The Fog City's Soldier King

London, a city with more than two thousand years of history, was the most prosperous city in the entire British Isles. The River Thames still flowed, and Big Ben still chimed. Only here could he fully feel the former glory of the empire on which the sun never set!

Yet the Newham district in East London presented an entirely different scene... This was where London's immigrant population was most concentrated, as well as one of Britain's poorest areas, commonly known as the "slums."

In Conan Doyle's writings, this was undoubtedly the most dangerous part of fog-shrouded London; the infamous Jack the Ripper had once operated here.

Dockworkers, prostitutes, Black people... London's lowest classes were almost all gathered here; of course, former Soviet Union refugees would now perhaps have to be added to that list.

When an unfamiliar face appeared in the Newham district, several ill-intentioned Black men quickly surrounded him.

But after sizing up the target's muscular build and fierce face, they decided he was not someone to be trifled with and dispersed one after another.

The burly man, nearly 1.9 meters tall, dark-skinned, and looking fierce and uncouth, carried a bottle of liquor in his hand... He merely glanced at those Black men before hurrying toward his destination... Just as Conan Doyle had said, this land was indeed filled with evil. He had no desire to fall here.

Ten minutes later, he arrived at his destination: a low-rise apartment.

The entire apartment had the character of a nineteenth-century building. The lime on its walls had already peeled away, revealing an ugly gray beneath; several pillars looked as though they could collapse at any moment, bringing the apartment down with them.

The stranger stopped and gently knocked on the door.

"Come in!" A weak, dispirited voice came from inside.

Pushing open the greasy wooden door, he found the space unbelievably cramped... An old sofa occupied nearly half the apartment, while the rest was piled with all kinds of liquor bottles.

Though the visitor did not know much about liquor, he could still tell that these were all cheap, vile spirits.

"Who are you?" A gray-haired, dispirited middle-aged man lay on the sofa, draped in a faded dockworker's coat.

The visitor could not help frowning before handing over the bottle in his hand.

"Vodka!" The middle-aged man, who had just looked as decrepit as an old dog, instantly came alive.

He swiftly grabbed the bottle of Vodka, bit off the cap with his teeth, and poured it down his throat as if he were drinking mineral water.

"Sergei Ivanovich Pavlov?" the tall visitor asked softly.

Having drunk half the bottle of Vodka in one go, the middle-aged man raised his head, his gaze turning sharp.

"Born in Kyiv, Ukraine, in 1955..."

"Began serving in the KGB in 1976..."

"Participated in the Afghan War in 1979..."

"Awarded the Order of the Red Banner in 1985..."

The burly man's voice was calm, as though he were merely reciting an ordinary résumé.

"Who are you... Scotland Yard, or MI6?" Pavlov growled from the sofa. He was now like a polar bear ready to attack at any moment, radiating danger from head to toe.

"Don't misunderstand!" The burly man smiled. "I merely came because of your reputation... My name is Warian Urien!"

That did not sound like an English name, Pavlov thought to himself.

His hostility eased somewhat.

"Mr. Urien, what can I do for you?" Pavlov's English was not standard, and careful listening revealed many grammatical errors.

An envelope was pushed before him. When he opened it in confusion, he was completely stunned.

The envelope contained nearly fifty 50 Pound Sterling notes.

Pavlov's hands trembled slightly. He was short of money now—desperately short of money.

"I can't do anything illegal..." But he still retained some rationality. "Scotland Yard has had its eye on me for a long time. They want to throw me into Edinburgh Prison... I don't have the privileges those Black people have. I still have a wife and daughter to care for."

"There won't be anything illegal. I'm a law-abiding citizen!" Urien said seriously. "I only want to learn about a few things... Do you know Mr. Robert Wilson of Southampton City?"

"Mr. Wilson helped my wife, daughter, and me sneak into Britain a year ago, through Southampton Port!"

"Mr. Wilson told me that you were once an outstanding KGB Agent?"

"When I trained in Kazan, I ranked first in every subject among my cohort."

"When you fought in Afghanistan, on a pitch-black night without a single light, you killed six Afghan armed men attempting to break into the military camp... and received the Order of the Red Banner for it!"

"Yes, my hearing is very good. I can locate people by sound, and I used that method to kill six terrorists!" Pavlov smiled bitterly. "Unfortunately, I traded that medal for two pieces of black bread in Moscow."

"Then take a look at this gun. Can you use it?" As he spoke, the visitor tossed Pavlov a Desert Eagle Mark I pistol. "The recoil is strong, but you'd better see if you can use it one-handed!"

Before Pavlov could reply, the apartment door was violently pushed open.

An Eastern European woman rushed inside.

She wore a low-cut top and a miniskirt that barely reached her waist, with only a padded jacket draped over it... Her lips were painted vivid red, and the foundation caked over her face could not conceal the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.

She must have been a very beautiful Russian girl when she was young, but though she looked only around thirty, her face already carried an aged appearance that did not belong to someone her age.

"Sergei... sorry... I didn't know you had a guest..." she stammered.

Then, lowering her head, she slipped into the inner room of the apartment.

"She... Sarah... my wife..." Pavlov stammered, lowering his head completely.

"Take a look at the gun first!" The visitor deliberately changed the subject.

"There's no problem." Pavlov replied, "The Desert Eagle Mark I semi-automatic pistol, developed by Israel in 1985, does indeed have powerful recoil, but with my strength, operating it one-handed should not be much of an issue... If you don't believe me, I can find a shooting range and try it."

"No need. I believe you!" The burly man nodded.

"Then what do you need me to do for you?" the former Soviet Union veteran asked softly. "Be your bodyguard?"

"No..." The other man shook his head. "I only need a little of your hair!"

"Hair?"

"That's right..." The other man took out another envelope. "There's more than three thousand Pound Sterling in total. I want to buy your hair. Just a little will do!"