Chapter 68

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At dusk, the setting sun cast long shadows of the carriages and horses on the street. Having informed Benson and Melissa ahead of time, Klein had dinner at Blackthorn Security Company and was on his way to the dockside with Old Neil in a coach. Klein wore his cheap suit, wary that a quarrel might break out in such a shady location. If he damaged the tailcoat he usually cared for so painstakingly, he’d probably cry his heart out.

When the last rays of the sun took on a fiery tinge, the coach stopped. Old Neil, in his customary traditional black robe and bowler hat, strode past indifferent to the gazes of passersby toward the Dark Dragon Bar diagonally across the street. Although the bar was still a distance away and its heavy doors tightly shut, Klein could hear wave after wave of rapturous shouts emanating from within, as if cheering for a hero.

As they approached, Klein suddenly sensed something. He turned his head toward the warehouse opposite the bar and spotted a stocky man in uniform standing in a hidden corner on the rooftop.

The man carried a massive, grayish-white mechanical box on his back and held a thick, intricately designed rifle in his hand. The box was clearly connected to the rifle by a series of pipes.

“High-pressured steam rifle?” Klein muttered in shock. He turned to Old Neil and said, “This bar can get their hands on weapons like this?!”

That's a military-grade item!

Although it used extracted phlogiston, the size and weight of the high-pressured steam backpack were still shocking—something that only a true red-blooded warrior could wield. The rifle’s muzzle velocity was extremely high, endowing it with shocking destructive power. Matched with a suitable optic, it was nearly equivalent to an inferior sniper rifle.

“What?” Old Neil squinted as he looked over with a confused expression. “Did something happen?”

Something has most definitely happened.

Klein surveyed the surroundings and discovered a few more men holding repeating rifles, seemingly searching for something.

“What’s all the commotion?” Old Neil walked up to the bar and asked a brawny man guarding its door outside.

The brawny man, clearly acquainted with Old Neil, smiled wryly. “The bar was nearly destroyed earlier. Apparently, a wanted man was here trying to buy materials and was recognized. This was the result. Good Lord, I wonder what he did. How dangerous did he have to be for people to react like this? My legs went limp the minute I saw all those guns—limper than after a whole night with Ginger Sunny!”

He didn’t know the wanted man’s identity, much less that there were Beyonders among those who came here for materials.

“Wanted man? Do you know his name?” Old Neil asked, his interest piqued.

“I think it was... Tris or something?” the brawny man answered uncertainly.

Instigator Tris?

Klein nodded in understanding. He had already deduced what had occurred here. Tris, unaware that Joyce Meyer already suspected him, had nonchalantly strolled into the black market to purchase materials without caution. He was likely recognized by an informant from the Machinery Hivemind, the Mandated Punishers, or the Nighthawks—resulting in an intense clash.

“Was he caught?” Klein tapped his silver-inlaid black cane.

Judging by the scene, I’d guess not...

The brawny man shook his head slightly and gestured with his chin toward the rooftop of the warehouse across the street. “He rushed out before those terrifying guys arrived. Bloody hell, I’ve never seen a man run faster than he did!”

You really haven't seen the true skills of an Assassin, or you'd be whisked away to some indescribable place for reeducation...,Klein thought.

“Is the market still open?” Old Neil changed the subject and asked.

“It just restored operations,” replied the brawny man affirmatively.

“That’s great.” Old Neil quickened his pace and pushed open the heavy door with his right hand.

Klein walked in, following closely behind. He nearly fainted from the stuffy air and the stench of alcohol that filled the space.

In the middle of Dark Dragon Bar stood a boxing ring. Two bare-chested men were locked in an intense brawl while dozens of customers shouted and cheered for their favored fighter, vulgarities mixed in the clamor.

Old Neil ignored the spectacle and led Klein around the boxing ring toward a billiard room at the back. In the billiard room, two people were laughing and chatting while holding cue sticks. When they saw Old Neil enter, they fell silent for a few seconds. After confirming his identity, they stepped aside to let Old Neil and Klein pass through a secret door behind them.

They proceeded through several rooms until the view before Klein opened up into a space roughly the size of a lecture hall from his previous life. Vendors had set up roadside stalls on the ground, with vials and jars scattered about. Passersby strolled through, scrutinizing the goods, chatting, or comparing prices.

“They have to give five percent of their profits to Swain. Ah, he is the boss of the Dark Dragon Bar, former captain of a Mandated Punisher squad and older than I am. He’s a man who wishes to drink himself to death,” Old Neil explained in a garrulous tone.

Klein thought for a moment before giving his honest opinion. “A rather profitable business.”

After all, his only investment was providing both a venue and protection.

“If any item catches your fancy but you lack the money, you can borrow from Swain. But of course, he charges very high interest...,” Old Neil trailed off, gnashing his teeth.

As expected, it's like running a casino. They practice usury...

Holding his walking stick, Klein looked around and asked curiously, “Mr. Swain is a Seafarer?”

The captain of a Mandated Punisher squad would most likely be rank seven.

“No, he is only a Folk of Rage. Tingen is not a coastal city, so the Church of the Goddess holds more sway here than the Lord of Storms,” Old Neil scoffed. “Actually, Swain had the chance to become a Seafarer, but he chose to forgo that opportunity out of fear of losing control.”

Just as Klein was about to ask if the bar’s owner had any experience with nearly losing control, he suddenly sensed something strange to his left.

There appears to be a hidden presence over there, muttering and recounting.

Klein turned his head and saw a young man with a pale face. He wore an old linen shirt and navy-blue trousers typical of the working class. His eyes were unfocused, yet a glint of madness shined through as he mumbled incessantly.

“His spiritual perception is very high...or perhaps distorted?” Klein murmured, creasing his eyebrows.

It was the young man’s spiritual perception that had triggered his own.

Generally speaking, an alert from another’s spiritual perception would certainly be a two-way interaction; it was nearly impossible to conceal it from the other party. But here, “the other party” referred only to Spirit Mediums and powerful individuals with similar abilities. A Beyonder like Klein wouldn’t normally detect it unless the other person’s spiritual perception reached an extraordinary level or some abnormal distortion occurred.

When he made eye contact, the young man with the pale face and messy black hair walked toward Klein with an expression that made him seem half-asleep and half-mad. He stopped before Klein and stared blankly at him.

Suddenly, he guffawed. “Ha-ha, it’s the smell of death, the smell of—Aaaah!”

Before he could finish, he let out a devastating scream. His eyes clamped shut as crimson liquid flowed from them.

“Ah! Darn it!” The young man covered his eyes and clutched his head. He struggled and rolled on the ground, only calming after what seemed like an eternity. Throughout the entire episode, not a single customer or vendor looked over.

Klein pressed down his short top hat and glanced at Old Neil, his mouth hanging open in shock—a silent plea for guidance.

“Don’t mind him. His name is Ademisaul, an orphan. People call him Monster. He was born with unusually high spiritual perception, which means he can see and hear things he shouldn’t. That’s why he’s always raving about something or another and getting hurt,” Old Neil explained, shaking his head.

He could tell that my body had died once?Klein knitted his eyebrows together as he lowered his voice, “Haven’t the Nighthawks, the Mandated Punishers, or the Machinery Hivemind ever considered taking him in and recruiting him?”

Old Neil sighed, “No, we do not have a Sequence potion that suits him.”

Right, he was born at the starting line of half a potion...

Klein inquired curiously, “What Sequence would suit him?”

“The Sequence Nine that suits him is called Monster—that’s where his nickname comes from. It’s a pity that only the Life School holds the beginning of this Sequence,” Old Neil replied quietly, careful to keep the conversation discreet from the surrounding mysticism enthusiasts.

The mention of the Life School stirred Klein’s memory. This secret organization had appeared in the early period of the current epoch. Its origins were shrouded in mystery, but its lineage was based on a master-apprentice system, and its theories were closely guarded. Klein recalled that they divided the world into three levels: the world of absolute rationality (or absolute truth), the world of the spirit, and the material world.

Rumor has it that they once produced an Soothesayer... But shouldn't such an achievement belong to the Seer's Sequence pathway? Confusing, honestly...

As he shook his head in thought, he noticed Ademisaul struggling to rise before he eventually wandered off to another corner. Klein refocused and followed Old Neil. They passed stall after stall—selling plants like moonflower, bergamot, and night vanilla, and minerals such as sterling silver, yellow crystals, and rubies.

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“It’s really very well stocked...,” Klein muttered softly. The mysticism enthusiasts around him of all ages and genders occasionally stopped to examine the wares or chat with vendors, lending the place a bustling atmosphere.

“Walk around on your own. I’m going to settle my bill,” Old Neil said, pointing toward one of the rooms at the far end.

“All right.” Klein nodded without hesitation. Clutching his walking stick, he strolled leisurely down the lanes until he reached a stall selling self-made protection charms. He stopped to examine them more closely.

Just as Klein prepared to speak with the seller, he suddenly heard a voice at the stall behind him. “Is this powder ground from cow-teeth peony?”

Cow-teeth peony? Isn't that one of the supplementary ingredients for the Spectator potion?

A spark of recognition lit up in Klein’s mind. Since Justice had repeated the formula for that potion several times, he had a remarkably strong memory of its ingredients.