Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

The short, fat man rubbed his nose.

He finally dropped his previous slickness.

"There aren't many records of that person in the old files of the Ironblood Society. Twenty-three years ago, a group of members of the Compassionate Physicians Association were killed on the East Coast, and their deaths were gruesome. The files say there were no traces of firearms, no explosions, and no large-scale extraordinary fluctuations at the scene, only gunshot marks."

Lund's eyes flickered slightly.

"A spear?"

"It's like a spear, but not like an ordinary spear," the short, stout man said.

"The wounds were deep and narrow; some had their sternums pierced, but only a hole the size of a coin remained in their backs. The recorder wrote: 'Like being pierced by a beam of solidified starlight.'"

Lund's right hand slowly clenched.

Red star.

An incomplete red star.

That Tan's heavy gunnery skills were not something Lund learned at military school.

He only has one teacher.

That father who always bent over to repair watches, who was used to bowing in front of people, and who never argued with anyone.

When Lund was young, he didn't understand why his father, who clearly knew about guns, refused to handle one and instead showed people a knife.

Why was it that my father always said, "Don't use that gun technique until the very last minute," despite its terrifying power?

Why did his father always make him rein himself in whenever he showed any talent, and punish him by making him stand in the rain all night if he couldn't?

Later, my father died.

Lund still remembers that his father's voice was very low before he died, so low that it was almost swallowed up by the wind and snow outside the window.

There's no need to prove yourself.

At that time, Lund only felt that the statement was weak.

So he spent half his life trying to win.

He won so many matches that his fame spread throughout the underground boxing ring and the gunfighting world. Nobles wanted to recruit him, the military wanted to control him, and his enemies wanted to kill him.

In his final battle, he injured his left arm.

The pain hidden in the bone crevice was like a belated warning from my father before his death.

The short, stout man looked at his face and softened his voice: "The file also mentions that the Merciful Physician will track that person not because of hatred, but because of his blood."

Lund slowly raised his head.

"Blood?"

"Eastern bloodline, stable vitality, extremely high tolerance to pollution, and able to remain conscious after contact with the lingering remnants of evil gods."

The short, stout man said, "They call these people 'benign carriers.' They're not patients, but they're more precious than patients."

The stout in the glass was covered with tiny bubbles.

Lund suddenly thought of Xilun.

In the report that the child brought back from the Old St. Mary's Bell Tower, he mentioned that the Black Death cult divided living people into lesions, carriers, and materials.

It turns out they were doing the same thing more than 20 years ago.

They just changed the name, the mask, and the hospital and charity plaques to a more respectable name.

"How did my father manage to get rid of them?" Lund asked.

"The files are broken." The short, stout man shook his head. "All we know is that after the hunt on the East Coast, thirty-seven members of the Merciful Healers died, including one intermediate high priest. After that, the target disappeared and never appeared again."

Has the Black Death Cult investigated anyone similar recently?

The short, stout man remained silent for a moment.

He took out another folded piece of paper from his pocket.

This time, he didn't hand it over directly, but instead pressed it onto the table.

I didn't want to give this to you.

Why?

"Because after you watch it, you might go and die."

Lund said expressionlessly, "I've lived this long not because others have judged for me whether or not I should die."

The short, stout man sighed and pushed the paper over.

Lund unfolds.

There were only a few lines of fragmented sentences copied onto the paper.

"The Old St. Mary's Bell Tower has fallen."

"Relic transfer failed."

"Target: Xilun, suspected to be a bearer of the remnant consciousness of an evil god, with abnormal vitality."

"There was a third-tier spearman beside him, with an old wound on his left arm, suspected to be a former member with residual blood."

Lund's eyes grew colder as he read the last line.

In the tavern's fireplace, the coal cracked open with a snap.

The short, stout man said in a low voice, "They've noticed you."

Lund folded the paper slowly.

"When was this intelligence received?"

"Behind the Old St. Mary's Bell Tower," the short, stout man said. "We intercepted it late, and the source is incomplete. It's probably not a document from the highest levels of the Black Death Cult; it's more like an assessment passed down from the periphery to the Third Charity Hospital."

"Sick father?"

"That's a name," the short, stout man nodded. "There are also terms like 'mother nest,' 'holy bone,' and 'benign carrier.' Old friend, your student didn't mess with a bunch of lunatics. At least their lunatics are very patient."

Lund smiled.

The smile was faint and cold.

"It's good to be patient."

The short, stout man frowned: "What do you mean?"

"Only patient people are afraid of losing their arrangements."

Lund pushed the tin box back, then stopped.

His hand rested on the lid of the box.

"I'll take the copper sheet with me."

"You know this stuff gets very hot."

"I know."

"The Ironblood Society has already taken a risk by investigating this far for you. If we go any further, we might encounter the Third Charity Hospital. It may look like a charity now, but it has noble donations, connections with the Pharmacists' Association, and protection from the Southern District Police Department."

Lund stood up.

His left arm still hung down, like a withered branch that had not fully recovered.

But when he stood up, the whole table seemed to shrink.

The short, stout man looked up at him, suddenly appearing somewhat dazed.

The young Lund is back.

He wasn't the old spearman tormented by old injuries, whipping students with a cane in the training shed; he was the man who, many years ago, single-handedly defeated three noble knights on a rainy night.

Where are you going?

"Delivering letters to students."

Lund picked up the old coat draped over the back of the chair.

The short, stout man couldn't help but say, "You'd better remind him to stay away from the Tusor family. Oin recently transferred his guards into the city. This is no ordinary banquet on the eve of the autumn hunt."

Lund walked to the top of the stairs and paused for a moment.

"He won't go far."

Why?

"Because the materials are there."

Lund did not turn around.

"It's also because he's already been targeted. Whether it's the Black Death Cult or Tusol, they can't escape them; the more they try to hide, the more they resemble prey."

The short, stout man fell silent.

Lund continued downstairs.

When the tavern door was pushed open, the winter wind rushed in, making the kerosene lamp flicker.

The fog was very thick on the streets.

Lund stood at the doorway and suddenly remembered his father's dying words.

Staying alive is more important than winning.

He didn't understand before.

I understood later, but I was never truly reconciled.

Because some people spend their whole lives retiring, but still can't find peace.

My father hid his identity, put away his spear, bent over, and concealed his bloodline, but in the end he still died in the rainstorm, and he didn't even dare to carve his real name on his tombstone.

Lund looked up.

The wind and snow melted on his brow bone.

He whispered, "I won't back down anymore."

Father, I will get back what you have lost.

No one answered.

Only the distant church bells rang out in a deep, mournful tone.

One sound after another.

It's like someone is knocking on a black coffin in the fog.

Meanwhile, in the northern part of Victoria.

When Siron returned to the Brotherhood mansion, it was already dark.

Rod followed behind, carrying a long black box containing a formal suitcase.

The lobby was well-heated, and two newly transferred gunmen stood by the wall. When Xilun entered, they immediately bowed and saluted.

Xiren took off his fog-stained coat and handed it to a servant.

"How's it on the streets?"

Rhodes said, "After the Tusol Guards entered the city, the vendors on all three streets packed up early. The patrols sent word that ordinary Brotherhood members are advised against approaching Victoria Street tonight."

"Afraid of conflict?"

"I'm afraid it will be seen as a conflict," Rod said in a low voice.

Xilun nodded.

A nobleman's sword isn't necessarily for killing people.

If you put it on the street, and it's bright and cool enough, people will move away on their own.

By having Tusol's guards walk through the street before attending the banquet, O'Indone's actions were both a demonstration and a reminder.

He told everyone in the North District that the Tusol family still held onto the violence of the old order.

Also tell Xilun that tonight's negotiations are not on equal footing.

Xilun entered the study.

The fireplace was brightly lit, and the day's intelligence summary was already laid out on the table.

The topmost letter was a short note sent by Lund.

The paper still carried a faint smell of smoke from the tavern in the southern suburbs.

Xilun was disassembled.

The handwriting was very heavy, as if it had been scratched out with the tip of a knife.

"The materials are extremely rare. Lunar phase silver marrow has only been publicly traded twice in the last three years, and there are no public records of the Sleeper's spinal fluid. Even the Viscount family may not have any in stock, and those who do are keeping it hidden away. The Black Death Cult was formerly known as the Merciful Physicians' Association. Be cautious. The situation at the Third Charity Hospital has worsened. Be careful when attending the banquet."

After reading it, Xilun remained silent for a moment.

Rod stood to the side, saying nothing.

The fire in the fireplace cast a slightly yellowish glow on the paper.

Xilun placed the note on the table and tapped it twice with his fingertips.

Lunar phase silver marrow.

Spinal fluid of a sleeper.

A noble's storeroom, a cult altar, and a mad pharmacist's experimental bed.

None of these places were clean.

What's more troublesome is the second half of Lund's story.

He wasn't the only one targeted by the Black Death Cult.

And teachers.

Moreover, this line of thought extends back more than twenty years, reaching Lund's father's generation.

Some shadows don't just fall.

It's always been there, just previously it was far away and looked like part of the night.

"The Black Death Cult... what kind of organization is that?"

Xilun seemed lost in thought, some distant memories surfacing.

A word popped into his head!

Black Death!

What is the relationship between these two?

Xiren picked up the fire tongs and put the note into the fireplace.

The paper curled up, turned black, and eventually turned to ash.

"We've added two more teams of lookouts to the teacher's side," Xilun said. "Don't get too close, don't interfere with his actions, just keep an eye on whether anyone is approaching the southern suburbs from the direction of the Third Charity Hospital."

"Yes."

"Has Reina made all the arrangements around the banquet in Tusol?"

"It's all arranged," Rhodes said. "There are two charcoal sellers outside the east gate of the manor, a broken-down truck on the south side of the woodland road, and the clock tower on the west side offers a view of the third-floor windows of the main house. Rena herself will be on the north riverbank."

Xilun nodded.

"Don't enter the manor."

Rhodes looked up: "It's very risky for the young master to go in alone."

"Bringing people in would be even riskier."

Xilun walked to the long box and opened it.

The black dress lay quietly in the thin paper.

The old tailor made the alterations quickly and accurately.

The fabric is understated, the cut is clean, and there is enough room at the shoulders and back. A short gun can be hidden in the inner pocket of the left side, and a Soul-Suppressing Nail can be placed in the right cuff. The inside of the boots can hold a thin blade.

It doesn't look like an outfit for a banquet.

It's more like a piece of armor without the smell of blood.

"Tonight is not an assassination attempt," Siren said. "At least Oin doesn't want it to become one."

Rod frowned: "Why?"

"If he wanted to kill me, he would have had the chance long ago." Celen picked up his tuxedo. "He invited me to the banquet to set a price."

"What price should we set?"

"Determine my value before the autumn hunt."

The room fell silent.

Xilun closed the long box.

Outside the window, the night fog pressed down on the iron railings of the mansion, and the streetlights blurred into patches of dim yellow light in the fog.

Victoria was cold and damp in the depths of winter.

The smells of coal smoke, horse manure, rotten apples, and medicine mingled together, like a city slowly emitting a low fever.

Xilun looked out the window, his eyes calm.

Tell the kitchen I'll be eating in half an hour.

"Are we eating again tonight?"

"certainly."

Xilun turned and walked toward the washroom.

"One should not go to a noble banquet on an empty stomach to discuss business."

Before night completely falls, Victoria Street welcomes its last burst of activity for the day.

This kind of excitement is short-lived and fleeting.

Like frost flowers frozen on a windowpane, they will collapse and become damp when someone breathes on them.

One by one, the gas lamps lit up, their shades filled with ash. The light was dulled by the mist and could not shine far, only illuminating a small, damp, shiny stone slab by the roadside.

The vendor selling hot chestnuts shook his iron wok with a clanging sound, the aroma of sugar frosting and burnt shells wafting across half the street; the barber put away his copper basin and draped a white cloth over his shoulder; two newsboys on the street corner shouted at the top of their lungs about the victory at Austin, the noble council's commendation, and the approaching autumn hunt, their voices so shrill they seemed to pierce the winter fog.

But as soon as the sound of Tusol's guards' hooves came from afar, all other sounds would quickly subside.

It's not quiet.

It was as if someone was pressing down on his throat.

Xilun sat in the carriage, looking outside through the half-open curtains.

He did not go directly to Tusol Estate.

The banquet will be held at 8 p.m.

There is one hour left.

He had the coachman take a half-circle, from Victoria Street, the edge of the City Square, the old Armoury Street, and then turn onto the aristocratic bridleway on the outer side of the North End.

Rod sat opposite him, a narrow leather suitcase on his lap.

The box contained a bottle of cleansing potion, two Soul-Suppressing Nails, a tube of Tranquility Potion, three packets of Purification Powder, and parts for a disassembled pistol.

These items cannot all be brought into the banquet hall.

But you can bring it to the vicinity of the manor entrance.

The carriage wheel rolled over a puddle, causing the carriage to sway slightly.

Rod whispered, "Young Master, there are at least three groups of people watching us on the street."

"People from Tusol?"

“One group is,” Rhodes said. “There’s another group that looks like informants from an armed insurgent party, and the last group is uncertain. They’re too clean-cut; they might be noble intelligence brokers.”

Xilun hummed in agreement.

This is normal.

It's no secret that he's attending a banquet in Tussor tonight.

Since Oin has put his guards out there, he's not afraid of others finding out that he invited Xiren.

He even wanted others to know.

Because a person about to seize power needs to convince the outside world that he not only has a knife, but also special figures who can cure pollution, suppress cults, and establish order in the North District.

Xilun's value at this point does not lie in taking sides.

Everyone assumed he might take sides.

The carriage passed by a pharmacy.

A dozen or so people were lined up at the entrance, their clothes worn and their faces ashen, clutching slips of paper with charity stamps on them.

A new sign hangs above the pharmacy door.

Third Charity Hospital cooperative pharmacy.

Xilun's gaze stopped.

At the end of the line was a thin little girl, her hair damp with mist and plastered to her pale face.

She was holding an even smaller child in her arms, whose cough was so light it was like a piece of paper about to burn out.

An apprentice in a white apron came out of the pharmacy and handed out small brown bottles to the people in line.

He would stamp the slip of paper with each bottle he handed out.

The seal is black.

From a distance, it looks like a closed eye.