shadow of britain

Chapter 777 The mystery of life experience
He started talking about an old incident from more than 20 years ago...

Elder lowered his voice slightly, as if someone had accidentally discovered a dusty box in the corner of the room and gently blew on it: "It was 1810, the dead of winter. Snow blocked the roads, rivers froze and cracked, and the wind swirled ice shards through the valleys. In a workhouse in the Bradford countryside of Yorkshire, that night, for the first time ever, the lights stayed on all night. Because a poor, pregnant woman with blue lips from the cold had knocked on the workhouse door alone that evening."

Elder lit his pipe and took a slow puff: "Nobody knows who she is, and nobody asked where she came from. The midwife said she crawled to the door, one step at a time, using a broken stick as a crutch. The woman fainted a few minutes after entering and later gave birth in the worst stone room in the workhouse. She died shortly after the baby was born, without a single piece of identification on her body, and without leaving a single word before she died."

The carriage lurched slightly, and the wheel hub rolled over a loose stone slab with a short, sharp sound.

"Because the new Poor Law had not yet been passed at that time, the funds for poverty relief were relatively sufficient. In addition, the deacons of the workhouse were quite kind-hearted... In short, the child was lucky. He survived in the workhouse until the age of six, which was a small miracle."

Elder adjusted his posture and continued, "When he was six years old, the owner of Lynn Valley Farm, a local gentry, came to the workhouse to choose apprentices. Normally, a six-year-old child wouldn't be considered, but because he was clever, sweet-talking, and eloquent, he was chosen instead of the nine- or ten-year-olds. Strangely enough, according to the pastor, the gentry who chose him had lost his son a few years earlier, leaving him mentally unstable. Yet, upon seeing the six-year-old, he immediately became radiant and told everyone that 'an angel had brought him back.'"

Elder chuckled. "Doesn't that sound like a legend? A child falling from the sky, a dead son, or a soul swapped with the devil or something..."

Arthur still did not respond; he didn't even move a finger.

“Interestingly, a few years later, the landowner asked someone to inquire in town again, saying he wanted to get his ‘nephew’ registered in the parish, and the surname on the identity certificate was—Hastington, the same surname as that old country gentleman.” Elder said, glancing sideways at Arthur’s profile. “I didn’t believe it at first, but Flora said that the pastor on her aunt’s side was the one who issued that woman’s death certificate. The pastor was there when the old country gentleman died, and he said that the old country gentleman kept saying until his last breath, ‘The name is fake, the surname is borrowed, but the eyes are real.’”

Elder took another puff of his pipe. He remained silent for a long while, as if waiting for the wind outside the window to calm down, or perhaps weighing what he should and shouldn't say. After all, what he had discussed today wasn't just high society gossip, but also the background and origins of his good friend Arthur Hastings.

Although the two had always been very close, Arthur had always avoided talking about his family background. Elder didn't know why before, but after hearing this strange story from Miss Flora Hastings, he finally understood why.

"Later... of course, I heard these words from Flora, and I don't know whether I should believe them or not." After considering for a long time, Elder slowly said, "After all, Aunt Flora is a notorious gossip, but sometimes she doesn't make things up entirely."

As he spoke, he flicked the ash out of his pipe.

"She said that the old country gentleman named Hastings not only lost his son, but more accurately... he drove his son to his death."

"It is said that the child in the workhouse was not originally an orphan. And the girl who died in the workhouse after giving birth was not the plaything of some dissolute nobleman. She was originally a singing girl who traveled all over the country with a village theater troupe. She had a sweet voice and could sing 'Barbara Allen' so well that it would bring tears to people's eyes."

Elder chuckled: "One day, the country theater troupe came to Bradford. The old squire's only son often went to town and listened to her sing several times. As he listened, he developed feelings for her. Later, when the country theater troupe was about to leave, the girl stayed in town. To avoid suspicion, the old squire's son even rented a house for her in the next town. The two secretly met, their feelings grew stronger, and they even planned to elope."

"And the result?" Arthur asked, unusually.

"Of course, it was discovered. The old gentry sent men to bring his son back halfway and lock him in the barn of the estate, saying that it was to sever the ill-fated relationship."

Elder paused for a moment: "But that guy didn't make it. He hanged himself in the barn and died. When he was found the next day, his face was swollen beyond recognition, and he was still clutching the handkerchief the girl had left him."

"And what about the girl?"

Elder paused for a moment, then sighed softly: "She waited all night but no one came, and the next morning she was chased out of town by the parish bailiffs. Because of her lowly status, lack of family background, and the rumor that she had seduced the son of a gentry, everyone despised her, and no one would take her in. So she braved the wind and snow and walked ten miles from the next town to Bradford, and then..."

The carriage jolted once more, as if fate were passing through some muddy pothole, forcing it to stumble.

Arthur didn't look at Elder; he just stared at the air in front of him and said with a hint of sarcasm, "The old-fashioned 'Oliver Twist,' with its opening, its backstory, its plot... to put it kindly, it's a classic; to put it bluntly, it's cliché. Elder, are you trying to tell me that I'm actually the prototype for Oliver Twist?"

Elder thought Arthur was talking to him, so he quickly swore to the heavens, "Arthur, I promise, I haven't embellished anything this time. You may not believe what I'm saying, but every word I say is basically a paraphrase of Flora's words."

Elder was clearly deluding himself, because Arthur's words were never directed at him.

Arthur looked out the window and said nothing more.

Elder thought Arthur was angry with him, so he wisely shut his mouth and stopped nagging.

Silence fell over the carriage, broken only by the sound of wind seeping in through the cracks in the door, like a soft humming. Until the eerie humming grew clearer and clearer, exploding in Arthur's ears.

"Who tonight in the old barn...hung the rope of fate...alas, who abandoned their beloved...leaving her alone to freeze to death in the snow..."

Out of the corner of Arthur's eye, he noticed that someone had somehow appeared in the seat next to him that had been empty.

A red and white pointed hat, with three brass bells adorning the tip, jingling slightly as the head swayed. Exaggerated white powder was applied to the face, the corners of the mouth were split open, the red nose was shiny, and black teardrop patterns were drawn around the eyes.

It's a limited-time return of the Agares Joker skin.

“Watch out, dear Arthur,” Agares said, shaking his head. “The dice have already been rolled, and it’s too late to take it back now.”

Arthur was not surprised at all; in fact, he had known all along that the devil would come.

After all, the story Elder told him was Agares's masterpiece, and the most successful deal he had made since signing the contract with the Red Devils.

“Agares…” Arthur murmured.

“Oh, you still remember my name, that’s really touching.” Agares clutched his chest, feigning a slight tremor of excitement. “You know, you weren’t this polite when you were little. Back then, you couldn’t even speak properly, you just called me ‘Gaga Ghost.’” Arthur, hearing Agares expose his shortcomings, simply closed his eyes and held his breath.

In fact, Agares cannot be entirely blamed for calling him "Gaga ghost".

Because when Arthur first arrived, his spoken English was already poor, and the locals spoke a heavily accented Yorkshire dialect... In order to help this young boy understand "how great a Duke of Hell is Agares," Agares would naturally use the Yorkshire dialect, which he thought Arthur was quite familiar with, to explain.

When the two first met, Arthur, in order to prevent Agares from discovering his secret, naturally had to speak little, or even remain silent. If Agares hadn't already known that this kid was a born villain, a top-tier scoundrel unlike any other in a century, he would most likely have thought the boy had intellectual disabilities.

“You’ve been quite busy today.” Agares grinned. “I heard a short play about a life story: a workhouse, a singing girl, a hanged man, tsk tsk… This play is almost on par with Shakespeare.”

As he spoke, he magically produced a yellowed death registration form from his sleeve, the ink on it faded:

Name:——

Mother: Unknown
Date: January 15, 1810
Notes: Infant deceased at 04:27 AM. Body moved to morgue. Witness: Agnes M.
“What a pity.” He gently spread the paper on his lap: “The real Arthur Hastings died beside his mother’s body five minutes before you opened your eyes. The light you saw was lit for him, not for you. Nowadays, besides you and me, who remembers that there were actually two newborns in the workhouse that day?”

Agares suddenly clapped his hands, the Red Devil laughed heartily, the copper bells jingled, and the carriage seemed to shake.

“You did a wonderful job, Arthur, a truly wonderful job! Oh, or rather, I should call you Mr. Nobody. But so what? The real Arthur Hastings was just a workhouse baby who died next to his mother's body, never even having a chance to cry before being tagged and sent to the morgue. And you? How amazing you are, my dear Arthur! You took his name and polished it! You made the name 'Arthur Hastings' climb from the cold stone slabs of the workhouse into the University of London, Scotland Yard, the Foreign Office, the Royal Society, and even the lecture halls of the Prince of Wales! You just used his shell to play yourself.”

Agares paced back and forth inside the carriage with his hands behind his back.

"You say you don't care about your background?"

"You said you scorn noble blood?"

"You say you earned every inch of your power through your own efforts?"

"These are all right, and all wrong."

Agares clenched the word "power" as if he were tearing a piece of flesh from a corpse.

"It's precisely because you're not him that you have all of this. If you really were that baby, the real Arthur Hastings, you might have been assigned to be a magistrate, managing the parish budget, or perhaps a pastor by the time you were thirty, quietly reciting prayers in church. If you were lucky, you might even have married the niece of a member of the House of Commons and lived a life of plenty."

Agares snapped his fingers, then suddenly stopped, leaning forward to stare intently at Arthur with his eyes streaked with black tears. "Do you know where your greatest success lies? It wasn't the first incriminating evidence you uncovered at Scotland Yard, nor the order to fire during the parliamentary reforms, but rather that in that farm, when you first saw that old man coughing up blood and calling you 'my nephew,' you didn't run away in terror. You know you even stole your surname, so you work harder, are more cautious, and know better when to lie than the real Arthur Hastings. You never thought you were born to have these things, so you're better at preserving your power than any other nobleman."

Agares' exaggerated smile drew close to Arthur's face, his red nose touching Arthur's: "You've realized you're inferior to him, my dear Arthur, that's the secret to your success."

The Red Devil's white-powdered face still hung beside him, smiling as he waited for Arthur's "breakdown".

But no, Arthur did not break down.

He has indeed changed a lot compared to five years ago.

He didn't even raise an eyebrow; he simply tapped his fingers slowly on his knees, like a judge evaluating a play.

The wind outside seeped through the cracks in the car window, ruffling the ribbon of his scarf.

“Elder,” Arthur finally spoke, his voice clear, calm, and devoid of any emotion: “Have you been able to arrange a meeting with Miss Flora Hastings lately?”

Elder was startled, nearly dropping his pipe: "You...who are you talking about?"

Arthur kept looking ahead: "I want to see her, the sooner the better. Maybe I'll change my mind in a couple of days."

“You mean, you’ve finally…” Elder almost stood up: “Arthur, you…have come to your senses?”

Elder was overjoyed, though he had anticipated this outcome—Arthur lowering his guard and returning to his family. But this wasn't what pleased him most. What pleased Elder most was that Arthur had only agreed to meet Flora privately after his persuasion. This fully demonstrated how much Arthur valued their years-long friendship.

Arthur suddenly looked up and gazed out the window: "I... need to confirm some things."

"About your background?" Elder's tone was filled with undisguised anticipation. "You mean... you're planning to talk to her?"

“No,” Arthur said slowly and deliberately. “Eld, don’t flatter yourself. I don’t need a relative. Of course, I have no problem with Miss Flora Hastings, but I don’t owe them anything either. If some people really think I’m part of any family, then let them come to me. If they’d like to sit down and talk, then please choose a respectable place.”

At this point, Arthur casually put the topic aside, adding, "If you ever have the chance to see her, you might as well pass on a message for me."

(End of this chapter)