Lloyd Holmeshad arrived in Old Dunling six years ago.
Now, he lived as a private detective, drifting quietly through this city ofiron and steam.
Another man was dead.
That was what people were whispering about this morning.
According toThe Queen's Daily, the murder took place near the border between East District's Irins quarter and the Inner City. A man was shot there. Because it happened so close to the Inner City—where the wealthy lived—the patrolmen had rushed to the scene. Yet, as with many cases before, they found nothing.
The coroner of Suaran Hall reported that the victim had been shot at close range with ascattergun. The burst tore his chest into shreds of flesh and blood, leaving his face unrecognizable. But judging from his sun-darkened skin and the faint smell of brine clinging to him, they speculated he was a sailor.
No one knew what he was doing there—so far from the harbor.
He had no reason to be.
Another unsolved case.
At least, that's what the public thought.
No one was surprised. No one was afraid.
They had long since grown used to it.
This wasOld Dunling—the beating heart ofInlveig, the heart of the entire world. The first steam engine in human history had been born here.
And so, countless outsiders arrived each day—some forwealth, some forknowledge, others forpower.
But too many strangers meant chaos.
To keep order, Old Dunling had been divided intofour concentric districts.
At the very center lay the seat of power—thePlatinum Palace, home to Queen Victoria herself, guarded by the Royal Third Mechanized Regiment.
Around it spread theInner City, where nobles and industrial magnates lived under the watchful protection of the police, twenty-four hours a day.
Beyond that, divided into four sectors, was theOuter City, where most citizens resided—the living, breathing mass of Old Dunling.
And beyond that… lay theLower District.
To enter Old Dunling, one passed through its districts in sequence.
Your attire was your passport. If you were ragged, you would never reach the Outer City—you would remain trapped in the Lower District, which wasn't even considered a district in the true sense.
It had begun as a slum.
But as more and more people came, the Lower District swelled—until it became so vast that even the magistrates could no longer ignore it.
Now, it was a place ofchaos and shadow, where the city's largestblack marketthrived, a furnace that burned away all traces of secrets. It stood but a breath away from the world everyone else pursued.
The dead sailor had come from there.
To most citizens of Inlveig, people from the Lower District weren't even people—they were filth staining the beauty of the city.
The sailor's death became a topic of gossip, nothing more.
No one cared—
except one man.
The man who had killed him.
Lloyd walked through the Lower District.
He was at its edge now, where no proper road remained. His boots sank deep into the mud, each step heavier than the last. If not for his living, he would never have set foot here.
He wore a blackeneddeerstalker hatpressing down his pale gold hair, a dark red tie at his chest, and a wide gray-black coat concealing the firearm beneath.
In one hand he held a cane; in the other, apocket watchhe checked from time to time—he could've passed for a merchant late for an appointment.
His appearance was ordinary enough for the streets of Old Dunling—but here, in the Lower District, he looked likeprey.
A fat sheep who had strayed into the wolves' den.
Men from distant nations lurked in the corners, their eyes on him. The patrols never came here; deaths were rarely investigated. With so many travelers arriving each day by ship, one more corpse was nothing new.
These men knew who to rob—and who to leave alone.
A few newcomers whispered among themselves, dividing Lloyd's belongings before even touching him. One wanted the coat. Another, the watch.
The others simply watched in silence.
Here, thieves and gangs had their own ecosystem.
Anyone foolish enough to interfere would vanish before dawn.
On the filthy street, the circle closed around Lloyd. Their eyes gleamed.
"Nice clothes you've got there, friend," said the one in front, smiling.
It wasn't a friendly smile. He'd simply noticed that the pocket watch was worth more than he'd thought.
"If I were you," Lloyd sighed, "I wouldn't do that."
His tone was calm, almost weary—like a man too used to this kind of trouble.
He had killed men before, in full view of a crowd, thinking it would earn him some respect.
It hadn't. The next time he came here, it happened again.
He'd once thought someone was targeting him.
Then he realized—it was just thatthose men were already dead.
This was the Lower District—the harbor of outsiders.
In the eyes of Inlveig's law, this place wasn't part of the kingdom at all. Its people weren't citizens. Beyond it stretched the Thames estuary, home to the largest seaport in the realm. Those who drifted here might be gone tomorrow, sailing for other seas.
And the gangs—oh, they were endless.
The black market's wealth was a carcass, and every beast wanted a bite.
Fights broke out daily. People died daily.
Their bodies were thrown into the Thames, and after passing through the steam purifiers, were burned along with the city's refuse.
No one remembered Lloyd anymore.
They just didn't live long enough to.
The knives glinted before his eyes.
He was still deciding how to deal with them when a suddenclatter of hoovesechoed down the street.
A black carriage stopped beside them, and without hesitation, the coachman drew a pistol and fired.
He wasn't merciful about it.
A few sharp reports later, the thugs lay dead at Lloyd's feet.
The onlookers scattered.
Silence fell, leaving only Lloyd and the coachman.
"Mr. Holmes?"
The old man squinted, his voice rasping with age. Despite his frail appearance, his shooting had been unnervingly precise.
"I am," Lloyd replied.
He glanced at the insignia on the carriage—recognized it—and climbed aboard.
But he didn't sit inside. Instead, he took the seat beside the driver.
"What were those men?" Lloyd asked, glancing back at the bodies, his voice edged with disgust.
"Stowaways," the driver said, snapping the reins. The carriage began to move, wheels sloshing through the mud.
"More of them every week. Most are criminals, thinking Old Dunling will give them a new life.
They don't realize that to start anew, they must first bury their past.
They still think like bandits—and so they cause trouble."
"Doesn'tBerlauhandle this?" Lloyd asked.
"The lord's busy. Two gangs are about to go to war over their turf. He's trying to mediate. There's too much business tied to those territories. He doesn't care who wins or loses—but a fight will hurt the profits.
Their lives aren't worth that much."
Lloyd nodded slightly. "Sounds like him."
The driver smiled faintly. "Next time, Mr. Holmes, if you plan to come here—send word ahead. I'll fetch you myself. Could save us both some trouble."
Lloyd only nodded.
They had barely ridden a few streets when their destination came into view.
Beyond layers of ruin and rubble stood a hiddenfortress, built from broken stone and rusted iron, draped with tattered banners.
It rose before them like the half-finished dream of some mad artist—
a castle of ghosts,
waiting for its detective to arrive.
He stepped down from the carriage and tipped his hat to the coachman—a gesture he'd spent far too long mastering in those dull etiquette classes. He no longer bothered recalling which occasions it was meant for; the habit had long since etched itself into his mannerisms.
Ahead loomed the castle—a structure so strange it seemed to breathe. Its half-closed gates creaked open on their own, revealing the true face of the lower city.
Unlike the decayed streets outside, this place gleamed with the opulence of the inner districts. It felt as though he had stepped, in a single breath, from a slum straight into a platinum palace.
It was late October, the weather turning cold, yet the moment Lloyd crossed the threshold he felt a wave of heat—not just on his skin, but somewhere deep within his chest.
The interior was far larger than the exterior suggested. Pale-golden walls shimmered beneath oil paintings of absurd value, and the marble floors reflected the silhouettes of those who passed. Masked attendants glided between the tables, silver trays in hand, offering wine and spirits to the gamblers.
On a raised platform in the center, a woman's distant, ethereal voice wove through the air, steering the rhythm of the entire hall.
Iron cages lined the edges of the room, each holding smoldering incense. The scent was exquisite—soothing at first, yet laced with a faint stimulant that nudged hesitant patrons to wager everything they owned.
This was the lower city's true face: a paradise of delirium and decadence.
Unlike the regulated inner city, this place lay beyond all jurisdiction. Here, nobles came to launder their sins—disguising it as gambling while transferring fortunes through hidden channels. The amount of money exchanged each night was a figure the common folk could scarcely imagine. And, of course, there were the thrill-seeking aristocrats who frequented this place, each greeted as an honored guest of the underworld.
Berrow had once told him: under Ingervig's law, every soul in this den carried enough sin to rot in prison for life. But if justice truly came for them all, one-third of Old Dunlin's noble class would vanish overnight.
No one stopped Lloyd as he descended. Unlike those short-lived outsiders, everyone here knew who he was—and what he could do.
He pushed through a series of iron doors until he reached the lowest chamber beneath the earth. There, amid the haze of incense and the soft hiss of a phonograph, sat his employer.
The man wore a silver mask, carved with thorns and a bird motif. He sat behind an oak desk, his eyes closed, conducting the air with both hands like a maestro lost in his own private symphony—until Lloyd's footsteps drew him back to the world.
"Welcome, my friend!"
The man smiled as he spoke.
This was the true ruler of the lower city—the one to whom every gang bent the knee.
Berrow the Butcher Bird.
Lloyd took a seat across from him without ceremony and spoke plainly.
"The man had nothing on him. Before he died, he went completely mad. I couldn't get a word of sense from him, and there's no lead to trace."
"Hmm? Truly?" Berrow drew a glass from beneath the table and poured his favorite wine. "Lloyd, you're the finest detective I've ever met. Surely you've found more than that."
Lloyd sighed, almost weary.
"Only a theory."
"Oh? And what sort of theory?"
Berrow's tone brightened with curiosity—Lloyd Holmers never failed to intrigue him.
"I tracked him through a drug peddler. The man was a sailor from the lower city, barely scraping by, yet he bought hallucinogens from a different vendor every day. When I found him, he had already injected a heavy dose. His words were incoherent. With patrols everywhere in the inner district, I couldn't press him for much.
"So I believe he encountered something… something that terrified him to the core. Enough that he needed the drugs to escape it."
Lloyd's voice was low, almost reverent, like he was reciting a ghost story meant only for the dark.
"Why do you think it was fear?" Berrow asked, the word catching on his tongue as though it mattered deeply.
"Because I shot him in the chest," Lloyd said quietly. "A scatter of bullets shattered his ribs and lungs. Even under the influence, he should've felt pain—should've woken up.
"People fear death. That fear makes them talk. If I so much as hint at a way to survive, they cling to it, answering everything I ask."
"But he didn't." Lloyd's eyes darkened. "He kept muttering in a foreign tongue I couldn't understand. And though his face was ruined, I could still see it—that look of peace.
"As if I hadn't killed him at all… but freed him from some nightmare he could no longer bear."
Berrow fell silent, his expression unreadable. His concern, though, was not the theory—it was Lloyd's choice.
"You killed him?" His voice dropped an octave. "You were supposed to bring him to me alive."
"Huh?"
Lloyd blinked.
"You never said you needed him alive. And please—remember who you are, Berrow. You're the lord of the lower city. The nobles want you dead, the gangs want you dead—everyone wants your throne.
"I'm the one keeping you safe. Anyone who knows what I do will guess at our connection. You told me this job was to stay secret, which means it's important. So I made sure to leave no loose ends. A dead sailor draws no attention to you."
He set down the glass and spread his hands.
"Everyone wins."
Berrow's reply was calm, almost eerily so. "So your idea of 'everyone wins'… is to kill the only lead we had, then sit here drinking my wine?"
Without another word, he reached beneath the table and drew a revolver—silver, gleaming, its barrel engraved with angels and demons so intricately it barely resembled a weapon at all.
"I hope you understand something," Berrow said evenly. "You are my employee. I am your employer. And that kind of mistake doesn't earn a paycheck. It earns a bullet."
He didn't even look up as he loaded the chamber—five rounds, one left empty. He spun it once, then raised the muzzle to Lloyd.
"You're the best detective I've ever known," he said softly. "But this time, you've done something truly foolish.
"So… shall we test your luck? One in six."
Berrow's eyes locked on him, and in that moment, Lloyd could tell—he wasn't joking.
Lloyd's smile stiffened.
"Alright, alright — you really are a dull man."
He waved a hand and tried to force the barrel down, but Bǒlǎo lifted it again. Seeing that, Lloyd understood plainly: under the muzzle he had no choice but to tell the story.
"I've been tailing that sailor for days. His name is Wǒr — Wal, a Viking from the northern seas. Lately he's been drifting among a few drug dealers, with no sign of returning to his ship. He looks as if his captain has thrown him away."
"When you gave me this case, you only told me to look into him. You said he had a secret."
Speaking as if the barrel weren't there, Lloyd relaxed into the telling. "Honestly, the brief you gave me was ridiculous. You don't even know what his secret is, yet you asked me to investigate…"
"No identity, no contacts — a clean slate. Until I watched him inject himself with a hallucinogen."
"What?" Bǒlǎo's attention snapped; this Wǒr mattered to him.
"You won't believe it." Lloyd draped his words in a careless mockery and mimed a syringe against his own neck. "A whole vial of that stuff — for an ordinary man that's a fatal dose. He drove it all in. And he kept doing it, day after day. The dealers confirmed it: he bought it every single day."
"I thought maybe it was their Viking constitution — their ancestors' raiders were the sort who fought right to the gates of Old Dunling, after all." He raised an eyebrow; telling that grim ancestral joke clearly pleased him. "So I found one Viking down in the Lower District and tried the same on him — a whole vial and he was foaming at the mouth."
"Then Wǒr's body reacted differently?" Bǒlǎo seized the thread.
"Yes. Something was terribly wrong with him. Not only that — he was violent. In the past few days he'd killed at least six people. Do you think a sailor has that kind of money otherwise? In the end I did kill him, but he asked me to."
Lloyd's voice slid into memory, recounting that night. In the white steam that rose and the lamps cast from the zeppelin overhead, he had been a dark silhouette. Beneath him lay twisted, surviving flesh; each bullet hole gushed a dull red. The man's chest heaved violently; from his throat came sobs — not words Lloyd knew, but the meaning was clear as any language.
"Kill me!"
"Take me with you!"
"Then I drove the stavesword down through the bullet wounds."
He drew his cane; the black wood split to show the cold gleam within. "I pierced his cervical spine… the carotid ruptured, there was massive internal bleeding. He should have died quickly. But then the strange thing happened."
As Lloyd spoke, Bǒlǎo leaned forward, listening to each syllable and reconstructing the scene in his mind.
"He should have been dead — he was certainly meant to be — but his heart kept pounding. Violently. It was like his brain was gone but the body was still alive, squeezing blood from the bullet holes in an endless stream."
"That was utterly abnormal. I plunged the stavesword into his heart. Only then did the corpse finally stay still."
The tale ended. Bǒlǎo fell silent, as if chewing over some thought; Lloyd made no haste, sipping his wine. He knew what was worth having when it came to Bǒlǎo — good things, and the privilege to drink another glass.
"You should've brought the body back."
"No need."
"No need? You knew the body was abnormal!" Bǒlǎo's anger flared for real this time; he looked as if he might fire the next second.
"And what would bringing it back accomplish? This is a casino, not a morgue. You have a gang of thugs but not a single coroner… do you even know how many bones a human has?" Lloyd said, sneering. He continued, unhurried.
"Wǒr's corpse is already lying in the mortuary of Victoria Central Hospital, being dissected by a group of medical examiners who endured God knows how long at the Royal Medical College. One cut after another, neatly laid on iron racks, like a sumptuous human feast. Every anomaly is being logged in the report according to procedure, and all of it is sitting there right now, waiting for me to collect."
He checked his pocket watch. "They get off in two hours. Anything else you want to ask?"