Confrontation in the Gutter

The arrival of the two uninvited guests seemed to suck all the air out of the communal dormitory, plunging it into dead silence.

The tenants, who had been drowsy from drink and exhaustion, now held their breaths as they felt the oppressive presence emanating from the doorway.

They might not have known who these well-dressed men were, but the survival instincts of the lower classes allowed them to sniff out danger with uncanny precision.

The moment Lin Jie saw the antique shop owner's cold face, his mind underwent a violent overload and reboot.

Countless possibilities flashed through his mind in a second: A gang seeking revenge? Secret police? Or some mysterious organization connected to that diary and that gun?

Before he could think further, his body reacted ahead of his thoughts.

The instant their gazes locked, he snapped the diary shut and tucked it into his coat. At the same time, he threw himself backward, rolling off the crude bed like a startled cat.

"Catch him!"

The man in the top hat shattered the silence with a curt command.

His companion, a burly man with an old scar across his cheek, immediately charged into the room, his fan-sized hand reaching straight for Lin Jie's shoulder.

He was fast, far beyond an ordinary person. He was clearly a trained professional.

However, he had underestimated both the chaos of the room and Lin Jie's desperate will to survive.

By the time the big man rushed over, Lin Jie had already hit the floor. Rather than getting up, he rolled beneath the bed beside him.

The bed was low and filthy. Only someone who had lived at the very bottom of society could shove himself without hesitation into such grease and darkness.

The big man's certain grab missed, his massive palm closing around nothing but a clump of worn cotton stuffing.

"Damn rat," the big man cursed under his breath, then lifted the bedframe one-handed without hesitation, intending to drag Lin Jie out from beneath it.

But Lin Jie had no intention of staying there for even another second. Diving beneath the bed had merely bought him a moment to react.

The instant his pursuer's view was blocked, he crawled out from the other end of the bed and kicked a wooden crate piled with empty bottles.

Crash!

Dozens of glass bottles rolled across the floor toward the big man like exploding shrapnel, breaking with ear-piercing clatters. He instinctively twisted aside to avoid them, slowing him down once more.

Lin Jie seized the chance and lunged for the room's only window.

It was an old wooden lattice window that could only be pushed halfway open, overlooking a deep, filthy alley in Whitechapel District.

The man in the top hat had anticipated his intention and blocked the doorway. The window was his only escape route. Rather than trying to undo the rusted latch, he curled up and slammed into it shoulder-first!

Bang!

The rotten wood and glass exploded beneath the force of his impact.

Cold wind mixed with wood splinters poured into the room, and searing pain shot through Lin Jie's right shoulder. Ignoring it, he gripped the window frame with both hands and prepared to vault out.

Then several sharp whistles of air came from behind him!

Lin Jie's scalp prickled. Driven by battle instinct, he instinctively swung the Webley revolver clenched in his left hand behind him, shielding his back.

Clang!

A crisp metallic collision rang out!

A tremendous force travelled through the gun, numbing his wrist and sending him hurtling uncontrollably out the window.

He caught a glimpse of silver flashing before his eyes—a strangely shaped throwing knife, hurled with deadly precision!

Had the gun not blocked them on instinct, those knives would have pierced his back and pinned him to the window frame. Even so, a searing pain still burned in his right shoulder.

He fell from the second floor.

The drop of less than three meters was not fatal. Beneath him was a heap of foul-smelling rubbish. The soft pile served as a natural cushion and saved his life.

He had no time to register the nauseating sensation. He scrambled to his feet and plunged headlong into the depths of the maze-like alleys without looking back.

"Idiot! You let him get away!" the big man roared furiously from inside the room.

"Don't panic. He won't get far in Whitechapel District. Notify our 'eyes' and seal off the area. A wounded Easterner will stand out here more than a firefly." The man in the top hat remained as calm and emotionless as ever. He stepped to the window and looked down at the deserted alley, his gaze unfathomable.

Lin Jie ran.

Blood flowed from the wound in his right shoulder, mixing with the filth from the rubbish heap and making waves of dizziness wash over him.

But he did not dare stop.

Though footsteps had yet to sound behind him, he could feel an invisible net rapidly tightening around him.

He chose his escape route without any pattern, darting into every fork he saw and charging toward every patch of deeper darkness.

He treated himself like a rat living in London's sewers. Only now was he profoundly grateful that he had chosen to live in Whitechapel District.

This was London's appendix, an abandoned child of order and law.

Its twisting alleys, countless dead ends and hidden doors, and cheap apartment blocks with similar yet utterly irregular layouts formed a natural maze made for fugitives.

After turning another corner, he abruptly stopped behind a massive wooden rubbish bin, desperately suppressing the sound of his panting.

He needed to catch his breath, but more than that, he needed to think.

Who were they? They possessed formidable operational ability, ruthless methods, equipment far beyond that of ordinary police, and iron discipline.

They had obviously come for the diary and the gun.

Could that German gentleman have belonged to a powerful organization? And was he—a "thief" who had stolen a dead man's belongings—now being hunted with all that organization's might?

The realization filled him with despair.

Then a tremor that seemed to arise from the depths of his soul jolted his chaotic thoughts clear.

He lowered his head and looked at the Webley revolver still clenched tightly in his hand.

Its unique icy sensation seeped continuously from the grip into his palm, like a handful of ice water in the height of summer, extinguishing part of the flames of anxiety and panic in his heart.

Clarity gradually returned to Lin Jie's eyes.

He realized something crucial: at that life-or-death moment just now, he had instinctively used the gun to make what could only be called a perfect block.

It had not merely been coincidence. It was more as though the gun had guided his muscles into making the most rational response.

This gun, and the scale embedded within it, might not merely soothe his mind. It could also enhance his reflexes to a certain extent.

The discovery filled him with wild delight.

But deeper confusion followed.

How exactly did it work? He could not understand a single word of the knowledge in the diary. He possessed the art of slaying dragons, yet could not even read the most basic instruction manual.

A whistle sounded from the mouth of the alley, mimicking the call of a night owl.

He could not stay any longer.

Lin Jie took a deep breath and tightened his grip around Cold Iron once more. The chill gave him the courage to go on, and he abandoned the idea of continuing to wander aimlessly through the maze.

He needed somewhere he could truly hide, a refuge even these professionals would never expect and would not dare enter lightly.

A map of London surfaced in his mind, along with accounts of the filthiest and most chaotic area of this era.

Whitechapel District was chaotic, but it remained under Scotland Yard's jurisdiction. Yet at the heart of that chaos lay another place—a Lawless Land that even the police feared, treating it as forbidden territory.

It was a true hell on earth, but for him at that moment, it was also the only refuge where he might find a sliver of hope.

After getting his bearings, Lin Jie lowered his body again and, like a gray ghost, melted into London's deep and polluted night.