Chapter 239: Chapter 239

The warehouse stank of dust and sweat.

Wooden crates piled high to the ceiling leaned against one another like drunkards.

Ropes coiled across the floor and lantern light flickered against rusted steel beams.

The air was thick with the sour smell of tobacco and damp wood, heavy enough to choke.

Roared a man with a coarse beard, his voice echoing across the rafters.

He clutched a clipboard in one hand, a half-burned cigarette hanging from his lips, smoke curling into his eyes.

"You want your pay tomorrow, then hurry!

Careful with that crate, idiot, do you know what’s inside?"

Two men grunted as they stumbled with a heavy chest, nearly dropping it before the bearded man cursed again.

He scribbled furiously on his clipboard, puffing smoke.

Went a crowbar as someone pried open another crate, spilling the smell of gun oil into the air.

From a table near the center, four men laughed, drinking stale ale and blowing rings of smoke to the rafters.

Their pistols rested within arm’s reach, their laughter sharp and mocking.

The bearded man scowled, took a drag of his cigarette, and spat smoke. This update ıs available on 𝓷𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓵•𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓮•𝓷𝓮𝓽

Then, with a flick, he tossed the half-lit stub into a dark corner.

He staggered back as the cigarette hurled itself back, searing his forehead.

He slapped it away with a curse, the burned skin stinging.

From the shadows came a voice.

"It is dangerous to throw half-lit cigarettes indoors.

It is unsafe and very hazardous.

This whole warehouse could burn because of your carelessness."

The sound of a cane echoed against the wooden floor.

Every eye turned toward the darkness.

A figure emerged, tall, draped in a long black trenchcoat that swept across his boots.

A white shirt, a black tie knotted tight at the neck, black gloves gripping a silver cane.

His hair was jet black, his face obscured by a silver opera mask that covered only his eyes, catching the lantern light like polished steel.

He stopped before the bearded man, setting the cane upright, both hands resting over the handle.

His voice was steady and polite, yet heavy.

The masked figure asked, tilting his head slightly.

"Might you know where Sir Antonio of the Glass Ravens might be?"

The bearded man stepped back, his eyes widening.

His gaze locked on the mask, on the silver glint.

His hand shot for the revolver at his hip.

Flame and smoke burst in the air.

But the masked man moved, faster than sight.

The silver cane rose and caught the bullet, sparks spitting as steel met lead.

The shot ricocheted into a crate, splitting wood.

The bearded man stumbled back, roaring,

Pistols scraped wood as the drinkers leapt up, raising their weapons.

The warehouse exploded with gunfire, smoke filling the air, ears ringing.

The masked man spun the cane in his hand.

He struck one shot aside, the spark blinding.

He slammed the cane against the floor and vaulted forward.

His boot cracked into a man’s chest.

The man flew back into a crate, splinters bursting into the air.

The masked man ducked low, rolling across the floor.

His cane lashed out, hooking a pistol and tearing it from its wielder’s hand.

With a twist, he spun and drove the cane into the man’s ribs.

The man gasped, collapsing as the air left him.

The bearded man shouted over the chaos.

The silver mask gleamed as its wearer surged forward.

Another shot screamed past his ear, close enough to sting with heat.

He pivoted, cane whipping in an arc.

The wood split across a man’s jaw, teeth clattering to the ground.

The air reeked of gunpowder and sweat, the ring of metal clashing with each block.

The masked man moved with precision, not wasting motion, each step and strike calculated.

Three men aimed together.

But the bullets slowed midair.

The men’s faces twisted in horror as the bullets shivered, turning to liquid silver before their eyes.

They hovered, gleaming orbs pulsing with light.

They slammed into arms, shoulders, knees.

Bones shattered, screams filled the warehouse.

Men fell, writhing, blood spilling onto the planks.

The bearded man cursed, throwing his clipboard aside.

His hand pulled free a blade, steel flashing in the lantern glow.

His voice trembled with rage and pride.

Do you know who I am?

I am a retired soldier of the Victorian Army!

A knight who bled for this land!"

The masked man’s cane rippled, silver flowing like water.

It lengthened, stretched and shaped.

The handle twisted and the shaft extended.

In a heartbeat, he no longer held a cane.

Its tip gleamed and humming with lethal promise.

"Then stand, knight."

The masked man said softly.

The old soldier charged, blade slashing. Steel sang.

The spear caught it, sparks leaping.

The masked man pivoted, his coat sweeping.

He thrust, the spear tip grazing the old man’s arm.

The knight roared, swinging wildly.

The blade hissed through the air, missing by inches.

The masked man slid aside, movements fluid, his spear spinning.

The shaft cracked against the knight’s ribs. He staggered, gasping.

They circled, boots echoing.

The knight swung again, heavy and desperate.

A crack rang out and steel split.

The knight’s sword snapped in two.

He stumbled back, eyes wide.

The masked man thrust.

Silver pierced through the knight’s leg, then the other.

The man collapsed, his knees buckling and body trembling.

Blood soaked his trousers.

He was pinned to the ground, immobilized.

The masked man stood over him, spear gleaming.

Where is he? I thought he would be here."

The old man spat blood.

His voice was bitter.

"If you think one of the most influential men, one of the top leaders of the Glass Ravens, would ever set foot in this rat’s nest, you are a fool.

We are nothing but a crew.

And you... you and your little masked brats are nothing but pups running loose in a city too big for you!"

Silence filled the warehouse.

The masked man did not move, only stared through silver mask.

The quiet pressed heavy, broken only by the groans of the wounded.

Then he tilted his head, and his tone shifted, almost light.

His eyes glinted through the mask.

"Your threats do not work on me.

This warehouse was abandoned by the Glass Ravens long ago.

Now it is used by smugglers, thieves, men like you, moving goods under the nose of government."

He turned his spear back into silver.

It dripped, flowed, collapsed into a simple cane once again.

"That being said, everything here... is now under Chrome Hearts."

The old knight gritted his teeth, rage burning.

His men dragged him up, supporting him as they staggered toward the door.

His curses filled the air, raw and venomous.

At the threshold, he turned, voice cracking with fury.

Damn your cursed little group!"

He drew breath, his roar tearing through the night.

The masked man smiled faintly.

He lifted a gloved hand, forming a small heart with index finger and thumb.

The gesture glimmered in the lantern light.