Chapter 352: Informant and Underground Waterways

This novel is translated and hosted on bcatranslation.com

Following two days of continuous snowfall, a brief period of clear weather brought a semblance of normalcy back to Frost, shedding its cloak of gloom and resuming its usual rhythm. Snowplows and snow-melting machines worked tirelessly, clearing the primary streets of heavy snow. The reliable high-pressure gas pipelines and power systems stood firm under the strain, while essential urban functions like factories and public transportation resumed their activities.

The sounds of carriages and machinery gradually increased, harmonizing with the rising sun, signaling the city’s reawakening.

Beneath this surface of returning normalcy, however, a palpable tension was spreading throughout the city. What was once detectable only by the keen few was now evident even to the average citizen.

This unease was sparked by reports in local newspapers and an emergency control announcement from City Hall, which alerted those attuned to such news. The subsequent rumors of sightings of the dreaded Mist Fleet near the city-state, originating from the coastal neighborhoods, only fueled the fire. Soon, a mix of legitimate and false news began circulating throughout the city.

Other unsettling events further fed the city’s anxiety: frequent mobilizations of the city’s security forces, guardian troops amassing around several graveyards, disturbing news from specific neighborhoods, and eerie tales of the “return of the dead” circulating for the past month. These elements combined into a single narrative of foreboding, stealthily permeating the city.

City-states on the Boundless Sea are like crowded dove cages, separated by vast oceans yet close enough to touch. Communication between city-states is difficult, but spreading news within a city-state is remarkably easy.

Despite the brewing tension, life went on as usual. Though unsettling rumors continued to spread, citizens carried on with their daily lives. The unnerving atmosphere became a topic of conversation during commutes on public transportation or gatherings at local bars, but it wasn’t enough to disrupt the city-state’s functioning.

The inhabitants of this world were accustomed to the shadows in their lives. To them, the strange incidents happening in the city were just part of their reality. Daily occurrences of cultist activities and occasional appearances of nocturnal monsters were accepted as normal. Conversely, a city that remained peaceful after sunset would seem unusual to them.

At the intersection of Cemetery No. 4 and Oak Street, a modest pub called the “Golden Flute” was coming to life.

In the early morning, many citizens on their way to the factories would pass by this intersection. The Golden Flute, a budget-friendly pub favored by the city’s working-class people, was an ideal spot for a quick bite or drink before work. Offering not just beverages but also hearty coffee and simple breakfasts, it was a refuge against hunger and the cold. The chance to enjoy casual banter over breakfast at the Golden Flute provided a brief moment of relaxation before the workday began.

The pub’s hostess bustled between the round tables, serving customers with a cheerful demeanor, while the bartender busily attended to patrons from behind the bar. Warm, inviting light from overhead fixtures filled the room, effectively banishing the winter chill from the lively establishment. Near the bar, a middle-aged man with a thin, elongated face and straw-colored, brittle hair sat reading a newspaper, discreetly observing the pub’s activities from the corner of his eye.

The pub was generally noisy, a mix of voices with occasional crude jokes and profanities. Its clientele wasn’t the so-called “upper-class citizens” but mostly ordinary laborers from the city’s lower quarters heading to their jobs in the industrial belt. These men and women gathered here, using the brief respite provided by breakfast to discuss happenings in the lower city and industrial areas and to exchange views about recent changes in the city-state.

Most of their opinions were typically shallow and monotonous, hardly warranting any serious attention. No one was genuinely interested in their perspective on the city’s affairs, and as long as no fights broke out within the pub, everything was considered in order.

The middle-aged, yellow-haired manager casually turned to the next page of his newspaper, stifling a yawn that betrayed his boredom.

Suddenly, he sensed an unexplained lull in the usual noise. Moments later, it felt as though something was blocking the overhead light.

He glanced up, finding a formidable figure standing over him.

The person wore an all-black coat reminiscent of the night sky, with a high collar that hid most of their face. A wide-brimmed hat rested heavily on their head like a dark cloud, obscuring their features. The limited view between the garments revealed intricate bandages.

The manager felt an overwhelming sense of intimidation, almost as if he could see the pressure emanating from the figure. His heart skipped a beat, and a look of panic flickered across his eyes. His initial thought was that the intruder was a clergyman from the Death Church, given their fondness for the “bandage aesthetic” uncommon among ordinary people. But he quickly realized the person wasn’t wearing the church’s triangular amulet or carrying the guardians’ standard staff.

After a moment of panic, the middle-aged manager struggled to regain his composure. He noticed three individuals standing behind the imposing figure: an unusually tall young woman, a gentle-looking elderly man, and a refined, enigmatic blonde woman hidden behind a veil. He quickly racked his brain for possibilities.

These were clearly “guests” with a specific interest in him. Judging by their ominous attire, they didn’t seem to have benign intentions. The intimidating aura they exuded made it hard for him to breathe. Were they undercover officials from the central city’s security department? Or emissaries from some other power based in the chilling sea? Why had they sought him out? Were they here to intimidate him, recruit him, or seek his help?

Setting aside his newspaper, he rose from his chair with composed dignity and looked at the enigmatic figure in black. “May I know whom you seek?” he asked.

“Nemo Wilkins, sir,” Duncan began, noting the panic and tension in the middle-aged man’s eyes. His presence was clearly unsettling, but Duncan’s intention was not to intimidate. He was observing Wilkins’ reactions, looking for signs of cognitive interference or memory modifications. “Is that your name?”

“Every patron here knows my name,” Nemo Wilkins replied, nodding slightly and gesturing to the bartender nearby. “I assume you are looking for me? I should mention, though, I’m just an unassuming businessman…”

“Lately, the sea has been shrouded in mist, and the wind carries a bitter chill,” Duncan responded, producing a city-state map crafted by Tyrian from his coat. “We’re in search of a warming drink, something strong enough to rekindle even a dead man’s heart.”

Upon hearing Duncan’s cryptic remark about the sea and wind, Nemo’s breathing changed almost imperceptibly, and his eyes drifted towards the city-state map.

The “manager” was exceptionally skilled at hiding his emotions and eye movements. In fact, except for the slight changes in his breath and pulse, there was nothing to indicate any unusual reactions. However, even such minor alterations did not escape Vanna’s notice.

“It seems we’ve found our man,” Vanna murmured under her breath.

Duncan acknowledged her remark with a subtle nod and proceeded to fold up the map. “Are there any available seats upstairs?”

“The upper level is currently occupied,” Nemo replied, shaking his head. “Please, follow me.”

With these words, he stepped out from behind the counter, leading the unexpected visitors toward a door near the stairwell.

The pub remained lively, and while some patrons might have noticed the peculiar exchange at the counter, no one seemed particularly interested in the proceedings.

Duncan and his companions followed Manager Nemo through a narrow wooden door into a corridor leading to the pub’s back storage area. Midway down the passage, they slipped through another door, descending a steep ramp until the familiar sounds of the bustling pub faded into a distant murmur. They finally stopped before a heavy dark wooden door.

“This establishment goes quite deep underground,” Morris commented.

“A cautious approach is never a disadvantage, especially since this city isn’t welcoming to those associated with the Mist Fleet,” Nemo Wilkins replied as he approached the door. “Enemies lurk at every corner, even after all these years.”

“How have you managed to construct such an expansive underground hideaway under the city-state authorities’ noses?” Vanna asked, intrigued. As an inquisitor, she found the ability of a “grey middleman” to hide within the city-state’s infrastructure fascinating. “How did you excavate such a long tunnel beneath a busy pub? How did you dispose of the rocks and soil? And, most interestingly, how did you muffle the noise of the excavation?”

Nemo Wilkins glanced sideways at the unusually tall, white-haired woman, a hint of amusement in his voice as he replied, “Actually, it’s quite simple – there was no need for any excavation. This place was already part of Frost Underground Waterway.”

As he finished speaking, the heavy dark door creaked open on its rusty hinges. The warm, welcoming glow of gas lamps illuminated the hallway, reaching Duncan and his team.

They also heard the soft murmur of water flowing from an unknown source.

Duncan’s gaze moved beyond the door, taking in the surprisingly vast “hall” on the other side. It appeared to be a junction of an ancient sewer system, with tunnels extending into the darkness in all directions. The hall was furnished with tables, chairs, beds, and shelves, neatly organized in the corners, making it quite habitable.

It was clear that the space could accommodate a significant number of people.

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