Chapter 1: Tastes Good?
Horst decides to treat himself to a good drink at the Flaming Tongue Bar tonight.
To celebrate his novel death from yesterday, torn into four pieces and thrown into the Windy River.
But after scouring his apartment, he only manages to find twelve copper Miras.
At most, he can afford a ten Mira beer, and he’ll have to go hungry tomorrow, as two Miras won’t even buy the cheapest black bread.
The helplessness of having no money gnaws at him.
After much deliberation, he decides to make a big score.
Not just the drinking money for today, but also enough for next month’s rent.
Yes, a big score.
He decides to die once more.
Dressed in a formal black outfit with his shirt and tie neatly arranged, he fills a silver revolver with bullets and conceals it in his trench coat pocket.
With a hat made to look like silk but actually linen, and a heavy walking stick in hand, Horst carefully opens the door, peeks out to ensure no enemies are in sight, and then slips out of his apartment.
This apartment complex is dangerous, and one can never be too careless.
Creak.
As soon as he steps out, the old wooden floor of the corridor greets him with a warm welcome.
He halts his steps, waits for a long while, and then tiptoes along the lengthy corridor, finally stepping out of the two-story apartment building.
On his way, he doesn’t forget to take the morning paper from his neighbor’s mail box.
“Anyway, he won’t read it today; I’ll keep it safe for him to prevent it from being lost. I’ll return it when I come back.”
“If I can come back, that is.”
Standing at the doorway, Horst takes a deep breath of the slightly coal-tainted air and looks up at the sky.
A red and a white moon hang high, silver glowing brightly, red mysterious.
Under the moonlight, towering chimneys pierce the sky, these factories known as the lifeblood of the kingdom, incessantly spewing thick smoke day and night.
The sound of steam whistles emanates from afar, and with the ground slightly trembling, a heavy train head pulls a lengthy carriage across the distance, a faint ringing from the station directionally arriving.
On the cobblestone streets, carriages returning late at night carry dim lanterns as they gradually fade away under the dim gas street lights.
A Victorian era scene unfolds before Horst but bathed in red moonlight, he sighs.
He knows this world is actually not safe.
Bad luck can get you killed.
Of course, sometimes good luck can too.
“Dong, dong……”
The bell of the Tower of Justice rings ten times, signaling the onset of night in Mingyue City.
It’s ten o’clock, he needs to hurry or he’ll be too late.
Whether it’s to die or to drink, he’ll be too late.
Horst stands under the flickering street light; the underground pipelines transport coal gas to every corner of the city, barely lighting up the night. But the effectiveness…
Kicking the lamp post, the post wobbles and the flame from the nozzle brightens up again, only then does Horst, satisfied, unfolds the neighbor’s kept newspaper.
“Mingyue City Investigator’s Post”
The front page headline reads, “Liver-Eating Killer Strikes Again”.
Horst’s first glance catches such explosive news, explaining that over the past few months, bodies with bellies cut open and livers cleanly eaten have been appearing sporadically throughout the city.
It’s speculated that the murder weapon is an ancient short dagger unearthed from a relic. It’s a wonder someone would be foolish enough to use such a distinctive object for committing crimes; too easily discovered.
The problem is, the bodies are scattered at the city’s edges, making it impossible to track the murderer’s movements. The police are helpless, leading to fierce criticism from major newspapers. It’s like a carnival for the news industry, painting the police department as dumb as pigs.
“So you see, this world is not safe.”
Horst sighs again and without realizing, he spends fifteen minutes on the newspaper before raising his head and rubbing his dry eyes.
Just as he’s about to leave, a black public carriage stops by the road.
“Good evening, sir.” The formally dressed coachman appears to be in his fifties, smiling kindly as he tips his hat to Horst and cheerfully says, “It’s quite late, yet you’re going out. Need a ride?”
“Why are you still working so late?”
Horst checks his pocket watch, taps it, shakes, then twists it, and finally, resignedly, puts it back in his pocket and looks at the sky.
“Ha… ha, did you forget to wind it, or is it broken? It’s almost half-past ten. I just took a long-distance passenger and was about to head home. Where do you need to go? I can give you a ride.”
“Please don’t.” Horst fumbles in his pocket, “This is drier than the waters of the Windy River.”
“Ha ha ha, no worries. Tell me where you’re going. It’s my last ride for the day, I won’t charge you if it’s on the way.”
“Um… to the Flaming Tongue in the Grey Steel District,” Horst decides, “Straight there, it’s also convenient.”
“Alright, hop in.” The old coachman cheerfully points to the carriage, “Indeed, it’s not far.”
“Thanks.” Horst happily jumps onto the carriage, “It’s free, right?”
“Rest assured, won’t charge you.”
As the whip snaps, the carriage moves smoothly, the old coachman expertly driving while still finding time to laugh and ask, “Young man, what are you doing in that area so late, aren’t you broke?”
“Yeah, I’ve heard this city has many mysterious events, with quite a few deaths. I thought I’d take a stroll, maybe experience something thrilling.”
“Ha ha, what mysterious events? That’s just stories kids make up,” the old coachman said, “Don’t tell me you were reading about these things in the paper? No wonder you were still reading under such dim light, don’t do that again, it’s bad for your eyes.”
“But it’s even darker outside, can’t see.”
“Uh, cough cough, I meant you could finish reading at home before coming out.”
“Doesn’t lighting cost gas?” Horst says as a matter of factly, “I forgot which god taught us, waste is humanity’s original sin, frugality is the true path to the divine realm.”
“I’ve never heard of that.” The old coachman, both amused and annoyed, suggests, “You’re so young, why not find a job? There’s plenty of work in factories enough to support yourself.”
“Ah, sir, you don’t know, my constitution is a bit special.” Horst says anxiously, “I’ve tried finding work, but it doesn’t last. I can’t work, not in this lifetime.”
“Then you must have it tough.” The carriage gradually slows and eventually stops, “Actually, there’s a way to make it less difficult for you.”
“What way, do tell, I’m fed up with it.”
Suddenly, the window in front of the carriage opens a crack, the kindly face of the old man appears outside, then his body twists into a long serpent-like form, sliding into the carriage with incredible speed, far surpassing normal human reaction time. Before Horst can blink, the old coachman has entered, pulling out a sharp short dagger behind him with a sinister smile, and swiftly plunges it into Horst’s neck.
Horst’s eyes bulge, a gurgling sound escapes his mouth, and after a few seconds of convulsing, he falls backward.
The old coachman swiftly pulls out the dagger, and with a single stroke, opens Horst’s belly like butter, revealing steaming organs inside.
With bloodshot eyes, the old man is filled with excitement.
Squish, squish, gulp, gulp, the sounds echo in the cramped carriage.
With the previous kind expression restored, one hand holding the dagger and the other grabbing Horst’s body, ready to throw it out of the carriage, he mumbles, “This way, you won’t suffer. As promised, I won’t charge you.”
However, just as he grabs Horst, the latter suddenly opens his eyes: “Tastes good?”
The old coachman instinctively nods.
“Then, please settle the bill.”
“Bang.” The pocket revolver fires, the bullet at close range piercing through the old coachman’s head.
“For a fair price…”
“Bang.”
“A ritual dagger.”
“Bang.”
After three shots, the hollow-point bullets, cut into a cross shape, explode inside the old coachman’s skull, his head bursting like a rotten melon.
However, his body still attempts to flee the carriage.
Horst doesn’t give him a chance. After firing three shots, he swiftly pulls out a rapier from the walking stick and chops down on the old coachman’s dagger-wielding hand, severing the wrist with a single stroke.
The headless body immediately collapses, and the dagger drops to the ground.
“Whew, my special constitution means that ever since I crossed over, I’ve been especially prone to attracting you mystically influenced weird beings. Sir, since crossing over, I’ve died by the hands of creatures like you ten times, this makes the eleventh.”
“So you see, being too lucky can also get you killed.”
Horst discards the rapier, his expression twisted in pain as he leans against the carriage, catching his breath. Strangely, many tiny tentacles emerge from the wounds on his neck and belly, interlocking swiftly and seamlessly merging, healing the wounds as if they were never there.
Not just the wounds, even the torn clothes heal under the tentacles’ intertwining, clean without a trace of blood.
“And you were wrong about one thing, there are mysteries in this world; it’s just that I, unlike those freaks at the bar, have a mystery that must remain hidden from all. Please don’t spread word about me.”
Muttering to himself, the wounds already healed, Horst collects his revolver and the rapier, takes out the neighbor’s newspaper, and double checks in the fold.
Bounty: Ritual Dagger.
Delivery Location: Flaming Tongue.
Horst nods, wrapping the dagger in the newspaper and taking it.
“Ugh, the paper got a bit of blood on it, he probably won’t mind if I return it.”
“Yeah, he’s so generous; he definitely won’t mind.”
Mumbling, Horst hops out of the carriage, which is parked not far from the Flaming Tongue, in a dark alley.
“Sir was a good person, I liked him.”
