own bad luck. Poor thing. But she's an expert after all; she probably won't suffer any lasting psychological trauma. Hopefully she recovers soon, and hopefully that other expert proves more reliable and deciphers the mystery documents as quickly as possible.

Lynch muttered a few unselfconscious remarks before turning toward a cluster of low-rise buildings a few hundred meters away beside the Hall of Order.

It was a two-story Victorian building a hundred meters wide, guarded at the entrance by four men standing in crisp, disciplined postures—clearly from the blue uniforms.

The Rhine City Police Club, a semi-official institution designed for special practitioners to interact.

Under normal circumstances, an ordinary private detective had no right to enter unless accompanied by Officer Natalie. But a special advisor to the Governor's Guard was a different matter. When the standing guard tried to stop him, Lynch took off his hat to reveal the small badge concealed inside.

That was the emblem of a special advisor to the Governor's Guard, delivered to his hands the day before yesterday along with the two pages of mystery documents. In truth, it wasn't overly specific; it simply identified him as special personnel under the Governor's Guard—somewhat like the Watchers. He wasn't a police officer, but he had full authority to use all police facilities. In moments of necessity, he could even mobilize police resources with the badge, albeit not on the massive scale the Watchers could.

Lynch hadn't fully grasped the concept before, but after the officer lady explained it when handing it over, he realized what immense convenience the old Duke had granted him for the investigation.

Lynch had come today primarily to attend some training courses. The first place he visited was the combat club.

It was still early, but people were already training inside. Peering through the doorway, the first thing Lynch saw was several burly, muscular men rolling and grappling with each other across the wooden floor.

A single look broke him out into a cold sweat. Lynch felt phantom aches in certain parts of his body, and before anyone noticed him, he hurried away from the combat club.

As a Lande gentleman, meeting like this with such bare honesty is far too undignified. Yes, exactly. I'm definitely not scared. Something so improper should be left for Officer Natalie to instruct me on in private. That would be a bit more dignified.

And so it was decided.

Fleeing the place with lingering dread, terrified that a few hands might reach out and drag him inside, Lynch turned toward the neighboring fencing club.

There was no one inside this department at the moment, save for a female attendant at the entrance touching up her makeup out of sheer boredom. After inquiring, Lynch determined that this place suited him much better.

Basic combat training was available, mainly focusing on single-handed swords. But given the prevailing gentleman attire in Lande, many people substituted rapiers with walking canes, which perfectly matched Lynch's requirements. The only issue was... the annual membership fee was two pounds. If he wanted private instruction, it was charged per session at one shilling per hour.

Meanwhile, the combat club next door only cost one pound and ten shillings.

Hmm, maybe I should check next door again?

Though he thought so inwardly, Lynch still paid the one-year membership fee. After all, the Church of the Black Night had granted him a reimbursement allowance of fifteen pounds. It had been earmarked for enhancing his own strength, and this expense fit the requirements completely.

Lynch did not begin training immediately, however. He had already laid out a schedule in his mind: whenever he had time, he would practice swordsmanship and physical conditioning on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, while Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays would be dedicated to... practicing marksmanship, of course.

Climbing down three flights of stairs, a massive subterranean space opened before his eyes.

This was the shooting club, which also served as a large firing range.

The view was remarkably expansive. Gas lamp nozzles as thick as torches were embedded in the walls, their bright flames illuminating the range as bright as day.

This place was relatively cheap: one shooting lane cost one shilling per hour, with an additional shilling if one required marksmanship instruction—clearly priced and charged per session. The catch, however, was that beyond the venue itself, ammunition was the real expense.

The .40-caliber revolver in Lynch's hand was a fairly common caliber with relatively cheap ammunition—one box of twenty-four rounds cost exactly two shillings.

It's just numbers, just numbers.

Lynch had grown numb, that single phrase repeating in his mind. He was increasingly realizing that money evaporated far too fast. He had to earn more; otherwise, he wouldn't even be able to afford target practice soon.

With a sigh, since today's schedule called for shooting practice, no matter how much his heart ached, Lynch slapped down four shillings in coins and hired a shooting instructor. Technique was secondary; he first asked for a complete walkthrough of firearm maintenance, and the instructor recommended a full set of maintenance tools before briefly introducing shooting fundamentals.

His alienated soul had enhanced his wrist strength, allowing him to easily steady the heavy handgun. The cold tactile feel of the metal gave him a profound sense of security.

Closing his eyes, he pulled the trigger. A deafening blast echoed in his ears as the recoil traveled from his wrist up his arm. It was not as heavy as he had imagined, likely due to gunpowder being less potent in this world. Even so, it was more than enough to kill an ordinary person.

“Stop! Why are you closing your eyes? Why did you shoot the gas pipe on the ceiling? What on earth are you aiming at?”

Uh, you ask too many questions. The more forbidden knowledge like this you know, the faster you die. Next time, the bullet will come looking for you.

Lynch glared viciously at the meddlesome instructor in his heart before raising his gun toward the target once more.

The difficulty was rather high. After firing twelve rounds, Lynch's wrist was already aching terribly, and only two shots had hit his target. Though targets on several adjacent lanes had suffered substantial damage, at least he hadn't shot the instructor behind him, which was truly something to celebrate.

Still, it felt undeniably exhilarating. An otaku in his previous life had never touched a real gun; now he finally had the chance to enjoy himself.

Rubbing his sore wrist and pocketing the newly purchased firearm maintenance kit, Lynch left the underground firing range feeling quite satisfied.

Pulling out his pocket watch to check the time, he saw it was past ten o'clock. Next, he would head to the Black Night Cathedral in Crown Square to get his membership fee reimbursed and collect the cash, and on the way... hm?

Just as Lynch was stepping out of the Police Club while pondering the rest of his morning plans, a faint scent caught his nose.

A rancid odor.

The distinctive stench of a ghoul.

The smell was unmistakable. Having spent so long in Maya's cabin, he could never forget it even if he tried.

Lynch tensed, but neither his movements nor his expression betrayed a thing.

Leaning against the roadside, he pulled his flat cap down to obscure his face, looking down as if winding his pocket watch while his gaze scanned beneath the brim in the direction of the odor.

The scent was coming from... hiss, why them?

Lynch frowned. It was one of the three black-trenchcoat Rangers, though not their leader, Walker.

This puzzled Lynch, as the scent was peculiar.

Yesterday, he and Officer Natalie had stayed in Maya's cabin for quite a while, fully prepared to come out reeking of decay. Yet after leaving, they had smelled each other and found no trace of the odor.

After returning home, he had even asked his landlady to check, and everything had been completely normal.

Therefore, Lynch had deduced last night that while the ghoul stench contaminated environments, it didn't transfer from the environment onto people.

Yet right now, the foul stench was emanating directly from that Ranger—faint, but lingering. Even out in the open air, Lynch could clearly identify it.

It seems other people can get tainted after all; I just don't know how. The question is, where did these Rangers pick it up?

Could they have found Maya or those hillmen?

With a flicker of thought, Lynch stepped back two paces into the shadow of a building. As light and shadow shifted, his figure vanished in broad daylight without drawing anyone's notice.

What a handy ability, Lynch marveled inwardly. Knowing the other man was likely stronger than himself, he didn't dare follow too closely, keeping a steady three-meter distance behind him.

The other man noticed nothing.

Unfamiliar with Lynch's appearance in the first place, he hadn't paid any attention when they brushed past, let alone realized Lynch was trailing him. He swaggered all the way back to the Hall of Order.

Hm?

Just as he was about to enter the eastern building, the black trench coat abruptly stopped. Glancing back suspiciously, he gave a self-deprecating shake of his head and turned to enter the east wing of the Hall of Order.

A blue uniform was walking down the stairs. Spotting the black trench coat, he snapped to attention against the wall, watching him pass and head straight up to the second floor. However, the saluting blue uniform stared at the Ranger's back in confusion; for a split second, he seemed to have seen a silhouette trailing right behind the superior, only for it to vanish instantly.

“Sir, did you...” Just as he went to ask, he saw that Eric was already gone. The blue uniform could only scratch his head in bewilderment, assuming his eyes were playing tricks on him.

Pushing open the double doors on the second floor, Eric entered a large open-plan office. The other two Rangers were in a corner across a desk, conversing in hushed tones over a stack of documents. The room was also filled with seized paperwork and confiscated furniture.

Just as the black trench coat went to close the door behind him, an urgent shout came from the hallway he had just traversed: “Sir! Sir!”

The black trench coat backed out of the doorway, stepping aside to scan the hallway behind him. But the corridor and stairwell were completely empty. Seeing no one, he assumed he had misheard. Cursing under his breath, he walked back into the office in frustration.

“What's the matter?” Walker glanced at him from across the room.

“No idea who called me. Strange. And all the way here, I felt like someone was watching me.”

“And now?”

“Nothing now. Probably just being paranoid,” the black trench coat said. “I made contact with that bunch of hillmen. Turns out they really are ghouls.”

“Oh?”

“Just as His Excellency said, those evil god's scions are after that female reporter.”

“Of course. That woman heard the whispers of Mordiggian; she's very important to them,” Walker sneered. “So we must locate her as quickly as possible. That way, His Excellency won't have to worry about these hillmen making trouble.”

“Damn woman, she's too good at hiding. Even the one in the picture frame lost track of her.” The other black trench coat threw down the documents in his hand with frustration.

“Heh, then we'll have to rely on our old friends.” Shedding his earlier arrogance, Walker chuckled coldly. “As long as we keep a close eye on those Watchers and provoke them once in a while, they'll naturally help us find the reporter. We can just sit back and wait. The only tricky variable is that Lynch. Did you find out where he came from? If he gets in the way too much, eliminate him.”

“He's just a worthless detective. But His Excellency in the picture frame said he's still useful, so it's best not to touch him. Once he has served his purpose, we can dispose of him however we please.”

“Then we'll endure a bit longer and see what kind of mess he and that crazy woman can stir up. We'll... hm?”

As Walker was sneering, a red bell inside the office suddenly began ringing, growing more urgent and loud by the second.

“Emergency mission. Move.”

The expressions of the three Rangers changed instantly. With no time for further words, they seized their respective weapons and dashed out of the office. The sound of their footsteps faded into the distance. After another moment, Lynch's silhouette materialized from a corner of the Rangers' office.