Chapter 111: Chapter 111

After Mr. Bro left, Jenkins returned to the first floor to resume his studies. Papa Oliver, wearing a monocle, was carefully examining a red bullet in his hand that looked as though it were dripping blood.

It gave off a heavy, metallic scent of blood, but the odor was undetectable from more than two meters away. ᴛhis chapter is ᴜpdated by Nove1Fire.net

Jenkins asked, pinching his nose. Chocolate, his cat, stood on the second-floor landing, refusing to come down.

"I don't know," Papa Oliver replied softly. "The Church just sent it over for me to examine. It's likely not a Series A, B, or C object—probably just a temporary item empowered by some strange ritual."

"How did your meeting go?"

"We've reached a preliminary agreement on the promotional plan," Jenkins said. "I think I'm about to strike it rich."

"You call that 'striking it rich'?"

"Mr. Bro gave me over two thousand pounds," Jenkins explained. "I'm surprised he had the nerve to carry that much cash on him."

"What's two thousand pounds?" Papa Oliver retorted. "Have you bought that star fragment yet? A single piece costs three thousand!"

Jenkins had exactly three thousand pounds on hand. At Mr. Hood's next gathering, he might finally be able to buy that crystal from Magic Miss.

He was about to be broke again.

"Those men in black who just passed by outside..."

"I could smell the dampness of the grave from a distance. They're probably from the Church of Death and End."

Papa Oliver said it nonchalantly.

"During the fight for that Cursed Item in the Shattered Isles, all five churches sought help from outside the diocese. But for one reason or another, only our church had people come from the capital, and that was because of some urgent business here in the city. That was probably a Gravedigger squad from the Church of Death and End. Don't worry about them. It has nothing to do with us."

Jenkins nodded and put the matter out of his mind.

That evening, after saying goodbye to Papa Oliver, Jenkins headed to an agency on Shaftesbury Avenue. The same stout woman as before greeted him.

She had found a suitable candidate for him: a thirty-seven-year-old woman named Mrs. Mahat.

She was a haggard woman with a worn face. Her husband had recently passed away, and with no children to depend on, she had to find a way to support herself.

Jenkins didn't care about her age or appearance; as long as she was tidy and trustworthy, she would do. They talked for half an hour, and he made his decision.

The arrangement was that every evening, Mrs. Mahat would buy groceries and wait outside for Jenkins to arrive. While he washed up, played with his cat, and sorted through his papers, she would prepare dinner. Then, as he ate, she would tidy the house and tend to the lawn, leaving before eight o'clock.

The new arrangement saved Jenkins a tremendous amount of time. Though it cost him an extra ten shillings and five pence a week, it was well worth the expense.

"I sometimes find myself dreaming of a young maid who can stop time and moonlights as a serial killer."

He cradled his cat as he walked along, his mind wandering through thoughts only he could truly appreciate.

"Perhaps I could write a book on that theme?"

His idea for a story based on "Frozen" had run into a major snag before he'd even put pen to paper: in his previous life, Jenkins had never actually seen the movie. He couldn't afford it.

But in an age of information overload, some things find you whether you're looking for them or not. As a result, Jenkins could piece together a general outline of the plot.

"It has to be a more complex story."

He sat at his desk, fountain pen in hand, gazing at the blank page illuminated by a single candle. It was made from special herbs that, when burned, sharpened the mind and could even assist in complex rituals. Jenkins had bought it on the black market and, given its cost, only brought himself to light it when writing or deep in study.

"Court dramas are always popular," he mused. "It should span a feud of two... no, three generations. In this world, you can't just invoke the names of gods, so the princess's powers could be an inheritance from an ancient bloodline..."

Leaning over his desk, he began to write. Once he had the general direction of the story set, he artfully wove in every melodramatic trope he could imagine. Of course, every good writer has to inject a bit of their own agenda. He set the two princess sisters as followers of the Legacy Sage, their powers awakened by a divine revelation.

Hoping to appeal to a broad audience—and to avoid being dismissed by critics as just another chivalric romance—Jenkins crafted an epic and expansive world for his story.

It was similar to his current world, yet different. Within the existing system of Righteous Gods, he introduced a D&D-style mage class born from faith in the Sage—though in the book, he called them "Conjuring Clerics."

As far as he knew, no other story on the market featured such a meticulously crafted fantasy world.

Jenkins hoped to win over the market with a compelling plot and moving character relationships.

At the same time, he aimed to earn the respect of literary critics through the vast, subtly implied world-building.

Mentioning and praising the Sage wasn't just a display of his own devotion. He knew that most literary critics and academics were also followers of the Legacy Sage.

As for the subtle hints at the complex relationship between the two princesses of Arendelle... well, that was just one of Jenkins's little indulgences.

A peaceful week went by. A small column in the Nolan Daily reported on the massive kingdom-wide splash made by a fairy tale collection from a local author. Coincidentally or not, in the very same position on the following page was a wanted notice for a mysterious figure in a black robe.

The weather grew colder as the Month of the War God and Falling Leaves moved into its latter half. Nolan remained shrouded in smog, but the air now carried the distinct, heavy scent of autumn.

Gentlemen on the streets began wearing woolen shirts beneath their suits, while the ladies packed away their bright summer dresses and turned to magazines to discover the latest autumn trends.

Even the carriage drivers had started wearing gloves, as the mornings and evenings in the city had grown distinctly cold.

Lately, Papa Oliver had taken to wearing a red woolen vest around the shop. It was terribly old-fashioned, but he seemed quite fond of it.

On Monday evening, Jenkins first took his cat home before heading to the corner of a familiar alley to wait for Miss Hersha.

He had changed into an inconspicuous trench coat and pulled a wide-brimmed hat low over his head.

He had even painted his cane black.

"The papers say the Council's debate over the new Environmental Management Act isn't going well."

Staring into the thin smog, Jenkins suspected that if things continued this way, Nolan would truly earn the title "The City of Fog" in a few years.