Chapter 1

After two consecutive days of snowfall, a brief period of clear weather seemed to dissipate the gloom that had been hanging over the city-state. The frost awakened once more, as it usually did. Snowplows and de-icing equipment began clearing the main roads, the old high-pressure gas supply lines and electrical systems once again withstood the test, and factories and public transportation systems resumed operation.

The sounds of various vehicles and machinery gradually grew louder with the sunrise.

However, beneath this facade of awakening, a strange and tense atmosphere was gradually spreading through the city. Even ordinary people in the city had finally noticed this shift in the air.

It began with news from the newspapers. The emergency control notices issued by City Hall made those with a keen sense of things smell trouble. Then came rumors from the coastal districts that the Sea Fog Fleet had appeared near the city-state. Soon after, all sorts of true and false reports spread through the streets and alleys.

The frequent transfers of city-state security officials, the Guardian troops gathering around several cemeteries, the horrifying news coming from certain neighborhoods—mixed with the bizarre stories of "the return of the dead" that had been circulating in the city for the past month—all these unsettling things seemed to have suddenly come together and begun to spread quietly throughout the city.

The city-states on the Boundless Sea were like crowded dovecotes. Cities were separated by vast oceans, but people were within earshot of each other. Nothing was more difficult than transmitting messages between city-states, and nothing was easier than transmitting messages within a city-state.

But even so, life had to go on. The disturbing news only spread through the streets, and the citizens still went out and worked as usual, at most discussing the strange atmosphere in the city when they got on the bus or met in a tavern. A little pressure was not enough to disrupt the operation of a city-state.

Ultimately, the people living in this world had long been accustomed to the gloom in their lives. For them, it was normal for strange and bizarre things to happen in the city. The destructive activities of cultists and the occasional emergence of Night Horrors were all part of daily life. A city that remained peaceful and serene after nightfall was abnormal to them.

At the intersection of Fourth Cemetery and Oak Street, a small tavern called "Golden Flute" was gradually becoming lively.

Most of the citizens heading from the neighborhood to the factories for work in the morning would pass by this intersection. "Golden Flute," as a cheap tavern for the masses, was the best place for everyone to stop before work. It offered not only alcohol but also decent coffee and simple breakfasts, perfect for filling one's stomach and warding off the cold. Chatting with people here during breakfast was also a little pastime before the start of a day's tense and busy work.

The tavern's waiters bustled between the round tables, the staff behind the bar greeted customers, warm yellow light poured down from the ceiling, dispelling the winter chill. A middle-aged man with a long, thin face and withered yellow hair sat in a chair not far behind the bar, casually flipping through the newspaper in his hand while watching the situation in the tavern out of the corner of his eye.

The tavern seemed a bit noisy, occasionally interspersed with some coarse jokes or reckless swear words. Most of those who came here to eat were not so-called "upper-class citizens," but rather ordinary people who went to work in the industrial belt from the lower city. They gathered here to discuss what was happening in the lower city or the factory district, or to judge the recent changes in the city-state.

Their views were mostly shallow and boring, and no one would pay attention to these people's opinions of the city.

As long as they didn't fight in the tavern, everything was fine.

The middle-aged tavern owner with withered yellow hair turned the newspaper to the next page and yawned a little boredly.

Then, he felt that the surroundings seemed to have quieted down a bit—and then, something seemed to be blocking the light shining down from above.

The tavern owner looked up and saw a burly figure standing in front of him.

The other party was wearing a pitch-black windbreaker reminiscent of nightfall. The high collar blocked most of his face, and a wide-brimmed hat pressed down like dark clouds, obscuring everything from outside eyes. In the few gaps between the clothes, all that could be seen were layers upon layers of bandages.

An imposing gaze was hidden in the shadows of the low-压 hat.

A sense of coercion that was difficult to ignore from a visual point of view came head-on. The middle-aged tavern owner with withered yellow hair felt his heart skip a beat almost instantly, and a look of panic could not help but appear in his eyes. His first reaction was to mistake the other party for a clergyman of the Death Cult—because those devout priests liked this slightly excessive "bandage attire" for ordinary people. But then he realized that this man in black was not wearing the church's triangular mark, nor did he carry the Guardian's standard-issue special cane.

After a moment of panic, the middle-aged tavern owner forced himself to calm down. He saw that there were three people behind this burly figure: a young woman of equally astonishing height, a kind-looking old man, and a fair-haired woman with a veil over her face, exuding a noble and mysterious aura. He could not help but think quickly in his mind.

"Guests" who came specifically for him were definitely not good people based on their attire. The faintly revealed heavy aura made it difficult for him to breathe. Were they secret security officials from the central city? Or were they people sent by other forces from the frigid sea? Why were they looking for him? Threat, enticement, or...did they need something from him?

He put the newspaper aside, calmly got up, and looked up at the man in black in front of him: "Who are you looking for?"

"Mr. Nimo Wilkins," Duncan noticed the panic and tension in the middle-aged man's eyes. Obviously, it was caused by his imposing manner, but this was intentional—he was observing the other party's reaction. This would expose the other party's most genuine emotional changes, which would help determine whether a person had been subjected to cognitive interference or memory correction. "Is that your name?"

"Everyone here knows my name," Nimo Wilkins nodded, and at the same time gently waved to the clerk not far away. "Are you here to find me? But I'm just an honest businessman..."

"Lately, the sea is often foggy and the wind is very cold," Duncan said slowly, while reaching into his arms and taking out the city-state map prepared by Tirian himself. "We need a glass of good wine to warm our stomachs—preferably something that can warm the heart of a dead man."

The moment he heard the words "Lately, the sea is often foggy and the wind is very cold," Nimo's breathing changed extremely subtly, and then his gaze fell on the city-state map.

This "tavern owner" hid all his emotions and eye movements extremely well. In fact, apart from that momentary change in breathing and heartbeat, there was no sign of anything unusual on the outside. But even such a small reaction still did not escape Vanna's eyes.

"Looks like it's him," Vanna said softly.

Duncan nodded slightly and put away the folded map: "Are there any seats upstairs?"

"The seats upstairs are full," Nimo shook his head. "Come with me."

As he spoke, he walked out from beside the counter and led the uninvited guests toward a door next to the stairs.

The small tavern was still noisy, and even if someone noticed the movement at the counter, no one paid too much attention to what was happening.

Duncan and his party followed behind Tavern Owner Nimo. They passed through the slightly short wooden door and entered a passage that seemed to lead to the warehouse behind the store. But they entered another door in the middle of the passage and walked down a sloping ramp for a long distance—until they felt that they had left the area of the tavern on the surface far behind. They stopped in front of a dark wooden door.

"This place is really deep," Morris couldn't help but mutter.

"Caution doesn't hurt. People related to the Sea Fog Fleet aren't welcome in this city," Nimo Wilkins said as he walked toward the door. "Enemies are everywhere—even after half a century."

"How did you dig out such a place under the noses of the city-state authorities?" Vanna's focus was different from the others. As an Inquisitor, she was more concerned with the techniques a "gray middleman" used to hide in the city-state. "To dig such a long tunnel under a tavern, how do you transport the stones and soil out? How do you hide the noise during excavation?"

Nimo Wilkins turned his head slightly and glanced at the tall, white-haired woman, with a smile in his voice: "It's very simple—no need to dig. This place is originally part of the Frost underground waterway."

As soon as he finished speaking, the dark door was opened. With a creaking sound, the light of the gas lamp shone into the eyes of Duncan and his party.

Along with it came the faint sound of running water from who knows where.

Duncan's gaze passed through the door and saw that the opposite side was actually an unusually wide "hall." It seemed to be the intersection of ancient sewers. In the distance, he could see corridors extending into the depths of darkness, and tables, chairs, beds, and shelves were placed in the corners of the hall, looking like they could even be inhabited.

It could even station a lot of manpower.