Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

Just then, a rapid ringing of a bell came from the street.

It wasn't an ordinary carriage bell, but a patrol whistle.

The people in the tailor shop all turned their heads at the same time.

The pedestrians outside the window seemed to be pushed aside by an invisible hand, retreating to both sides of the street.

The old woman selling oyster soup quickly dragged the stove back, the liquor stall owner kicked aside the wooden barrel blocking the way, and two workers grabbed the unfinished potatoes and stood straight against the wall.

The sound of horses' hooves came from the mist.

Sinking, even, hard.

Like a row of hammers striking a stone slab.

A troop of cavalry appeared from the street corner.

They wore dark red and black riding attire, with gleaming shoulder armor and short cloaks draped over their backs.

Each person had a lance hanging from their waist and a long spear held horizontally in their hand, the cold glint of the spear tip gleaming slightly in the thin winter sun.

The horses were tall, their nostrils puffing out white steam. Their horseshoes pounded through puddles, splashing mud onto the trouser legs of people on the roadside, but no one dared to touch them.

In the center of the procession was a Tussor family flag.

Iron gray background, red spear piercing through thorns.

Rhodes walked to the window and lowered his voice: "Tusol's Guard."

Xilun looked at the team.

The knights did not deliberately drive the pedestrians away.

But their very advance is a form of driving.

One of the vendors carrying goods was a little slow to retreat, and one end of his carrying pole swung out half a foot, blocking the way in front of the outermost knight's horse.

The knight didn't even lift his eyelids. With a swift movement of his lance, he snapped the carrying pole in two, overturned the basket, and scattered apples all over the ground.

The vendor turned pale and knelt down with a thud.

The knight continued forward.

The horse's hoof crushed two apples, splashing red and white flesh into the muddy water, like minced meat.

No one spoke in the shop.

A moment later, the worker eating potatoes muttered through the window, "son of a bitch."

His voice was very low.

But his companion immediately covered his mouth.

"Are they out of their minds? Those are Tusol's guards!"

Another person said in a trembling voice, "I heard that they soaked in medicinal baths from a young age, and their bones are embedded with mithril powder. When a musket fires at them, it only leaves a white mark."

"So what if you're bulletproof?" The liquor stall owner huddled behind the stove. "I heard an old soldier say that when they charged into battle, they could run thirty paces under artillery fire. Thirty paces! That's enough to put your head on the tip of a gun."

"Those are all monsters who serve the noble lords."

"Shut up!"

The murmurs were like water in a ditch, low in volume, yet flowing everywhere.

Siren's gaze fell on one of the knights.

The man was older than the other knights, with a diagonal scar on his cheek. He rode with his back straight, his fingers resting on his lance, and his breathing was so steady that it was almost imperceptible.

As the procession passed the tailor shop, he seemed to sense something and glanced sideways into the window.

Their eyes met briefly through the glass.

The knights didn't stop.

Xilun did not look away.

"A second-tier extraordinary being..."

Only when the sound of horses' hooves faded into the distance did the streets slowly come back to life, like someone who had been holding their breath for too long.

The old woman helped to lift the stove, the vendor knelt on the ground picking up rotten apples, and the liquor stall owner grumbled as he cleaned up the mud, but no one mentioned the cavalry troop from earlier anymore.

The old tailor put the sleeve pin back into the cushion: "Sir, the dress can be altered this afternoon."

"Is it too late?"

"There's plenty of time to go to the Tussor family's banquet," the old tailor said. "In Victoria, a tailor can make a poor person wait three days, but he can't make a nobleman wait an hour."

Xiren looked at the black dress in the mirror.

It fits perfectly.

It was also very quiet.

Like a layer of skin prepared for negotiation.

He took off his formal attire and changed back into his everyday clothes.

As they were leaving the tailor shop, the old lady suddenly spoke again: "Young sir."

Xilun turned back.

The old woman looked at him, a strange clarity in her cloudy eyes: "The door to the Tussor house is very high. Don't duck when you go in. If you duck the first time, you'll have to duck for every door after that."

Xilun paused for a moment, then nodded slightly.

A cold wind blew in my face from outside the street.

Rhodes, standing beside him, said, "Young Master, that guard unit should have been transferred from the main residence."

"Um."

"The deployment of guards into the city before the autumn hunt is not like a normal troop rotation."

"Of course not."

Siren stepped over apples crushed by horses' hooves.

The sweet, fruity aroma mingled with muddy water and coal smoke, spreading along the ground.

"That was the knife that Oin showed to the entire North District."

At the same time, in the southern suburbs.

Lund did not go to the training shed.

He sat on the second floor of an old pub, with an untouched glass of dark beer in front of him.

The tavern was called "Broken Sword and Iron Cup," its signboard so old that the words were illegible, and two kerosene lamps that had been burning for years hung at the entrance.

This place is not far from the Iron Cross Club, and most of the people coming and going are retired soldiers, poor knights, hired gunners, and some old guys who do not want to reveal their surnames.

They drank quietly.

Unlike dockworkers who slam their fists on the table and laugh, or nobles who use laughter to conceal knives in their salons.

People here always look at the door, the window, the stairs, and then at the other person's hands before speaking.

Lund loved places like this when he was young.

I still don't dislike it.

However, his left arm would ache on rainy days, the pain feeling like a rusty needle was slowly prying out from between the bones.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

A short, stout man wearing an old felt hat came up, with a newspaper tucked between his arms and a faded red scarf around his neck.

Without looking at Lund, he went to the counter and ordered a glass of hot rum, then complained to the proprietress about the price of charcoal before leisurely walking to a corner to sit down.

"You're late," Lund said.

The short, stout man shrugged: "Old friend, a carriage in winter is like an aging senator; it looks like it's still moving, but it wants to stop and cough at every step."

"Stop talking nonsense."

"You're still so unromantic."

The man put the newspaper on the table and pushed it over.

Lund didn't touch it: "Where's the stuff?"

"It's all in the newspapers." The man took a sip of his drink and squinted.

"Let me make this clear first: the two things you're asking about—Lunar Phase Silver Marrow and Sleeper Spinal Fluid—are not ordinary black market materials. Asking about them is more dangerous than asking a noblewoman about her list of lovers."

Lund picked up the newspaper.

The newspaper is today's Victoria Morning Post, and the front page is still praising the Tusol family's great victory in the Northwest.

Turning to the third page, there was a thin piece of parchment tucked away in the crevice, with very small handwriting, using the Ironblood Society's internal code.

Lund glanced at it, his brows slowly furrowing.

The short, stout man asked, "Do you understand now?"

"Moon Phase Silver Marrow has only been publicly traded twice in the last three years," Lund said in a deep voice. "Once it was bought by the Institute of Pharmaceutical Research, and once it ended up in the hands of a viscount family in the Western Territory."

"To be precise, it's Old Viscount Brandon," the short, stout man added.

"His family had a fourth-tier demon hunter in their ancestor, and their storeroom always had some strange and unusual things. But that old man died last year, and now his sons are fighting tooth and nail for the inheritance. If you want to buy it, you might as well just bring a gun and rob it."

Lund continued reading: "Sleeper cerebrospinal fluid, no publicly available trading records."

"This thing is more troublesome," the short, stout man said in a low voice.

"It is neither a mineral nor a common exotic material. It must be extracted from a sleeper in a specific state of contamination and must retain its dream activity. In other words, it is usually found in noble boudoirs, cult altars, or the experimental beds of certain mad chemists."

Lund's face darkened further.

"Many viscount families don't have that either?"

"Many viscount families are so well-known that you'd be lucky to even hear their names," the short, stout man chuckled.

"You think the treasuries of nobles are treasure troves? Most of them are just old furniture, ancestral armor, and outdated etiquette that they refuse to acknowledge."

Those who truly possess extraordinary material reserves must, at the very least, have a stable pool of pharmacists, their own hunting grounds, long-term pollution treatment channels, and generations of people willing to invest in them.

He tapped the table with his finger.

"I do have some, but they're all kept under wraps. Once you take them out, there are fewer left. Unless you can save their whole family, or make them feel like they'll die if they don't give them to you."

Lund did not speak.

The short, stout man sized him up: "Is your student going to advance to the third rank?"

Lund's eyes turned cold.

"Don't look at me like that." The short, stout man raised his hands. "The simultaneous appearance of Lunar Silver Marrow and Sleeper's Spinal Fluid is enough for even a fool to know that it's an auxiliary ingredient for a certain Tier 3 potion route. Don't worry, I haven't told anyone. Although the Ironblood Society is as poor as bones, its backbone is still strong."

Lund folded the parchment and stuffed it into his inner bag.

"What about overseas?"

"I asked," the short, stout man said.

"The Freeport might have some, but the price would make you want to sell your leg. Besides, the sea routes have been unstable lately. Several pirate groups near the South Continent colony have changed their flags, and it seems like someone is backing them. Even if you can find the materials, it will take more than two months to get them over."

"Two months is too long."

"Then we'll have to find local nobles."

Lund picked up his stout and finally took a sip.

The wine is bitter.

He recalled the way Xilun practiced shooting under the waterfall.

The young man was always very quiet, and even when his knuckles turned white from the pain, he rarely made a sound.

Lund had seen too many geniuses—fiery, proud, crazy, and short-lived.

Xilun is different; he's like a piece of iron submerged in deep water, where the fire is invisible on the outside but burns continuously on the inside.

If such a person is pushed too far, he will choose the most dangerous path.

Lund didn't want him to go that far.

"There's one more thing," the short, stout man suddenly said.

Lund looked up.

"You asked me to inquire about the Black Death Cult while I was at it." The man took out a small iron box from his pocket, but didn't open it, just pressed it down with his palm. "This thing is more troublesome than the materials."

Lund's right hand rested on the edge of the table, his fingertips only half an inch from the wine glass.

This is the distance at which he can draw his gun at any time.

Although he didn't bring his rifle today.

The short, stout man noticed his movements and sighed, "Old friend, if I wanted to harm you, I wouldn't have chosen this place. At least seven people here owe you their lives."

Lund said calmly, "Speak."

"The Black Death Cult didn't just appear in recent years," the short, stout man said.

"In Victoria's official records, it seems to be a mad cult that emerged after the plague in the South District. But in the old files of the Ironblood Society, there were similar organizations thirty years ago. Back then, they weren't called the Black Death Cult, but the 'Compassionate Physicians Society'."

Lund's brow twitched.

"They specifically target two types of people." The man held up two short, thick fingers.

"The first type is patients who are born with the ability to withstand pollution without immediately collapsing. The second type is people with exceptionally strong vitality, stable bloodlines, and resistance to the lingering resentment of evil gods."

Silen's face flashed through Lund's mind.

The short, stout man continued, "More than twenty years ago, they chased someone on the East Coast. The file was incomplete, leaving only a few code names."

He glanced at Lund, seemingly thinking that what was inside might be related to Lund.

He opened the tin box.

Inside wasn't a document, but an old copper plate.

The copper plate is engraved with a closed eye, and below the eye is a line of very faint words, as if they had been deliberately scraped off with a knife, leaving only the last two syllables.

When Lund saw the incomplete words clearly, his breath suddenly stopped for a beat.

"Do you know him?" the short, stout man asked.

Lund did not answer.

He reached out and picked up the copper sheet.

The copper sheet was old, with blackened edges, and had a dry, herbal smell.

The fragmented text didn't resemble the local Victorian script; it sounded more like a mixed language from the coastal area of ​​South Road.

Lund stared at the bronze piece for a long time.

The stove on the second floor of the tavern was not burning brightly; occasionally, a few dark red sparks would fly from the coal, shining on his face before quickly going out.

The short, stout man didn't urge him.

He had known Lund for many years.

This old marksman was even tougher in his youth. He was quick to draw his gun, quick to drink, and never hesitated to act decisively. Even when facing a noble officer, he dared to smash his cup in the officer's face.

But now, Lund looked at the old copper plate as if it had been nailed to the chair.

That's not fear.

It's more like a grave that's been buried for many years, suddenly having its soil washed away by a winter rain.

The short, stout man said in a low voice, "Do you even recognize the incomplete characters on it?"

Lund put the copper sheet back into the iron box.

His fingers are very steady.

Only his left arm, hidden under the table, twitched slightly.

"Like my father's name."

The short, stout man stopped in his tracks as he held up his cup.

The tavern remained quiet.

Downstairs, people were whispering about the price of muskets in the North District. An old soldier by the fireplace turned a page of the newspaper, and the bartender behind the bar was wiping the glasses until they squeaked.

All these sounds were very far away.

The short, stout man slowly put down his cup: "Your father?"

Lund did not answer immediately.

He looked out the window.

The streets in the southern suburbs were narrower than those in Victoria, and the fog was lower. When a carriage passed by, the wheels rolled over the icy mud like a rotting leaf.

He hadn't thought of that man's face for many years.

Or rather, he kept forcing himself not to think about it.

My father always wore an old gray coat with worn-out cuffs, carrying a toolbox in his left hand and a pipe in his right.

He walked with his shoulders slightly slumped, looking like the most common accountant, watch repairman, or pharmacy handyman in the city, or any middle-aged man who would not be given a second glance if he were squeezed in a crowd.

I used to think my father was really weak.

He was so weak that when his drunk neighbor kicked over a wooden barrel in front of his house, he would just smile and apologize.

He was so weak that even if the tax collector overcharged him by three silver pennies, he would hand over the money.

He was so weak that once a street thug stole the coins his mother used to buy bread. He chased the thug for half a block, but in the end, he only managed to corner the thug at the alley entrance, whispered a few words to him, and let him get away.

The next day, as usual, the father sat by the window repairing a pocket watch. The pale morning light fell on his downcast eyes, as gentle as if he had never seen blood.

"What's your father's name?" the short, stout man asked.

Lund looked away: "Roy George."

The short, stout man glanced at the metal box instinctively.

The two syllables remaining on the copper plate are exactly the second half of a name.

George.

The beginning of the writing has been scraped off.

He only has a surname, not a given name.

Lund said in a deep voice, "I didn't understand when I was a child, but now it seems he was hiding from people."