Unable to repay my student loans, I had no choice but to work part-time as a demon hunter.

In the afternoon, at the college tennis courts.

This has become a favorite activity for aristocratic students lately. Boxing is too rough, horse racing takes up too much space, and with the Blackwater River becoming increasingly foul-smelling, officials no longer recommend that students race boats on the river.

Gordon took the walnut racket that Charlotte handed him.

She tied her blonde hair with a blue ribbon, and wore an ivory-white short jacket and a dark blue tracksuit, brightening up Gordon's day.

"You seem to be in a good mood," Charlotte said.

"A selfless person gave me 27 copper coins for free, the fish and chips shop clerk gave me 22 copper coins in change, and the professor gave me a weekly wage of 3 silver pounds. In addition, I donated 140 pounds of precious materials to the department and received a certificate of commendation in return. Wealth, career, honor, I lack nothing," Gordon recounted.

Charlotte smiled.

Then, he told Charlotte about what happened during dinner the day before. After listening, Charlotte couldn't laugh anymore.

"...So you really kept your promise," Charlotte said, "and stopped hiding everything from me."

"I need you," Gordon said.

"...Does that person really have octopus tentacles? And he even followed you to the fish and chips shop?" Charlotte asked.

  

"Yes."

Charlotte paused for a moment, seemingly lost in thought.

The coach blew the bronze whistle.

Charlotte serves. Her stroke is standard and beautiful; the cue ball brushes the net and drops sharply to Gordon's left.

She clearly thought Gordon wouldn't get the call.

This idea makes sense; Gordon isn't a fast runner, and his arms don't have the definition sculpted through long-term training.

He mentally calculated how the ball would land and how far he should advance.

Then, he swung forward.

Snapped.

The white ball soared high across the halfway line and landed just short of the sideline. Charlotte quickly retreated, but almost missed catching it.

"Fifteen to zero."

Charlotte became serious.

After a few rounds of fighting, she sensed something was wrong.

Gordon isn't fast, but he plays cleanly, never wasting a move, and his reaction time far surpasses Charlotte's.

Several students on the sidelines looked over.

They were initially just curious why Miss Monford would play ball with a commoner.

Now they're starting to get curious about something else.

Why does this guy always manage to hit the ball to places she can't reach?

"You've really never played before?" Charlotte asked.

"I'll even borrow your racket. What do you say?"

"Then why do you always manage to get a call?"

"I'm good at dealing with problems that come at me," Gordon said, striking a pose. "Like last night's one."

Charlotte served again, this time with significantly more force.

"Are you angry?" Gordon asked.

"Just playing basketball," Charlotte said.

"He had the order of action on him, and a portrait of me." Gordon caught the next ball. "The person who drew the portrait may have seen the scene of the incident."

She paused for a moment as the white ball flew over her head and landed in the backcourt.

"So, it was someone in my family who leaked the information?" she said.

"Anyway, someone knows something they shouldn't know."

Charlotte walked to the net, her grip on the racket tightening slightly.

This matter has gone beyond the scope of a collectible or a few demons.

Someone reached into her life, touched Gordon's neck, and tried to murder a young man who was originally just caught up in the situation.

The thought sent a chill down her spine.

"You can go to Evans," Gordon said. "I had him check on the relevant people before I left."

"I'll find out." Charlotte nodded.

This time she agreed very readily.

……

That evening, Gordon returned to the anatomy lab in the biomedical building.

The silverfish casket sat quietly on the lab table, in a sealed state.

[The box. Don't disturb it.]

Gordon put on gloves, carefully extracted the sample, added precipitate salt, and measured it under a fluorescent light.

The droplets displayed an exceptionally full outline.

From a spiritual perspective, the concentration of "amniotic fluid in the cradle" is rising and will peak this week.

Gordon's heartbeat gradually quickened, and he checked the records three times before slowly exhaling.

The gestation period is coming to an end.

He felt like a part-time OB-GYN, and the baby was already visible.

After waiting so long, taking so many risks, and attracting a group of lunatics who wanted to throw him into the river, this thing is finally going to give back.

It will solidify before his eyes, and he will be the only one in all of Lundnium who will know what it is from the very first moment of its birth.

The door hinges suddenly made a soft click; Charlotte had arrived.

She returned to university under the cover of night.

This was also her first time in the dissection room.

That's...unbelievable.

The air was filled with the smell of preservatives and blood.

She saw the scalpel, bone saw, graduated bottle, and experimental records filled with data, as well as the old wooden table by the wall where Gordon used to sleep.

It was just a board for a person to temporarily put their body down, so they could continue going to school after daybreak.

He spends his days sleeping and working here... reaching into those strange things. He doesn't even have time to play the victim; he's just constantly trying to make money. Thinking about this, Charlotte felt even more sorry for him.

"Good evening." Gordon didn't turn around; he could smell the perfume.

"Good evening. I saw the box." Charlotte frowned. "So it was here all along. Can we destroy it? It's too dangerous."

"No." Gordon put his hands behind his back. "It's in the school, it's registered, and now it's a perfectly legal dangerous item. Besides, it's worth hundreds of gold pounds, maybe more."

Charlotte found a clean desktop and placed a pile of documents on it, from Evans' butler and the servants of the ancestral home.

"Find the most suspicious person," Charlotte said.

"I would like to hear the details."

"An old servant, Harold Wade," she said.

Gordon's heart skipped a beat.

Harold Wade.

The enemy's name finally surfaced from the water.

Charlotte unfolded the documents she had personally compiled.

Those were interview transcripts and work schedules, categorized by date and tied with ribbons of different colors according to Charlotte's aesthetic.

"He was there the night you came, and he might have even spoken to you. After the Deepclaw Demons were slaughtered by the Blackgill Gang, he quietly left. I guess you ruined all his plans."

"Do the other servants remember this Harold?"

She opened several record sheets.

"He always said he was thirsty, but he would vomit after drinking water. He liked to stay in the laundry room, the basement, and near the water pipes. Before his night shift, Harold would often put his hands in a basin of cold water and leave them there for half an hour."

"No one reported it?"

“The servants just consider it a quirk,” Charlotte said. “Everyone has some habits that aren’t worth writing in a report.”

"Fish-like people usually have a lot of minor quirks."

"He speaks very slowly, is extremely sensitive to loud noises, and gets angry when silverware clinks. My cook also said that he doesn't care about barbecue or beer, he only cares whether the water for the day was taken from the Blackwater River."

"Where's the silverfish box?" Gordon asked curiously.

"Here," Charlotte pointed to several reports. "Harold was involved in the warehouse relocation. He showed a 'strange enthusiasm' for the silverfish box. When the ancestral home was rearranged a month ago, the box was placed in one of the most prominent spots in the collection room. Someone even saw him talking to it in the middle of the night."

"What did you say?"

"She didn't hear me clearly. She only said it sounded like an apology."

"Then the silverfish box was moved to tears," Gordon said.

"In the end, he found an octopus-faced guy, stared at you, and wanted to harm you," Charlotte said.

Gordon re-examined the clues.

Harold, disguised as a servant of the Monford family, saw him on the night of the incident and was able to match names with faces; he may also have the skill to draw Gordon's face.

Harold cares about the Deepclaws, knows the whereabouts of the Holy Casket, and has the ability to pass orders to a wetfooted man.

The people, their motives, and the channels all match up.

“Harold has already sent people to me,” Gordon said. “If that thing kills me, the police will label me a victim of an outsider dispute. Professor Winslow will frown, and Peter will collect my body. You might be very upset.”

"Of course I'll be sad!" Charlotte blurted out.

The sound was exceptionally clear in the cold dissection room.

She paused for a moment, then subconsciously raised her hand to cover her face with her fan, only to realize that she had rushed over tonight without bringing a fan.

Miss Monford, stripped of her social tools, could only stand under the lights, letting her words linger in the air.

"I'm the one who brought you into this," she whispered.

"I earned 35 gold pounds, and from a profit perspective, I don't regret it," Gordon said.

If poor people don't dare to seize opportunities, they will remain poor forever.

Gordon leaned back, closed his eyes, and slowly began to calculate.

Regardless, Gordon still disliked the situation where "someone knew what he looked like and had a motive to target him."

Since the octopus-faced guy didn't make it back alive, Harold must know the operation failed.

He might be more cunning and secretive next time, making him even harder to guard against!

Gordon would rather be the hunter than the prey.

"He can find me in the crowd, and I can find him in the crowd. This man has already found his way to death," Gordon said.

"Go find Harold? But he's a bad guy, a cultist," Charlotte said. "Too dangerous."

"Finding him doesn't mean starting a direct battle; I just want to gain the upper hand. He sent Octopus Face to find me, and I sent Vera after him—it makes perfect sense. Besides, he specifically mentioned wanting to buy a giant clam shell; who knows what he's up to?" Gordon said.

Charlotte suddenly approached.

Instead of maintaining the usual safe social distance of a noble lady, she leaned forward slightly and grasped Gordon's hands.

Her hands were so warm and soft, and they were trembling.

Gordon's hands still bore traces of salt and chemicals. Her expensive gloves were now carelessly pressed against a stain.

He was caught off guard.

Unable to read the name, no usage description, no danger warning, cannot tell him what she is thinking.

"I don't want to be a fool, just standing by and watching. And then listen to you talk about all those dangerous or terrible things after it's all over," Charlotte said. "Right now, right now, what can I do... just say it."

Gordon thought for a moment.

"I need to find a safe house," Gordon said. "A place with an escape route, where I can hide things, conduct experiments, and not near a river."

Compared to the dilapidated dissection room where Winslow and Peter could see anything he did, Gordon desperately needed a place where he could be undisturbed.

"Anything else?" Charlotte asked.

"And one more thing," Gordon recalled Vera's words, which sounded somewhat strange for some reason, "—it needs to be able to accommodate two people."