August was called the Month of the Craftsman and Sweet Rain for good reason. A persistent, gloomy rain had started at the beginning of the week and hadn't let up since. It was the rainy season in Nolan City, and the damp air drifting in from the sea promised to keep the entire city drenched for so ti.
Yet, the city's air quality hadn't improved with the rain. In fact, it was worse. The sll of damp earth mingled with acrid, choking smoke, forcing pedestrians to stride quickly, unwilling to spend a mont longer than necessary outdoors.
"Heard the Kingdom is planning to introduce an 'Air Quality Monitoring and Protection Act'."
Custors were scarce in the morning, so while Jenkins transcribed the tadpole-like script, Papa Oliver settled into a nearby antique rocking chair and idly flipped through a newspaper.
The rocking chair was a fake, too. Jenkins had personally watched Papa Oliver acquire it for a re three shillings.
"It's long overdue, but I'm sure the factory owners, the capitalists, and the share-holding nobles won't give in so easily."
Jenkins replied without looking up.
"I'm inclined to agree. Those damn scoundrels only care about money. And by the way, I quite like that word you just used—'capitalist'."
Jenkins's focus remained on the nib of his pen. He asked offhandedly, "Hell? Does it really ex—"
Jingle~
The bell on the door chid, and both of them frowned at the entrance. Who would co to an antique shop this early, especially in such miserable weather?
"Oh—"
They imdiately threw up their hands. The stranger at the door wore black rain boots, and a long, dark brown trench coat enveloped his entire fra.
With one hand, he swept off the ridiculously large hat that had been hiding his face, revealing a revolver clutched in the other.
"A Shenate revolver. Ten-milliter caliber, percussion-fired, rifled barrel. Single-action."
The money and ti he'd spent at the Oil Ink Mister Club hadn't been a waste. Jenkins recognized the man's gun in an instant. At this range, it could easily kill a grown man, but it was only single-action.
"What do you want? We'll give you money! Just don't shoot!"
Papa Oliver asked, his voice laced with panic.
Of course, it was all an act. Ever since the last incident, Jenkins knew Papa Oliver had a habit of carrying a concealed firearm. And unlike Jenkins, he was a true marksman, a real quickdraw.
Huddled behind the counter, Jenkins carefully slid his transcription work out of sight beneath it. The gunman, fortunately, didn't seem to notice.
"On the day of the fire in the Docklands, were you the last ones to see Brown?"
The mont he spoke, both Papa Oliver and Jenkins froze. Fortunately, the Church had already taken care of all the loose ends concerning that day.
"I can't be certain," Papa Oliver said, playing his part. "But he was alive when we saw him. That damn fire started after we'd already left. Oh, sir, please, don't point that gun at . At my age... my heart can't take it."
"Did he ntion anything to you?"
The gunman kicked the shop door shut with his foot and advanced a few steps, his black rain boots leaving a trail of muddy footprints on the floor Jenkins had just swept.
"No, I can't use an Explosion Charm in here!"
Jenkins ntally shot down his own reckless idea. Papa Oliver, anwhile, continued his performance.
"I'm sorry, what exactly are you referring to?"
The man licked his lips:
"Did he ntion receiving any new shipnts recently?"
Jenkins silently activated his second sight. Fifteen points of light materialized before the gunman, signifying he was at least a level 8 Enchanter—the most powerful one Jenkins had ever encountered. Even Captain Bincy only had nine.
According to Papa Oliver, a level 8 Enchanter was practically a demigod.
"A mber of the Club of Light Chasers, here for that heretical statue?"
Jenkins silently surmised, suppressing the urge to launch a surprise attack. This was not an enemy he could possibly handle.
"He did. He ntioned a shipnt that ca in from the docks a few weeks ago. Showed us a couple of porcelain vases from so ancient kingdom and a golden ornant."
"Did he ntion anything about a statue?"
the man asked, his voice calm.
"Hmm? No, he didn't."
The man nodded. He lowered the hand holding the gun, shot a warning glance at Jenkins and Papa Oliver, then turned as if to leave.
Crack—
He suddenly spun back around, now with a gun in each hand, and fired at them both. Jenkins instinctively jerked his head aside, feeling a hot streak sear past his cheek, followed by a sharp, burning pain.
No ti to think, he dove behind the counter, clamping his right hand over the wound to heal it while fumbling for Papa Oliver's spare pistol.
In that split second, the phantom image of a large, open book had materialized before Papa Oliver, shielding him from the bullet. He was unhard.
After the shots rang out, the shop fell deathly still. In the terrifying silence, Jenkins fought to overco the fear gripping him. He raised the pistol above the counter and fired blindly before cautiously poking his head up to look.
"I see. So it was the Church of Knowledge and Books!"
The man actually seed to be in a good mood. He gave Jenkins a smiling nod, then turned and left for good.
"Papa!"
Papa Oliver was slumped in his chair, a silver sliver clutched in his dangling right hand. His entire body was trembling violently.
"Papa, are you all right?"
Jenkins lunged forward and pressed his right hand against the old man, trying to activate his ability. But it was no use. A layer of frost instantly coated his hand, and Papa Oliver's tremors intensified.
The spirit-infused candle asserted its power once more. Just as the frost was about to creep up to Jenkins's chest, a faint yellow fla erupted from his hand, enveloping them both.
The searing cold and the gentle warmth converged in his right arm, and he couldn't stop a pained groan from escaping his lips. The frost was no match for the candle's fla, but his arm was only flesh and blood. He couldn't bear the tornt of being frozen and burned at the sa ti.
After a mont, the frost was forced back into his right palm, where it held fast. The fla, unable to advance further, had no choice but to recede.
His right palm was completely numb. Gritting his teeth, Jenkins used his other hand to nudge Papa Oliver, who had his eyes squeezed shut.
"That was the Frost Emissary from the Club of Light Chasers. Level eight. Extrely dangerous."
Papa Oliver's lips were deathly pale, his weak voice trembling.
"I shouldn't have used the Church's divine art, the Aegis of Tos. Now he knows we were the ones who took the statue that day!"
"What do I do?"
Jenkins asked frantically. As he gasped, a puff of white mist escaped his lips, just like Papa Oliver's.
"He's definitely heading to the Church to steal sothing! That's it—the Nolan diocese is vulnerable right now. A level eight could easily force his way in! Quick! Don't worry about , I'm completely immobilized. Go! Notify the other four churches! Tell them to send reinforcents!"
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