Chapter 45: Chapter 45

He slipped a hand inside his coat, where his pistol lay, still untouched by the rain.

"So, Black Velte chose Pops's shop just because it was nearby? Was he that reckless? That confident in his own power?"

Jenkins glanced toward the street corner where carriages clustered, their lamps hanging in the gloom, then his gaze returned to the doorplate that read "431B".

"You'll get yourself killed!"

Muttering to himself, he gripped the pistol and climbed the steps, rapping sharply on the door.

"Good heavens, who could that be at this hour? If you're a robber, you should know the patrols pass by every ten minutes!"

The gruff voice of a middle-aged woman boomed from behind the door, laced with a thick, incomprehensible dialect and a string of curses.

"Hello. I'm one of Black Velte's classmates, here for a visit."

"By the Spirit of All Things, it's eleven o'clock, young man! What in the world do you want?"

"I really am his classmate! I'm just looking for shelter from the rain. This wretched weather... it turned the moment I stepped out of the pub on the corner. Please, ma'am, you have to believe me."

As he spoke, Jenkins clamped the pistol between his teeth. With his now-free left hand, he fished a ten-pound note from his pocket.

He told himself, putting it away. Instead, he slipped a one-pound note through the crack under the door.

"Please, have a heart. It's all I have. I swear I won't be any trouble."

For a moment, there was only the sound of the lashing rain. Then, the door creaked open a sliver. The pitch-black muzzle of a hunting rifle appeared first, followed by the sallow, weathered face of a woman.

She eyed the shivering Jenkins nervously. Perhaps it was his youthful face that persuaded her, for she finally nodded and allowed him inside.

"He's in the garret, the room on the left, right?"

Jenkins didn't wait for her to reply. He headed for the stairs, his left hand tucked inside his coat, gripping the pistol.

The woman stood on the rug by the door, her thin lips pressed into a line. "Keep your voice down," she warned. "Don't wake the other residents."

Jenkins paid no mind to her words. He climbed the spiraling staircase, stopping on the fourth floor—the garret.

His heart hammered against his ribs, but there was no turning back now.

"May the Legacy Sage protect me. Your light illuminates our path forward."

He drew a deep breath and knocked softly on the garret door.

"Who is it? Oh, for heaven's sake, not another leak!"

Soon, a rustling sound came from within, the telltale sign of someone dressing, followed by a low grumble. A moment later, a familiar face appeared at the door.

The instant the door opened, a tremendous clap of thunder shook the sky. Without a second's thought, Jenkins pulled the trigger. The young man's face contorted in shock as he clutched his chest. Jenkins shoved him violently back into the room, clamping a hand over Black Velte's mouth. Amidst the rolling thunder, he pressed the gun to the student's body and fired again and again.

He didn't release the body until it stopped convulsing and his pistol was empty.

"He's dead, just like that?"

The scene was almost farcical. Jenkins stood over the body, murder weapon in hand. He nudged the corpse with his foot, revealing the young man's face, his eyes wide in an eternal stare, and the cluster of bloody marks on his chest.

A flicker of fire from outside the window lit up the murder scene. That sound hadn't been thunder—it had been an explosion. And judging by the direction, the blast had come from the Church of Knowledge and Books.

The entire city was jolted awake by the blast. Jenkins could hear the sounds of commotion rising from the floors below as the other residents were roused.

He reloaded, feeding the brass cartridges from his pocket into the magazine. His soaked sleeve clung to his arm.

Activating his Eye of Reality, he scanned the room. He dragged the body aside, then crouched to examine a few oil paintings stacked in the corner.

Just as he'd expected from the pieces Black Velte had shown him before, all the paintings were done in a deeply unsettling and bizarre style.

He ignored the canvases, instead pulling a single sheet of white paper from behind the one at the very back of the stack.

Unlike the oils, this paper held only a simple pencil sketch. The artist's skill was undeniable; with just a few sparse lines, he had conjured the image of a colossal octopus, like some abyssal god descending upon the world.

For some reason, Jenkins laughed. "The octopus wasn't the source. This drawing is!"

He rose, dragging his weary body to the small garret window. He swept a few withered potted plants from the sill to the floor and leaned out, pressing his torso against the frame.

The moment his hand touched the paper, the icy presence in his right palm began to tremble, the sensation radiating through him until he was nearly paralyzed.

"I see now. So this is what the guidance was for."

Peering through the curtain of rain, he saw it: a steam-powered airship, the greatest marvel of the age, hovering in the sky. He watched as dark figures rappelled down from it, engaging ice-blue silhouettes on the ground below. He watched the flames spread out from the church, defying the downpour. Jenkins finally understood what he had to do.

He stumbled back from the window, collapsing to the floor. He crawled laboriously across the filthy floorboards and, by some stroke of luck, found a pencil and an eraser amidst the scattered paintings.

"Erase it... erase it all."

He muttered frantically, brushing the eraser shavings from the page. He gripped the pencil in his left hand.

Chaotic whispers filled his ears. The paper in his hand felt like a soul-devouring demon, its low murmur tempting him to draw his deepest desire, to paint his hope with his very soul.

"Bincy, it's been a while!" Thıs text ıs hosted at novelFirｅ.net

The man with the flaming longsword roared, only to be struck in the gut by a fist from Brut, the Ice Servant. Half his body was instantly encased in ice.

"This is no time for pleasantries!"

Bincy took a deep breath and hurled a chunk of metal from the shattered cathedral doors at their foe. In the rain, it expanded like a sponge soaking up water, growing to a massive size. But Brut, already engaged with the reinforcements dropping from the sky, merely exhaled. The giant piece of metal froze solid and crumbled into dust.

"He's in his element in the rain!"

"He's in his element in the rain!" shouted a Soul Reaper clad in black, the body of a fallen comrade at his feet. A man beside him, wielding a phantom trident, yanked him back just in time to avoid the scattered shards of ice.

"Just hold on a little longer! The airship is carrying the sacred artifact. We just need to buy some time."

The man with the flaming sword declared. At his words, Brut's rigid face snapped upward. He threw his hands out, and the figures closing in on him were instantly thrown back by a newly formed wall of ice.

"I'll be taking what I came for. We'll meet again, if fate is so kind!"

He taunted them, then sprinted toward a nearby alley.