The rain in Londinium was like a nagging old woman, showing no intention of stopping.
The fine drizzle, mixed with the acrid smell of coal smoke, soaked the entire city in a grayish, listless hue.
Sir Suffolk, whose real name was Bellingham, stood under an eave at that moment, carefully wiping the water droplets from the brim of his beloved gray top hat with a handkerchief.
The hat is the soul of a gray top hat; even a mediocre poet holds a near-paranoid obsession with it.
"Oh, this damned fog, this damned rain," he complained in a low voice, adopting an aria-like tone.
It was as if he were not on a mission, but rehearsing a tragedy that no one would appreciate.
"You two have joined forces to strangle the rhythm of poetry, just as this city's smog has strangled the last bit of romance in people's hearts."
His assistant beside him, a taciturn young man codenamed "Crow," looked at him expressionlessly.
The young man did not understand poetry; he only knew that since following the legendary Sir Suffolk on operations, he had heard far more complaints than orders.
"Sir, the target has appeared," Crow said in a low voice.
Suffolk immediately ceased his aria.
His eyes, which always seemed to carry a hint of mockery, narrowed slightly as he gazed through the curtain of rain toward the tavern on the street corner named "Siren's Song."
A man dressed in dockworker's clothes, yet possessing a pair of shrewd eyes entirely out of place with his coarse garments, pushed the door open and emerged.
He looked around vigilantly, then pulled his hat brim low and hurriedly turned into a narrow alley nearby.
"Look, our little fish is off to find his mother." Suffolk straightened the collar of his black trench coat, which had been ruffled by the wind, and gave Crow a wink.
"Follow him, child."
Crow nodded, his figure flashing briefly before silently blending into the shadows at the mouth of the alley.
Suffolk followed at a leisurely pace. His walking posture was somewhat exaggerated, like a drunk gentleman, twirling an unopened umbrella in his hand while humming a tuneless ditty.
Any passing patrolman would, at most, take him for just another unlucky fellow who had just lost his money.
This alley bore the typical appearance of Londinium's slums: narrow, filthy, flanked by towering warehouse walls with peeling plaster revealing dark red bricks crawling with slick moss.
The surroundings were permeated with the nauseating stench of fish, cheap alcohol, and mold.
The target twisted and turned ahead, clearly confirming he was not being followed.
Suffolk and Crow coordinated tacitly, one in the open, one in the dark, always maintaining a subtle distance from their prey.
Finally, the dockworker stopped before the back door of an abandoned warehouse.
He knocked on the door rhythmically: three times, a pause, then two more times.
The heavy iron door issued a creaking sound and opened a crack; he slipped sideways inside.
Suffolk stopped, leaning against the opposite wall, boringly poking the puddles on the ground with the tip of his umbrella.
"Patience is a poet's best companion, second only to fine wine and inspiration."
About ten minutes later, faint sounds of arguing came from the warehouse—not loud, but intense. Immediately following was a dull thud, and then everything returned to silence.
Suffolk and Crow exchanged a glance.
The situation had changed.
"It seems our little fish has been swallowed whole by his mother." The mockery vanished from Suffolk's face.
He closed his umbrella, hung it over his arm, and his right hand inadvertently slid into his trench coat pocket, gripping the handle of a folding army knife.
"I'll go in first. You guard the back door to prevent any fish from slipping through the net," Suffolk lowered his voice.
"If I'm not out in five minutes, or if you hear three short whistles, retreat immediately and take the news back to the Duke."
"Understood?"
Crow nodded solemnly.
Suffolk said no more. His body moved like a civet, lightly sticking to the wall as he moved to the warehouse's back door.
The door was not locked, merely ajar.
He listened intently; there was no movement inside, only the monotonous sound of rain beating on the tin roof.
He slowly pushed the door open, and a thick smell of blood hit him in the face.
The light inside the warehouse was dim, with only a few rays shooting in through holes in the roof, carving several visible columns of light in the air.
Three bodies lay on the ground. One was the dockworker they had trailed; a long slash mark ran across his neck, and his eyes were wide open, filled with terror and confusion.
The other two looked like well-dressed merchants, likely the contacts.
In the center of the warehouse, a tall figure stood with his back to the door, rummaging for something in an open crate.
He wore a heavy leather coat and a fur hat of a distinctly northern style.
Emanating from him was a cold ruthlessness belonging to a soldier.
Ursus?
Suffolk's heart skipped a beat.
The intelligence this time only mentioned a deal between local gangs and smugglers; how did it involve Ursus?
The tall figure seemed to sense something and whirled around.
It was a weather-beaten face, with a hideous scar running from the corner of his left eye all the way to his chin.
He held a ledger in one hand, while the other gripped a military knife with a heavy Ursus style.
"Another little mouse has come," the Ursus man said in stiff Victorian, grinning with a cruel smile.
"Oh, no, sir, I am just a lost poet."
Suffolk raised his hands, wearing that harmless smile once again.
"I wrote a poem for this damned rainy day and wanted to find a place to shelter from the rain, and incidentally seek some inspiration. I didn't expect... to disturb your elegant mood."
The Ursus man clearly didn't buy it. He pointed his knife at Suffolk, approaching step by step.
"Poet? I'd like to see if your blood is as flowery and insubstantial as your poems."
"My blood may be ordinary, but my poems... sometimes can kill."
Before Suffolk's voice had faded, the umbrella hanging on his arm suddenly popped open, but what sprang out was not the canopy, but a cloud of fine steel needles hidden in the shaft!
This surprise attack caused the Ursus man to instinctively raise his arm to block, his body stagnating for a moment.
It was this very instant!
Suffolk's figure rushed forward, the hem of his trench coat flaring up.
He was not rushing at the Ursus man, but at the crate containing the ledger at his feet.
His goal from the very beginning was not to kill, but intelligence.
"Looking to die!"
The Ursus man roared, the steel needles on his arm stuck in his tough muscles, unable to penetrate deeply.
He raised his hand, about to hurl the military knife in his grip.
But Suffolk was faster.
He kicked the edge of the crate, using the reaction force to change direction, his body twisting at an incredible angle to dodge the incoming knife.
At the same time, his right hand flicked, and the large folding army knife snapped open with a swish, gleaming coldly.
He did not use the knife to attack the Ursus man, but instead slammed the back of the blade heavily onto the cable of a suspended iron pulley nearby.
"Clang!"
The rusty iron pulley, dragging a long chain, whistled down from the ceiling, smashing directly toward the Ursus man's position.
The Ursus man was forced to retreat and dodge, while Suffolk seized the opportunity to stoop down, grab the ledger that had fallen to the ground, and stuff it into his bosom.
"Farewell, friend from the north! I hope the rain of Londinium can wash away the scent of blood on you!"
Suffolk dropped a witty remark, turned, and ran.
"Stop!"
The Ursus man was furious. Dodging the iron chain, he pulled a gun from his inner pocket with a flip of his hand, raised it, and fired.
The bullet flew past, grazing Suffolk's ear.
Suffolk performed a clumsy roll, crashed through the warehouse back door, and rushed into the curtain of rain.
"Sir!"
Seeing this, Crow immediately emerged from the shadows, ready to support.
"Plan changed! Retreat!"
The two did not linger to fight, sprinting away at full speed.
Behind them came the Ursus man's angry roars and chaotic gunshots, but they were soon swallowed by the crisscrossing alleys and the incessant sound of rain.
Half an hour later, in a safe house on the second floor of an inconspicuous bakery, Suffolk finally breathed a sigh of relief.
He took off his soaked trench coat, revealing the shirt underneath which had been slashed open, fresh blood seeping from his arm.
"Sir, you're hurt!" Crow brought the first aid kit, his expression somewhat worried.
"Small wound, not worth mentioning."
While bandaging himself, Suffolk pulled the half-wet ledger from his bosom and placed it carefully on the table.
The ledger's cover was fine leather, but it had been stained by blood and rain.
Suffolk carefully treated it with a special solution, making the handwriting clear again.
When he opened the ledger and saw the contents clearly, the relaxation and mockery on his face completely disappeared.
What this ledger recorded was not ordinary smuggled goods.
It was batch after batch of standard munitions, including Originium explosives and even several small mortars.
The shipper was a company named "Anvil Mining," and the recipient's signature, though scribbled and disguised, was recognized by Suffolk thanks to the Grey Top Hat's years of training—he identified several key letter combinations and signature habits.
That was one of the Wellington Duke's most trusted adjutants, a Thracian known for acting in secrecy.
And the delivery destinations of these munitions pointed to southern Victoria, the swamps and mountains where Thracians gathered—the area where the Deep Pool organization was most active.
What made Suffolk's spine chill even more was the last page, where a completely different handwriting had scrawled a word—"Leithanien."
Beside this word was drawn a strange symbol, resembling an eye.
Crow, seeing Suffolk's sudden change in expression, leaned over as well.
When he saw the contents of the ledger clearly, he sucked in a breath of cold air.
"Sir... this..."
"This is beyond what we can handle."
Suffolk closed the ledger, his expression graver than ever before.
"Wellington Duke... funding Deep Pool... this is shaking the very foundation of Victoria."
He stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the rain still falling outside.
"It seems Londinium is about to change." He said in a low voice.
"Here, a bloody opera... is about to raise its curtain..."
He picked up the ledger and wrapped it carefully in oilcloth.
"We return immediately. The Duke... must know this at once."
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