Countdown

"Just last September, after the Federal army under General Sherman captured Atlanta in one fell swoop, the Union launched the 'March to the Sea' campaign. During this advance, they thoroughly destroyed the enemy's various military installations and dealt a heavy blow to their economic power, leaving the Southern economy paralyzed. On the Eastern Front, General Grant led the Northern army to drive the enemy forces near their rebel 'capital' of Richmond."

"At the beginning of the year, freedmen in the Southern slave states fled in succession, and the plantation economy verged on collapse. The naval blockade implemented by the Federal navy almost completely severed the South's trade with Europe. At the same time, numerous opposition factions emerged within the South, and many small farmers joined the 'Unionists' to engage in anti-war activities. Southern desertions increased by the day, and food and daily necessities were scarce. The countdown to a total victory in the war had already begun!"

James finished reading the front-page article titled "The Countdown to Victory" from the latest issue of the New York Times he held in his hand. The article summarized the recent situation on the battlefield and then heaped praise on the correctness and progressiveness of the Union. James checked the date on the newspaper—April 2, 1865—and felt a bit strange, as if he had forgotten something important.

Glancing at the food on his tray, James sighed deeply. Every meal, every day, was a form of "torture" now.

He felt as if he were feeding a beast its most hated food; every time it ate, it would bite him in hatred, and he could only endure the gnawing while continuing to feed it.

For over half a year, his extreme self-discipline and practice of martial arts had been somewhat effective. The periods during which he could maintain mental stability were growing longer, and his control over his qi and blood had improved, though it remained very limited.

James finally understood why Victor had found it so difficult to progress in the deep study of martial arts. The brutality within one's mind would constantly disturb one's inner peace, and the added interference of vampire power only exacerbated this chaos.

In the darkness underground, he faced wounds that his healing factor could not mend; that loneliness filled James with a deep sense of frustration.

How many friends did he have left in this world? Vane the butler, Master Daniel, Abraham—they would all eventually leave him.

Abraham! Abraham Lincoln!

Like a thunderclap in his mind, the name of President Lincoln struck him. He grabbed the newspaper from the stone table, checked the time again, and hurriedly shook the summoning bell.

He remembered what he had forgotten.

John Booth had been downing brandy for two days straight. His face showed traces of handsomeness, and he wore a small mustache, but his eye bags were swollen and his hair was plastered to his forehead, glistening with grease.

Booth had not expected the war to be declared over so quickly. Even though the South had suffered repeated defeats, it was not as if they had absolutely no chance. General Joseph Johnston still had thirty thousand men, and the South still held two states, yet that coward Robert E. Lee had actually announced his surrender! He still had over twenty thousand men with him; he should have fought to the death!

He had once praised Lee many times as the greatest military strategist of the current era—bah!

For the sake of the South, John Booth had dedicated himself without reservation. Through his identity as a well-known actor, he traveled and performed all over the United States, obtained much important intelligence, and secured many medicines that the South desperately needed. He, too, was a hero of this war of conviction, yet a traitor had wiped away all his efforts and sacrifices with a mere flick of his tongue.

He grabbed the bottle again and took a deep gulp, the resentment in his eyes looking almost tangible.

Knock, knock. "John, are you in there?"

The knocking sounded, and Booth reflexively shrank his neck. Listening to the voice, it was his colleague from the theater, Herold. He hurriedly smoothed his greasy hair and walked over to open the door.

"You are in your room, John. Good heavens. The smell in this room..."

Herold couldn't help but cover his nose and mouth, then felt that might be impolite, so he forced himself to say, "I haven't seen you lately. The owner of Ford's Theatre has two guest invitations. Are you interested in seeing a new play on the fourteenth? It's a stage play about the Battle of Gettysburg. The President and government dignitaries will all be there to watch."

"Gettysburg? Heh, I won't go. Wait, who did you say would be there?" John Booth suddenly became interested, his dejected eyes instantly lighting up.

"The President, the Vice President, the Secretary of War, and General Grant. It's said that many important military and political figures will be there," Herold said, counting on his fingers.

"Good! I'll go. The night of the fourteenth, at Ford's Theatre, right!"

Herold was momentarily surprised by this sudden burst of energy from Booth. He had been very strange lately, as if he had suffered some huge blow, but seeing him constantly praising the correctness of the Union in front of others, perhaps he was just excited to see President Lincoln.

Booth thanked Herold and said goodbye. The moment he closed the door, a sense of generous mission welled up within him, and he made a certain resolution.

Evening of April 14, 1865, Washington.

The train had not yet come to a complete stop. Amidst the swirling steam, Jack Pitt and his two companions looked wearily at the station platform slowly coming to a halt outside the window.

"Shall we find an inn to stay at first, and then go to the White House to report and meet the President tomorrow morning?"

Lauren said to Jack, who was sitting across from him. This sudden mission had kept them on the move for days without a moment's rest. Now that they had finally arrived in Washington, it was only natural to want a good night's sleep.

Jack yawned and rested his chin on his hand. He was somewhat tempted by Lauren's suggestion, but then he thought of the terrifying and urgent look on young master James's face in the underground space that day, and he shook his head.

"The young master's order is to not stop for a moment, to reach Washington at the fastest speed, and to see the President. Before seeing him with our own eyes, we are not allowed any delays."

Jack said with a serious expression. He didn't know why James wanted them to rush to Washington so urgently to take on the responsibility of protecting President Lincoln for a period of time, but the terror of his temper and the scarlet in his eyes made Jack's hair stand on end whenever he recalled it.

Lauren and Chris exchanged helpless glances. Regarding the order from young master James that Jack had brought up, they dared not raise any objections or defy it; this was the result of the immense fear instilled by James's training years ago.

In the White House, Mrs. Mary held Lincoln's hand with some worry and said softly:

"Are you only taking Stephen as a guard? Isn't that too few people? And this young man's temperament is a bit flighty..."

"Don't you worry. Today, besides me, there's Grant and the others; who doesn't have a few guards with them? Besides, in Washington, nothing will happen."

President Lincoln patted his wife's hand and led her to the carriage.

Ford's Theatre, nearing ten o'clock.

In the restroom, John Booth checked his pistol one last time. His ambition was great; if he could take out the President, Vice President, General Grant, and others in one go, then the war might directly turn the tide!

It had to be said that the brandy was quite potent. After Booth finished his check, he slipped onto the second floor where the presidential box was located. He had observed in advance that the only guard the President had brought had snuck away to do who knows what. As long as he rushed in and fired, everything would be settled.

"Jack, are you really going to the theater to look for the President?"

Lauren asked helplessly. The three of them had rushed to the White House without stopping and explained the situation to the reception office. Many White House staff recognized Jack, as James had met with the President many times with Jack and others during the war, so they informed them that President Lincoln had gone to Ford's Theatre to watch a play tonight.

"Yes, I'd better go. I'll wait at the entrance and say hello. You two go to the inn first; I'll come over later." Jack thought about it and decided to meet the President once. After all, they had already traveled for days; a little more time wouldn't matter.

The carriage drove to the entrance of Ford's Theatre. Jack got off and looked strangely at a man sipping from a small bottle at the entrance of the tavern across the street. He seemed to have seen him once before; he was one of the people from the President's security detail.

Jack, who had intended to wait outside the theater, inexplicably felt he should go up and take a look. There were no security personnel at the theater, so he just walked into the lobby. A man who looked somewhat handsome, coming out of the restroom, was walking toward the second-floor box with a nervous expression. He was clutching his pocket tightly with one hand, inside which seemed to be something hard.

Jack felt increasingly uneasy. He subconsciously followed him. The man in front kept quickening his pace. The entire theater suddenly erupted into a burst of cheers; the plot seemed to have reached a climax. The man took the opportunity to push open the box door and rushed in.

John Booth pulled out his gun and pointed it at the head of President Lincoln, who was still immersed in the play.

Bang!

Historically, Lincoln died just that "casually." Of course, it could not be ruled out that someone had already paved the way for the assassin.