Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

The mornings in Saint Laurent never belong to the sun; they belong to the soot, the ashes, and the "Leviathan" main steam pipe that stretches across the sky.

The dark red gas lamps swayed in the year-round smog, illuminating the menacing shadows cast by the Gothic spires and the cobblestone streets stained with grease and teeming with dead rats.

Workers in tattered vests swarmed out of the tenement building like ants, numbly walking into the factory that spewed black smoke; a prostitute suffering from tuberculosis leaned against a dripping wall, waving a cheap handkerchief at a passing horse-drawn carriage.

Several emaciated wild dogs, their fur peeling off to reveal dark red muscles, are fighting over an unidentified corpse that has floated out of the sewer.

The corpse's skin glowed with an eerie green light, as if it had become swollen from inhaling an excessive amount of alchemical waste.

The air was thick with the pungent smells of sulfur, engine oil, and decay; every breath felt like swallowing a handful of rusty iron filings.

On both sides of the street, huge gas lamp poles stood like silent guards, their glass covers spewing hissing blue flames that barely illuminated this dim, yellowish space.

As Xilun passed by the back alley of a bakery, several "climbing boys" who were all black except for the whites of their eyes were huddled in the air vent to keep warm.

These seven- or eight-year-old children were tools specifically used to clean narrow chimneys. Because of long-term inhalation of coal dust, their breathing sounded like broken bellows. They used their small, withered hands to share a piece of moldy cheese.

Further along, you'll find the bustling "Juniper Street".

Streetwalkers in cheap printed dresses leaned against red brick walls, their faces painted with pale lead powder, making exaggerated kissing gestures at passing carriages; while washerwomen with red hands and large knuckles carried wicker baskets full of wet clothes on their heads, trudging through the mud like heavily laden animals, cursing the damned weather in vulgar slang.

The newsboy waved his damp newspaper, his shrill voice piercing through the noisy crowd:

"Breaking News! Breaking News! Jack the Ripper reappears in Whitechapel! Scotland Yard is helpless!"

Breaking news! Her Majesty Queen Victoria will visit the Royal Navy next month, and the new ironclad warship HMS Dreadnought will be launched soon!

Xilun stared straight ahead, like a silent shadow passing through these ukiyo-e prints belonging to that era.

About twenty minutes later, he stopped in front of a red brick building that was not grand, but appeared particularly imposing.

Iron Cross Fighting Club

A weathered oak sign hangs at the entrance, with a huge cross and a pair of crossed boxing gloves cast in black iron.

Xilun stood at the doorway and took a deep breath.

In addition to the smell of coal smoke, there was a faint smell of wintergreen oil and old sawdust in the air.

For a laborer like him in the lower city, this was a narrow door to changing his fate.

Compared to those upscale clubs that cater only to nobles and gentlemen and charge annual fees of several hundred pounds, the Iron Cross Club is much more "accessible".

There are no expensive carpets or crystal chandeliers here, only sturdy oak floors and sandbags.

For just ten pounds, you can study here for twelve weeks. Although there is no one-on-one personal butler service, they teach real "breathing techniques" and provide basic, extraordinary medicine.

Furthermore, if you have enough talent and savings, you can even gain the opportunity to advance to the first-tier extraordinary being—the "Baptized One"—here.

Pushing open the heavy spring door, the hustle and bustle of the city was instantly shut out.

The lobby wasn't crowded, and it wasn't as noisy as I had imagined.

Most of the people coming and going were simply dressed, wearing tweed short coats or work pants; they were strivers like Xilun.

Occasionally, one might see one or two young people dressed in well-tailored suits and top hats. Although they try to keep a low profile, their fair skin and exquisite canes still reveal their good backgrounds.

Their fathers might be doctors or lawyers, with respectable professions and substantial incomes, even without noble titles.

Xilun stepped to the front desk.

Behind the counter sat a lady wearing a beige dress, her hair neatly pinned up, with a brass club badge pinned to her chest.

Seeing Xilun covered in oil and dressed in tattered clothes, she didn't show disgust like the shop assistants outside. Instead, she put down her pen and gave a professional and gentle smile.

"Good day, sir. How can I help you?"

This long-unheard honorific made Xilun pause slightly. He subconsciously straightened his back and spoke in a hoarse voice:

"I want to learn from an extraordinary person."

The woman nodded slightly, not surprised by those words, and skillfully pulled out a registration form:

"Okay, please register here."

Xilun picked up a pen and awkwardly wrote down his name and address on the paper.

As the woman watched him write, she introduced the text in a soft voice:

"Sir, we need to confirm first that our club's basic course starts at twelve weeks and costs ten pounds. This includes five instructional sessions per week and a basic nutritional supplement per day."

Xilun nodded: "I know."

"In addition," the woman added, her tone showing a hint of consideration, "the club provides students with hot showers all day long, as well as free lunch. If you have further needs for more advanced combat techniques, or require high-level nutritional supplements, you can consult your instructor at any time, or contact me directly, although the price may be quite expensive."

Hot showers and lunch included.

Xilun paused, his hand holding the pen still. These two things alone were already heavenly treatment for people in the slums.

After Xilun finished filling out the form, the woman looked down and flipped through the thick roster, her fingertip pausing on a line of names embossed in gold.

"You're in luck. There's a vacancy right now with a mentor named 'Raine.' He's a seasoned second-tier Extraordinary, known for his strictness and demanding nature, but his students have the highest success rate in passing the 'Holy Baptism.' Would you be willing to accept his guidance?"

Second-tier extraordinary!

A glint of light flashed in Xilun's eyes, and he nodded without hesitation: "I'm willing."

"Okay." The woman quickly scribbled a few lines on the roster. "Then starting tomorrow, please come to the club on time every Monday to Friday, from nine in the morning to three in the afternoon. Mr. Ryan hates people who are late."

After saying that, she smiled and looked at Xilun: "Please pay your tuition first."

Xilun pulled the heavy cloth bag from his pocket, licked his chapped lips, and asked hesitantly:

"It's only noon... If I pay now, will the time be calculated from tomorrow?"

The woman paused for a moment, then covered her mouth and let out a series of clear laughs, which were genuinely amusing, not mocking.

"Oh, dear sir, you've misunderstood. Today is Saturday, and tomorrow is Sunday. Weekends are Queen Victoria's statutory holidays, and Teacher Wren and most of the staff do not work."

Xilun was stunned.

"Days off?"

A hint of confusion flashed in his dark brown eyes.

You can actually rest on a day off?

Xilun remained silent for a moment, then nodded slightly and asked no more questions. He opened the cloth bag and prepared to count the money.

The first thing to be revealed was a stack of crumpled vouchers printed with cheap ink.

The woman's gaze swept over the scraps of paper. Her smile remained, but her tone became more formal:

"Sir, I'm very sorry. The Iron Cross Club only accepts legal tender issued by Her Majesty the Queen. We do not accept any form of voucher."

"I see."

Siren calmly tucked the stack of vouchers back to the bottom, then carefully arranged the gold, silver, and copper coins on the counter.

Nine gold pounds and ten silver shillings—that was four years of his hard-earned money.

The other ten silver shillings were a gift from Finn and Bill.

There were also six copper pennies to make up the difference.

When the last copper coin fell, Xilun's cloth bag was almost deflated.

Now he was left with only one silver shilling and six copper pennies.

Looking at the coins, blackened by oil and sweat, the woman didn't find them dirty; instead, she carefully counted them one by one.

"Exactly ten pounds."

The woman swept the money into the drawer, wrote out a receipt stamped with wax, and handed it to Xilun.

"Welcome to the Iron Cross Fighting Club, Siron student. May extraordinary glory shine upon you."