Chapter 352

Chapter 352: Informant and the Underground Waterway.

After two days of continuous snowfall, a brief spell of clear weather seemed to sweep away the gloom hanging over the city-state, and Frostholm woke once more as it always did. Snowplows and de-icing machines started clearing the snow from the main roads. The old high-pressure gas pipes and power grid once again passed their test, and the factories and public transit systems started running again.

All kinds of traffic and machine noises swelled with the sunrise.

However, beneath this slowly awakening surface, a strange and tense atmosphere was spreading through the city. Even the ordinary people were finally noticing the change in the air.

It began with the news in the papers. The emergency control notices suddenly issued by City Hall made those with sharper noses sense something was wrong. Then came all kinds of rumors from the waterfront districts, stories of the Sea Mist Fleet appearing near the city-state. The news spread quickly. Soon, all sorts of true and false reports were being traded on every street corner.

Recently, the city’s security forces had been redeployed again and again. Guardian units were gathering around several cemeteries. Grim stories were coming out of certain neighborhoods. Mixed into all this were the strange tales that had been circulating in the city for a month already, about the return of The dead. All these unsettling things seemed to suddenly pile together and begin to quietly spread through the city.

On the Boundless Sea, city-states were like crowded pigeon coops. Vast stretches of water lay between one city and the next, but between one person and another they were almost within arm’s reach. There was nothing harder than sending news from one city-state to another, and nothing easier than spreading news inside a city-state.

Even so, life still had to go on. The worrying rumors only spread through the streets and alleys, while the citizens still went out and went to work as usual. At most, they talked a little about the city’s strange mood while squeezing onto the bus or chatting in a tavern. A bit of pressure was not enough to disrupt the running of a city-state.

In the end, the people of this world were already used to living under a shadow. To them, odd and uncanny things happening in the city were normal. cultist sabotage and the occasional veil of night freaks crawling out from somewhere were just part of everyday life. A city that stayed peaceful and quiet even after nightfall was what would seem abnormal to them.

At the junction of Cemetery No. 4 and Oak Street, a small tavern named the Golden Flute was growing lively.

Most of the citizens heading from the district to the factories for work in the morning would pass that corner. As a cheap, public-facing tavern, the Golden Flute was the best place to stop before going on shift. It did not only serve alcohol, it also offered decent coffee and simple breakfasts, perfect for filling the stomach and driving away the cold. Chatting with a few people over breakfast here counted as a bit of leisure before the tense and busy workday began.

The waiters moved busily between the round tables. The shop assistant worked behind the bar, greeting guests. Warm yellow light fell from the ceiling and drove back the winter chill. A middle-aged man with a long, thin face and dry, yellowish hair sat in a chair not far behind the bar, idly turning the pages of a newspaper while watching the room out of the corner of his eye.

The tavern was a bit noisy. Rough jokes and unrestrained curses broke out from time to time. Most of the people eating here were not “upper-class citizens” by any standard. They were mostly ordinary people heading from the Lower City to work in the industrial ring. They gathered here and used the little time at breakfast to talk about what was happening in the Lower City or in the factory districts, or to give their own crude opinions on the city’s recent changes.

Their views were shallow and dull for the most part. No one important cared what these people thought of the city.

As long as they did not start a fight in the shop, everything was fine.

The middle-aged shopkeeper with the sallow hair turned the newspaper to the next page and yawned in boredom.

Then he felt the room go a little quieter around him. A moment later, it seemed as if something was blocking the light from above.

The shopkeeper looked up and saw a tall figure standing in front of him.

The newcomer wore a pitch-black coat that made one think of the coming of the veil of night. A high collar covered most of his face. A wide-brimmed hat pressed down like a dark cloud, shutting out all prying gazes from the outside world. In the few gaps between hat and collar, the only thing visible was layer upon layer of bandages.

A stern gaze hid under the low shadow of that hat.

An oppressive pressure rolled off him, something you could feel just from looking. The middle-aged shopkeeper’s heart seemed to miss a beat almost at once. Panic rose in his eyes before he could stop it. His first reaction was to mistake the man for clergy from the Death sect. Those devout priests loved this kind of “bandage outfit,” which always felt excessive to ordinary people. But then he noticed the man in black was not wearing the Church’s Triangular Sigil, nor was he carrying the special Gatekeeper’s cane issued to Guardians.

After a brief moment of panic, the shopkeeper forced himself to calm down. He saw that three more people stood behind the tall figure: a young lady almost as tall as he was, a kindly looking old man, and a blonde woman with a veil over her face, whose bearing was noble and mysterious. Thoughts spun quickly in the shopkeeper’s mind.

These guests were here for him. Judging by their outfits, they were certainly not harmless. The heavy pressure they carried made even him feel short of breath. Were they secret constables from the central districts? Or people sent by some other power out on the Frost Sea? Why had they come to him? To threaten him, recruit him, or… ask for a favor?

He put the newspaper down beside him, stood up calmly, and looked up at the man in black: “Who are you looking for?”

“Mr. Nemo Wilkins,” Duncan said. He had noticed the panic and tension in the middle-aged man’s eyes. It was clearly the result of being crushed by his aura, and that was on purpose. Duncan was watching the man’s reactions. The most genuine flashes of emotion that surfaced under pressure helped him judge whether someone had been affected by cognitive interference or memory correction. “Is that your name?”

“Everyone here knows my name,” Nemo Wilkins said with a nod. He waved lightly at the shop assistant nearby. “You’re here for me then? But I’m only an honest, law-abiding businessman…”

“Recently the sea has been foggy, and the wind has been very cold,” Duncan said slowly as he reached into his coat and took out the city map prepared by Tyrian himself. “We need a good strong drink to warm our stomachs—preferably something that could even warm a dead man’s guts.”

At the moment he heard the phrase “the sea has been foggy, and the wind has been very cold,” Nemo’s breathing changed, just slightly. His gaze then fell on the city map.

This “shopkeeper” hid his emotions and the changes in his eyes extremely well. In fact, aside from that tiny moment when his breathing and heartbeat shifted, it was impossible to see anything odd about him from the outside. But even such a small reaction did not escape Vanna’s eyes.

“Looks like he’s the one,” Vanna said softly.

Duncan nodded slightly and put the folded map away. “Do you have any seats upstairs?”

“The seats upstairs are full,” Nemo said, shaking his head. “Come with me.”

With that, he stepped out from behind the counter and led his uninvited guests toward a door beside the stairs.

The tavern was still full of voices. Even if someone noticed the movement by the bar, no one paid enough attention to figure out what was going on.

Duncan and the others followed behind Nemo the shopkeeper. They passed through a rather low wooden door and entered a passage that seemed to lead to the storage room at the back of the shop. Halfway along, they turned through another door and started down a sloping ramp. They walked downhill for quite a long distance. Only when it felt as if they had already gone far beyond the area under the tavern did they stop in front of a dark wooden door.

“This place is really deep,” Morris muttered.

“Caution never hurts. This city doesn’t welcome anyone connected to the Sea Mist Fleet,” Nemo Wilkins said as he walked toward the door. “Enemies are everywhere—even now, half a century later.”

“How did you dig out a place like this right under The authority’s nose?” Vanna’s attention was different from the others’. As an Inquisitor, she cared more about how a “gray middleman” hid inside a city-state. “To dig such a long tunnel under a tavern, where did you take all the stone and dirt? And how did you hide the noise from the digging?”

Nemo Wilkins turned his head slightly and glanced at the towering white-haired lady, his tone carrying a hint of amusement: “Simple—there was no need to dig. This was already part of Frostholm’s underground waterway.”

As he finished speaking, the dark door swung open. With a creak and groan, the glow of gas lamps shone into Duncan’s eyes.

Along with the light came the faint, distant sound of running water from somewhere unknown.

Duncan looked past the open door and saw a particularly wide “hall.” It seemed to be the junction of old sewers. Corridors stretched away into the darkness in the distance. Tables, chairs, beds, and shelves had been set up in the corners of the hall. It even looked livable.

A fair number of people could be stationed here.

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