The sudden mist began to thicken rapidly, visible to the naked eye.
The middle-aged patrolman driving the carriage had to turn the brightness of the lantern to the highest level. He also lit another spare lantern, but it was still useless; the dense fog made it impossible for him to see the road ahead.
The carriage, which had been moving quickly, suddenly slowed down.
Fortunately, they had already reached the entrance of Guta Street.
Number 1 Guta Street wasn't far away.
The middle-aged patrolman cautiously drove the carriage forward, but still, something went wrong.
*Neighhh!*
With a horse's neigh, the carriage shook and then came to a complete stop.
The middle-aged patrolman immediately grabbed a lantern, jumped down from the seat, and went to check on the horse.
"Tucker, what's wrong?"
Swart's voice came from inside the carriage.
"Sheriff, the fog is too thick. I didn't notice a dip in the road, and the horse has hurt its hoof."
"We'll have to walk."
The middle-aged patrolman straightened up after checking and spoke helplessly toward the carriage.
After speaking, the middle-aged patrolman was ready to go over and light the way for Swart. Even though there was a lantern hanging on the carriage, the patrolman wouldn't miss an opportunity to gain Swart's favor.
Of course, he hoped that Swart would overlook the horse's injured hoof because of his diligence, even though this horse was likely to end up at the butcher shop.
As he thought about how to make himself seem blameless, the middle-aged patrolman didn't notice what was behind him. Just as he took a step forward, a large hand reached out from the fog behind him, covering his mouth, and then a knife sliced across his neck.
The patrolman instinctively struggled, his whole body trembling, and his eyes quickly lost their light.
Then, when the assailant gently laid him on the ground, he had already lost all signs of life.
The assailant, who was covered in blood, didn't care at all. He openly walked toward the carriage.
With the fog as cover, he was confident that the people inside wouldn't see his face, let alone the bloodstains.
Then, when the door opened, he would launch his attack.
He only needed to leave the target barely alive.
The rest?
Kill them all, of course.
For him, this mission was too easy.
Including this one, he had already done it four times.
He was entirely at ease with it.
As for the so-called "police identity"?
He couldn't care less.
"Damn it!"
Hearing his subordinate's answer, Swart cursed under his breath. The sheriff's face was grim, not because he minded walking, even though he had just had the shoemaker "freely" polish his shoes that afternoon.
At this moment, a sense of unease filled the sheriff's heart.
Swart knew very well that any ordinary matter became unusual and deadly when that lord was involved.
*Huff! Huff!*
He took two deep breaths to calm himself down, then signaled one of his subordinates with a nod to get off the carriage first.
The subordinate clearly sensed something was wrong but dared not defy Swart's order.
The patrolman raised his hand to push the door open.
But Goethe stopped him.
Somehow, Goethe had unlocked his handcuffs. He raised his right hand, placed his index finger to his lips in a gesture of silence, then quickly grabbed the revolver from Swart's waist and fired through the carriage door.
*Bang, bang, bang!*
Three shots in quick succession.
A body hit the ground outside the carriage.
"Are you crazy?"
Swart exclaimed.
The sheriff thought Goethe had shot the patrolman driving the carriage.
But Goethe ignored him, kicked open the door, and threw his coat outside.
Immediately—
*Bang, bang, bang!*
Gunshots rang out in the thick fog.
The coat, which had just been thrown out, swayed left and right in the air under the impact of the bullets, like a bat caught in a night storm. By the time it hit the ground, it was already in tatters.
Swart and his two subordinates inside the carriage shrank back in fear.
Almost instinctively, Swart was about to turn and ask Goethe what to do.
But as he turned, the sheriff suddenly realized that Goethe, who had just been beside him, was gone.
At the same time, the door on the other side of the carriage had silently opened.
It was clear that while the assailant outside was distracted by the coat, Goethe had slipped out from the other side of the carriage.
Seeing this, Swart's two subordinates didn't hesitate to rush to that side of the door. They even fought each other to be the first to get off the carriage, especially the subordinate who had just had a gun pointed at him. When he saw that Swart also wanted to get out of the carriage, he immediately kicked the sheriff in the face.
Swart covered his face and stepped back, while his two subordinates, realizing they couldn't overpower each other, almost simultaneously jumped off the carriage.
But before they could stand firm—
*Bang, bang, bang!*
Blood splattered as more than five bullets riddled their bodies.
Both men trembled as if electrocuted, then fell into a pool of blood, lifeless.
Seeing this, Swart, who had just been cursing loudly, quickly covered his mouth, forcing himself to stay silent. He then curled up under the seat of the carriage.
"What do I do? What do I do?"
"Am I going to die young?"
"I knew getting involved in that lord's affairs would bring misfortune!"
The sheriff curled up, trembling, his mind a complete mess, not knowing what to do. He instinctively hid.
Meanwhile, Goethe, who had rolled off the carriage, was exceptionally clear-headed.
In fact, just moments ago, when he smelled the sudden scent of blood through the carriage door, Goethe had instantly calmed down.
Now, Goethe lay flat against the corner of a wall, letting his eyes adjust to the thick fog while keeping track of the gunfire flashes.
But he didn't shoot.
Instead, he carefully watched the flashes while quietly crawling toward a nearby building.
Never fight in unfamiliar territory!
Having suffered once back home and barely survived, Goethe knew very well what he needed to do now—
Return to Number 1 Guta Street!
The fog before him obscured his vision but didn't seem to affect the assailants much.
Clearly, these people were used to fighting in such conditions!
They might even have some "aid" that allowed them to see through the fog as if it weren't there.
As for him?
Even though he had done his best to adapt, his vision was still severely impaired!
In this situation, with his marksmanship, he had no chance of winning.
But once he got inside Number 1 Guta Street, it would be different.
That was Goethe's home!
He had nearly 19 years of memories there.
That was…
His home field!