Act 41: The Crime

Deep in the dead of night, the only sounds in Old Street were the occasional barks of stray dogs. Down in the sewers, a few rats scurried about, scavenging for scraps.

Dark clouds obscured the moonlight, plunging the entire city into shadow.

Several figures crept toward the Antoine Alchemy Workshop, which had long since ceased operations. The leader raised a hand to signal the others to stop, then whispered.

"Keep it clean. Don't wake that guy up."

This was Sanderson. Dressed in black with his face masked, he carried a bundle of unknown objects as he approached the entrance of the Antoine Alchemy Workshop.

He placed the bundle on the ground and pulled back the black cloth, revealing a greyish-black stone with a long fuse attached.

Without a doubt, this was dynamite.

This high-powered explosive was typically used for quarrying stone and was incredibly dangerous; its inventor, Alfred Yast, had lost his younger brother and the hearing in one ear during an accident with the substance.

The four men following Sanderson each carried two charges. They began placing them around the Antoine Alchemy Workshop; the blast would be enough to level the building. As for whether Antoine lived or died, Sanderson did not care.

Once everything was set, Sanderson nodded in satisfaction. He pulled the fuse, trailing it into the shadows nearby, then struck a match and lit the end.

Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle—

The flame raced along the fuse, the sparks blooming in the night like a venomous serpent slithering toward the dilapidated house.

A massive explosion roared as flames, like fire from the abyss, instantly swallowed the Antoine Alchemy Workshop. The shockwave shattered various potions, and their subsequent fusion triggered even more violent detonations. One could almost hear the shrill wails and screams, and a foul, charred stench filled the air—Sanderson could practically see the scene unfolding.

But nothing happened.

"Huh?"

Sanderson tilted his head. He watched, wide-eyed, as the brilliant sparks hissed along the fuse, only to stop dead just before the point of detonation.

At that moment, a night breeze stirred, clearing the clouds. As moonlight bathed the earth, Sanderson finally saw why the flame had died.

A boot was planted firmly on the fuse, extinguishing the sparks. Following the boot upward, he saw a woman in a light blue uniform. She had tan skin that contrasted sharply with her short, light-colored hair. She wore leather gloves, the backs of which were inscribed with complex magic circles—the standard equipment of the Magic Crimes Division of the Public Security Force.

"An officer?"

Sanderson's heart sank. Damn it.

How could there be an officer here? Had everything been exposed?

He didn't stop to think, scrambling to flee, but the officer was faster.

The officer took a single step and reached the alley where Sanderson was hiding with astonishing speed. Several of his men tried to block her, pulling folding knives from their pockets.

"Hmph, do you know what drawing a weapon in front of an officer means?"

The officer said coldly, clenching her fist as the magic circle on her glove glowed brilliantly.

The spell inscribed on the glove was known as the Copper Wall of Isaris, a second-circle magic. It could be used three times for five minutes each, creating an invisible force field around the arm capable of deflecting the sharpest blades. It was standard issue for the Magic Crimes Division.

"Iron Fist Sanction!"

Sheila threw a punch. The knife in the man's hand snapped under the immense impact almost instantly. Her fist struck his chest, and in the silent night, a crisp sound of breaking bones echoed. The next moment, a tangible shockwave rippled out from the point of impact. The man flew backward until he slammed into a wall, then slumped to the ground, stripped of any strength to resist.

In reality, the Copper Wall of Isaris was merely equivalent to a suit of light armor; the sheer violence of the officer's punch was what had done the work. But the intimidation factor was absolute. The remaining men in black had never seen such a display and immediately turned to run.

However, they were blocked at the other end of the alley by Sanderson. The former thug looked at the other person standing in his way and broke into a cold sweat.

"Sheila, I told you not to be so violent. I'm the one who has to write the report."

It was Officer Leslie. The man was unshaven, puffing on a pipe, and held a flintlock pistol in his hand, leaving Sanderson afraid to make a move.

"It's fine, Boss. They drew weapons on me first. According to the third supplementary rule of Article 125 of the Public Security Regulations, my counterattack was perfectly justified."

Sheila moved in two quick strides and delivered a heavy blow, knocking another man down.

"Damn it!"

Sanderson gritted his teeth. With no way out, he had no choice but to gamble.

Flipping his dagger, Sanderson relied on his experience as a street thug to charge toward Leslie, attempting to use erratic movement to evade the pistol.

He knew the flintlock only had one shot, and it would take time to reload. In that gap, Sanderson could subdue him and find a chance to survive.

Bang—

The gunshot rang out. Sanderson had a flash of inspiration and grabbed one of his men to use as a shield. With a dull thud, the man lost his strength in agony, and Sanderson was already right in front of Officer Leslie.

"Die!"

Sanderson thrust his dagger, but to his surprise, Officer Leslie remained calm, revealing a second flintlock pistol from behind his back.

"Heh, didn't expect that, did you?"

Bang—

The bullet struck Sanderson in the shoulder, throwing him off balance and causing him to collapse to the side. By then, Sheila had finished off the others; she stepped forward quickly, subdued Sanderson, and locked him in iron shackles.

"Boss, you're still as twisted as ever."

Sheila looked at Leslie's second flintlock and shook her head helplessly.

"It's called being prepared."

Spinning the pistol, Leslie holstered it, took out his pipe, and continued.

"Choosing to ambush here was truly effective. I didn't expect Mr. Antoine's prediction to be correct."

He looked at Sanderson, whose mask had been torn away, and said coldly.

"You are Sanderson of the Pilam Alchemy Workshop, aren't you? I am now arresting you on charges of disturbing public order and attempted murder. You may choose to remain silent, but everything you say will be used as evidence in court."

Sanderson did not speak. The pain twisted his expression, but the sheer shock completely shattered this young man who had never seen the world before.

"Sheila, go notify Mr. Antoine. I recall him saying he would be staying at the Crescent Academy for the next few days."

Leslie's words were like the final straw that broke the camel's back. Sanderson's mind roared; everything he had done tonight was in vain, a trap designed solely to drag him into the abyss.

Hum—

Sanderson felt a ringing in his ears and promptly fainted.