The Tainted Port and the Pursuers

The storm had driven away the vengeful spirits at sea, but it had failed to wash away the death and despair filling the Sea Witch.

After struggling to burn its last few shovelfuls of coal, the battered steel behemoth finally let out a mournful groan and docked at London's Limehouse Docks like the carcass of a beached whale.

The air smelled different.

The salty stench of the deep sea had been replaced by something heavier, more suffocating—the heartbeat of the Industrial Revolution. Coal smoke spewed from tens of thousands of chimneys, mingling with the swampy reek of the River Thames and the cloying sweetness of cheap gin from the shore, forming a gray smog that forever shrouded the skies above this capital of the world.

The surviving laborers stood dazedly upon this unfamiliar land, barely clothed, their eyes filled only with panic and helplessness.

Lin Jie blended into the crowd, but he had already planned his first move.

Hunching over and taking advantage of his small frame, he quietly slipped away from the group amid the unnoticed chaos, scurrying like a rat into the maze of alleys around the docks.

The heavy leather bag wrapped tightly in rags against his chest, along with the revolver, were all the possessions he had—and his only hope of survival.

Everything he knew about nineteenth-century London had come from a library in another time and space.

The reality before him was far more striking than anything described in books.

The cobblestone streets were littered with horse dung and rubbish. Well-dressed gentlemen brushed past ragged children, neither side showing the slightest reaction in their eyes.

Carriages and handcarts fought for space along the narrow streets, coachmen's curses intertwining with newsboys' cries to form a chaotic yet vibrant urban symphony.

Lin Jie stopped in a dead-end alley that stank of urine and rotten fish.

With his back against the damp, cold brick wall, he panted hard as his taut nerves finally loosened for a moment.

He needed to take stock of his "inheritance."

Carefully unwrapping the bundle of rags, he placed the Webley revolver on a relatively clean piece of burlap.

Then he opened the small leather bag, steeped in the salty scent of seawater. There was not much inside, but every item seemed immensely significant.

A thick German diary, its cover hard and its corners worn smooth.

Lin Jie flipped through several pages. He could not understand the elegant, unfamiliar cursive at all, but on one page he saw a precise fountain-pen sketch of the monster aboard the ship, accompanied by lines of observation data.

This diary was ironclad proof that the Underworld truly existed.

Several silver coins, cold in his hand. They were slightly larger than the shillings in circulation, exquisitely minted, with intricate patterns resembling Norse runes on one side and an unusual crest made from the letters "I.A.R.C." on the other.

A dark brown medicine bottle sealed with wax. When shaken, it made the sound of several pills rolling around inside.

Without knowing what it was for, Lin Jie did not dare try it lightly.

And seven specially made spare rounds with dark silver bullets. He carefully took them out one by one. They were among his few remaining trump cards.

Finally, his gaze returned to the revolver.

He gripped the handle again, and that cool sensation capable of soothing his inner fear returned.

In the pitch-black environment of the lower hold, he had not had the chance to inspect it closely. Now, beneath London's faint daylight, he finally discovered the source of that chill.

He repeatedly rubbed the smooth walnut grip with his fingertips and soon felt a subtle unevenness.

Narrowing his eyes, he leaned closer and found that a tiny piece of translucent material, smaller than his little fingernail, had been seamlessly embedded into the right side of the grip through craftsmanship he could not comprehend.

It was a scale.

It was a subtle pearl gray, sharp-edged, and reflected a faint, chilling gleam in the light. Its texture was identical to the skin of the Deep Sea Resentful Woman he had seen through the porthole.

An idea stirred in his mind. He wanted to experience that strange Afterimage again. Holding his breath, he extended his index finger and gently touched the scale.

Yet the anticipated tidal wave of information did not come.

He only felt a slight mental fatigue, while a few vague emotional fragments belonging to the revolver's original owner echoed through his mind—"focus," "vigilance," and an instinctive disgust toward the very concept of "water."

So that feeling can't be activated whenever I want, Lin Jie thought.

But practical concerns dragged him back from his thoughts about supernatural power.

His stomach was protesting, and London's damp, cold air was steadily leaching the heat from his body. Before nightfall, he had to find somewhere sheltered from the wind and rain, as well as something to fill his stomach.

He needed money.

The gun, bullets, and diary were absolutely not for sale. The medicine bottle was too risky. His only option was the few silver coins.

He hesitated again and again. After all, they had belonged to that investigator.

But the needs of the living were far more urgent than respect for the dead.

He selected the most ordinary-looking and worn coin, then wrapped up the rest of his belongings and hid them as close to his body as possible.

He left the alley and began searching the unfamiliar streets for somewhere he could exchange it for cash.

He avoided the grand-looking banks and instead chose a small shop with a sign reading "Antiques and Curiosities."

A place like this might be more interested in such untraceable "strange money."

The shop was dimly lit, and the air smelled of old books, dust, and polishing wax. A bespectacled, somewhat balding middle-aged proprietor was leisurely polishing a silver candlestick.

Lin Jie walked to the counter and placed the silver coin on its velvet-covered surface.

His English was not very good. He could only use simple gestures and short phrases to awkwardly express his intention. "Money... food..."

The proprietor stopped what he was doing, adjusted his glasses, and picked up the coin.

Instead of using the high-powered magnifying glass favored by ordinary jewelers, he rubbed it with his fingers for a moment. A glint of sharpness flashed through his eyes, too quick for Lin Jie to notice.

When he looked at Lin Jie again, his gaze carried an unobtrusive scrutiny.

"A fine amulet, young man," the proprietor said slowly in a proper London accent. "But the condition is poor. I can only offer you a few shillings."

Lin Jie understood only vaguely, but he saw the three fingers the owner held up.

After a round of mutually incomprehensible gesturing, he finally traded the coin of unknown value for several heavy copper pennies and one silver shilling.

It was enough for a hot meal and a bed in the cheapest lodging house.

Once the transaction was complete, the proprietor politely smiled and watched Lin Jie leave. But the moment Lin Jie disappeared around the corner, the smile vanished from his face.

He placed the silver coin on a piece of black velvet, then went into the shop's back room and opened a brass device wired to electricity, hidden behind a bookshelf.

He skillfully tapped out a code, and an invisible message swiftly crossed London's rooftops.

That evening, Lin Jie rented a bed in a cheap apartment at the edge of the church district, a place even rats disdained.

More than a dozen people were crammed into the room, and the air was thick with the stench of sweat, alcohol, and despair.

Curled up in his corner, he ate a small piece of black bread with a bowl of thin broth in which there was barely any meat, feeling the warmth brought by normal food after months without it.

He spread the German diary across his lap and, by the dim glow of the gas lamps outside the window, turned through the sketches page by page.

He wanted to piece together some rules about that world from the drawings of those monsters.

Suddenly, there came a knock from downstairs.

It was not the wild pounding of a drunk, but two polite taps.

He heard the landlord's fawning, slightly frightened whisper, followed by the steady footsteps of two people climbing the creaking wooden stairs.

The footsteps had a clear destination. They did not pause outside any other room and came straight to the door of the crowded dormitory where Lin Jie was staying.

Lin Jie's heart suddenly clenched. His hand shot into his clothes like lightning and gripped the revolver tightly.

The door was gently pushed open.

Two men stood in the doorway.

They wore well-tailored high-collared wool coats and bowler hats, utterly out of place among everyone in the room.

One of them was the "antique shop owner" who had bought Lin Jie's silver coin earlier that day. There was no pretense left in his eyes now; they were as cold as an unsheathed blade.

Their sharp gazes swept over the frightened or numb faces in the room before locking precisely onto the young man with an Eastern face in the corner, who was holding a German diary that did not belong to him.

Trouble had found Lin Jie far faster than he had ever expected.