Chapter 1595: Chapter 1595

On the surface, Dolores held a significant advantage in the struggle for the throne, but she was still constrained by her older brother due to the rules of succession. With the entire royal family having left Ruen with the king, a golden opportunity presented itself. A temporary alliance with Dolores, in particular, meant Yani Stuart could also leverage the power of the kingdom’s ‘prince’—and she had high hopes for Jenkins.

The alliance she envisioned, of course, wasn't some foolish plot to orchestrate an assassination. Yani Stuart knew her father's health wouldn't hold out for much longer. This journey would be the last chance for the Stuart siblings to prove their worth.

Alexia expressed great interest in such a collaboration, while Jenkins remained silent throughout, standing by the window and listening as the women discussed politics. He held his cat, his mind drifting back over the events of the past week in Bel Diran.

The city had become a political maelstrom, drawing in more and more hunters and their prey. Every event he had been a part of would leave a profound mark on history. The final great political drama of the Eighteenth Epoch, he mused, was likely unfolding at this very moment.

But this tragicomedy had yet to reach its climax. The third protagonist, the king from Dullin, was still on his way.

By the time he bid farewell to Alexia, Dolores, and her maid, the night was already late. Out of consideration for Dolores, Jenkins decided against staying at Alexia's and planned to return to his own house to rest.

Though it meant walking home in the dead of night, Jenkins wasn't concerned about danger. The hidden threats in Bel Diran had been all but eliminated, and an attempt on his life was unlikely now—no one knew he had just visited the residence of the northern kingdom's royal family.

He made it back to his house without incident, planning to read a bit more of the divination notes given to him by the young diviner before turning in for the night.

Seated at the desk in his study, he lit the gas lamp. He transferred the text from the Book of Memories onto a blank notebook, then propped it up to carefully read the elegant script. Before long, a black shadow rose from behind the notebook. Jenkins looked up and saw his cat standing on its hind legs, leaning its body against the nearly vertical cover, its head and tiny paws peeking over the top.

It meowed a greeting at Jenkins, then began swatting at the notebook with its paw.

“I'll play with you in a bit,” Jenkins murmured. “I'm reading.”

With that, he gently but firmly plucked the cat from the notebook and set it on his lap. Chocolate protested with a soft grumble but was quickly subdued by Jenkins's left hand.

It was eleven o'clock by the time he decided to finally call an end to the long day and head for bed. He was in the washroom brushing his teeth, clad in his pajamas, when he suddenly heard a knock at the door.

His house in Bel Diran was a street-front apartment building, with no garden or courtyard. The front door opened directly onto the main thoroughfare, so there was no bell to pull.

“Who could that be at this hour?”

He wondered, puzzled. Squinting, he peered downstairs but detected no spiritual aura.

He set down his glass, scooped up the cat, and went to the bedroom window. Staying close to the wall, he hooked a finger into the curtain and parted it just enough to peer down. Under the dim glow of a streetlamp, he saw a man in a black hat standing pressed against his door.

After a moment's thought, he set the cat on the floor and padded downstairs in his slippers. The wind was howling outside tonight, and a window on the ground floor must have been left ajar, because the room was filled with its eerie, whistling moan.

The gas lamp in the entryway flickered several times before the flame steadied, as if the pressure in the pipes was unstable. Jenkins stood before the door for a few seconds, then called out:

“Who might be calling so late at night?”

“Mr. Williams, I have a letter for you.”

The man's voice was hoarse, with the faintest trace of a northern accent.

“Just slide it through the mail slot.”

“The sender instructed me to deliver it into your hands personally.”

The person outside explained.

Jenkins nodded to himself. He was now certain the man outside meant him harm, because every word he'd spoken had been a lie. He glanced at the drawer of the shoe cabinet, where he kept a pistol loaded with three rounds. Taking out the gun, he slid the security chain into place, then positioned himself behind the door before opening it just a crack.

“Give me the letter, then.”

But what appeared in the gap was not an envelope, but the dark muzzle of a gun. The man outside must have assumed Jenkins would be peering through the crack, never expecting him to be hidden behind the door.

The moment he saw the muzzle, Jenkins shot his hand out, gripped the body of the pistol, and with a sharp tug, wrenched it from the man's grasp. He couldn't help but imagine the look on the gunman's face. He didn't know much about firearms and couldn't identify the man by the model of his weapon, so he asked:

“Apologies. This doesn't seem to be a letter.”

He had no idea what the man outside was thinking, but a moment later, a dark object came flying through the gap. Jenkins caught it deftly and immediately activated his Ice Solidification ability, instantly freezing the gush of steam erupting from the bomb.

“This doesn't look like a letter either.” ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ novelꞁire.net

He remarked, then hurled the lump of ice back out through the crack. He heard the sound of someone scrambling away from his door, followed by a thud as they hit the ground.

His cat, finally making its appearance, trotted up behind Jenkins. With a deft running start, it scrambled up the side of the shoe cabinet and, with a final leap, landed squarely on Jenkins's shoulder.

Jenkins chuckled, unlatched the security chain, and stepped outside with a pistol in each hand. He was just in time to see the man on the ground scrambling back to his feet.

The stranger stared at the young man—clad in pajamas and slippers, a cat perched on his shoulder, and a pistol in each hand—and began to seriously suspect that his employer had set him up.

“The last person who tried to murder me near my house didn't end well, as I recall.”

Jenkins remarked wistfully, recalling the serial killer who had broken into his house after his winter travels, only to be knocked unconscious with a cane.

The stranger, who had just managed to get to his feet, took the words as a threat. His eyes were fixed on the two pistols in the young writer's hands—one of which, he remembered grimly, had been his own just a minute ago.

“You're not about to tell me you've got the wrong man, are you?”

Jenkins asked. The stranger remained silent, looking as if he wanted to back away, but Jenkins had already leveled the pistol in his right hand at the man's head.

“Want to find out if you're faster than my bullet? My aim isn't the best, I'll admit, but at a distance of only three paces, I'm confident I won't miss.”

The stranger was an ordinary man, and he certainly had no desire to test his speed—or his luck—in such a fashion.