Translator: Nyoi-Bo Studio Editor: Nyoi-Bo Studio
In the ward, only Ye Qingxuan and Lancelot were gazing at each other in the silence.
“Leave Avalon?” After a good while, Ye Qingxuan slowly shook his head. “Not a chance.”
As if he had already known that Ye Qingxuan would give him such an answer, Lancelot’s expression was unchanged. He simply asked, “Why?”
Ye Qingxuan pondered it for a moment and was amused by the answer that he thought of. “To save the city, of course.”
“You know very well that I don’t need to hear such cliches usually spoken on ceremonies of conferring of medals.” Lancelot shook his head. “I know, you’ve brought elites with you, along with all your chips. You want to put all the chips down on the table, bet the house, and if you can’t win, you die. But you’ve chosen the wrong place, Ye Qingxuan, this is not a casino. Your opponent is a catastrophe, or maybe even two. You will lose everything you have.”
Lancelot continued, “All the men who have followed you here will die.”
“It’s everything I could wish for.” Ye Qingxuan replied calmly. “It is their wish as well. They’ve come here to follow me to death. If they don’t get to die because of my cowardice, they’ll definitely be very disappointed. I know what you want to say next, but I won’t leave here, never.”
Lancelot was silent. After a good while, he sighed regretfully. “Little Yezi, even though so many years have passed, you still leave me no choice as always…”
The sounds of objects colliding rang out outside the door, someone roared in rage, but soon, the roaring disappeared. The noise of power armor sounded and stopped at the door.
Ye Qingxuan’s gaze turned cold. His guards had been attacked by Lancelot’s men. Their blows were measured, but definitely couldn’t be considered well-handled.
“What do you mean by such actions?” Ye Qingxuan demanded.
“Rest assured, they will protect you.” Lancelot kept his head low and whispered. “Protect you and escort you from here.”
…
Early in the morning, five hours ago.
In the pale white fog, Niven breathed out a cold cloud of mist. The mist lingering near his mouth and nose gradually rose, meandering along the stone gate pillar of Westminster Abbey, and finally dissipated at the fingertips of the relief sculpture.
On the stone pillar, the relief sculpture of the saint was expressionless, and simply looked down at the quiet street. At its fingertips, a sickly sweet drop of dew condensed of mist dripped down slowly. The dew fell on the back of Niven’s hand, causing the five fingers holding the sword hilt to tighten. The steel seemed to contain heat, and by clenching his sword tight, he could feel a hallucination-like warmth.
In the short span of half a month, after undergoing symbolic blessings, purification, and complicated alchemy rituals, he had implanted the alchemy array of the Witch Hammer into the back of his neck. Muscle strengthening liquid was injected into his epitenon. The central nervous system of aether, which was as thick as a pinky, as well as thousands of nerve endings as thin as spider silk, had been integrated with his spine into one. He was completely different from who he used to be.
Due to the special circumstances and Ye Qingxuan’s request, in just half a month, Niven skipped the long periods of study, training, and trials that an ordinary apprentice would have to undergo for a few dozens of years and became a new member of the Witch Hammer.
After several adjustments, the body that had gradually aged in the torment of the battles in the past years and was going downhill in terms of health, also returned to its peak once more… or even grew stronger perhaps.
As a controller of power armor, a knight was no different from steel, and his body was not exactly very different from steel. Removing a natural limb and replacing the original with steel in order to strengthen one’s performance in a certain aspect was not uncommon.
The direction in which Niven was cultivated was that of the ‘sword dancer’, one of the most common paths. No artificial internal organ was implanted into his body, only the spine was partially altered. The thousands of nerve endings of aether brought superhuman reflexes and dynamic vision acuity.
Niven’s forte in perception and sensing also allowed him to be implanted with another special array—thermal imaging. In the pair of irises that had turned a bone white, everything lost their color, and his vision was altered into a unique state. All matter exuded heat, thus no disguise could escape his detection regardless of how clever it was.
Because of this very reason, he was given the task of standing vigil at night.
In the shadow beneath the door, he stood quietly, the body under the gray robe motionless, like a stone statue. Only a little white mist was breathed out from his nose and mouth when he exhaled occasionally, proving his existence. But it wasn’t long after midnight when he heard the rustle of footsteps coming from afar.
“Who’s there?” He looked up immediately and saw the figure walking towards Westminster Abbey, step by step, from the end of the street.
Niven’s expression gradually tightened. He raised his arm as a signal to the lookout behind the door, then walked out of the shadows and declared in a low voice, “You are approaching an army base, no trespassing is allowed.”
The man seemed to smile softly, but the footsteps did not stop. He continued to advance forward, one step, two steps, and with his third step, he entered the region within ten meters from the door.
The lookout gave further instructions—Annihilate the trespasser.
At that very moment, the silent Niven stepped forward. The blade at his waist popped out and fell into his hand, tracing a concise half arc in the air. The flash of the sword crossed the distance of several meters in an instant, aiming at the neck of the newcomer.
Beneath the gray robe, Niven’s chest heaved. Although he was rushing at the trespasser, his body did not shake. His actions were smooth as if he was gliding, but his speed was incredibly fast. In just an instant, the trespasser was within arm’s reach for Niven, who swiped the blade of the sword at him. In the shrill whistling sound of the blade cutting through the air, the sound of steel scraping against each other rang out.
The newcomer lifted his arm, the rerebrace under his robes blocking the blade from his flesh. Both of his hands reached forward deftly, his ten fingers clenched into fists, which struck at the liver and spleen of Niven.
The dim light of the street lamp faintly illuminated the arms, which calluses all over them. The arms were sturdy and grotesque, resembling iron casting. Before they even came into contact with one’s body, one could feel the pressure of the wind they stirred up.
Niven’s pupils contracted.
The combat technique used was specially designed to attack armored knights. For elite knights who had been altered and modulated, the protection of body parts like the heart and the head was definitely given the most emphasis. The hardness of the bones located at such parts had most likely been strengthened by alchemy. Attacking such parts might not be effective even with a hammer, let alone with both hands. Therefore, when fighting against an enemy like that, methods to attack other relatively minor parts were actually the most important.
In the short span of an instant, crisp cracks sounded twice.
Niven’s right hand was holding the sword and had no time to return to a defensive position, but his left hand drew out a dagger from its sheath bound to the inside of his right arm, and curtly swiped it at the two hands.
The knuckles of the two hands produced several squeaks as the joints rubbed against each other. At the last moment, the trespasser forcibly flipped his wrists, one hand locking Niven’s wrist, while the other hand snatched his knife. The crisp crack sounded as Niven’s finger bones were dislocated.
The opponent’s strength was unexpectedly strong, almost like a knight who had undergone a second reinforcement of strength and bones.
In the intense pain, Niven, who acted like the pain had no effect on him, did not try to snatch the blade back anymore, but instead, he took the initiative to move towards the direction of the blade. He suddenly flipped the hilt in his right hand, holding the long sword in reverse, and poked the sword at the carotid artery of the newcomer!
Bang! In the loud bang of steel breaking, Niven’s long sword snapped into two. The sharp blade of the long sword turned a circle in the air and landed on the ground, clattering.
Meanwhile, the arrow that had split the long sword in two in an instant brushed past Niven’s shoulder and nailed itself into the stone pillar with a buzzing sound. It was only until the opponent’s dagger had been pressed against his neck that the whistling sound of the arrow could be heard, and it was too late for Niven to do anything else.
He had lost.
Niven looked at the newcomer, expressionless. On the high towers of Westminster Abbey, the low-pitched sound of arrows being nocked on crossbows rang out, the bows already aimed.
The newcomer did not cut Niven’s throat, but simply withdrew the dagger calmly. After sizing Niven up for a moment, he gave a soft laugh and backhanded the dagger back into its sheath on Niven’s arm.
As the newcomer flipped his hand, the coat of arms on his rerebrace was revealed—the badge of a grand knight of the Knights of the Round Table.
The newcomer, who was one of the 16 grand knights of the Knights of the Round Table, extended a hand and patted Niven on the shoulder. “Enough, Sentinel, you are relieved from your duties.”
Niven was surprised and furrowed his brows. “What is that supposed to mean?”
The grand knight raised his hands and showed him the military order issued, “Under the command of Lord Lancelot, from this moment onward, the Knights of the Round Table is taking over the Westminster Abbey. All of you are under the protection of the Knights of the Round Table…”
Low rumbles came from all directions.
As a result of thermal imaging, in Niven’s vision, dozens of aether furnaces glowed in scorching hot scarlet-red colors. Heavy power armors driven by the aether furnaces advanced along the streets of Avalon, and the steel gave off whistling-like sounds. They had completely surrounded the entire Westminster Abbey, the army base of the Religious Court of Inquiry.
In the Westminster Abbey, the low-pitched noise of power armors being started rang out continuously. The arrow knocked on the huge longbow was aimed at the grand knight from afar.
The situation was tense.
In the hall, a sleepy Shi Dong drowsily raised his eyes slightly and looked at Archbishop Mephistopheles, who was yawning. Shi Dong asked, “Is this considered… house arrest?”
“Probably. Do you want to resist?” the Archbishop replied.
“Why is it that whenever a critical situation is happening, the Grand Inquisitor would be away at some-goddamn-where else? It’s been going on for hundreds of years, is this a curse of some sort?” Shi Dong sighed troubledly. After a good while, he shook his head. “Forget it, it’s too much trouble.”
He lowered his eyes again. “Since someone else is guarding the door for us, let the lads go back to their dorms and get some sleep. They’re still growing, it’s unhealthy for them to stay up all night. Let’s not be unworthy of their good intentions.”
…
Under the same dark night sky, in the ruins of what used to be a manor in downtown, Watson yawned and lit the cigarette at the corner of his mouth. The flickering light of the cigarette illuminated the long sword pressed against his neck. The blade was covered in layers of patterns which were glamorous like blooming flowers. It was clearly a rare, high-quality sword.
A cold wind blew, and in front of him, the riddled desk whined forlornly, as if it was about to collapse.
He took a deep breath in the aroma of tobacco and relaxed, leaning back on his wheelchair, and slowly scanned his surroundings. He looked at the shadows that surrounded him.
Half a minute ago, he was still sitting behind his desk in his office, looking at the latest news the informants had sent, and the fireplace was warm. But after half a minute, his office had collapsed, and the walls on all four sides were instantly shattered by the visitors that had rushed in. Then, the fireplace was covered by the collapsed walls, and the warmth was no longer.
Meanwhile, Watson was besieged, a long sword to his neck. He had to watch on as his subordinates were curtly defeated, pressed onto the ground, and shackled by the group of visitors.
Light covered armor, fierce offensive means, deft cleaning up of the scene in the aftermath, all kinds of equipment specially designed for secret killings, plannings and schemes that had apparently been done carefully… He mentally made a list.
“That rumor actually turned out to be true?” Watson laughed. “The special forces set up for the purpose of conducting special operations during wartime, or in other words, the legion of assassins that Anglo keeps in its employ… really exists, huh.”
No one responded. Those cold eyes just stared straight at him. If he had shown any signs of resistance, they probably wouldn’t hesitate to behead him.
In this regard, Watson had no doubts, but still couldn’t resist reaching out to flick at the sword against his neck. “Nice sword, a first-class one, eh? Patterned steel from India, is it a smuggled good? Where did you buy it from?”
Seeing the circular marking at the end of the blade, it suddenly dawned on him. “Oh, the merchandise of the cripple in Roundworm Alley? He sources them from me. How funny, robbing me with a sword bought from me…”
In the silence, someone sighed softly.
The soldiers guarding him moved aside, and a man in a coat walked over to him, dragging a broken chair along. The man sat opposite Watson, and the blade on Watson’s neck was withdrawn.
“Let’s be honest with each other, Mr. Watson,” the man said.
He put a badge on the table. “Do you recognize this?”
Watson’s eyebrows raised slightly. “Oh, you’re the head spy of the military? Kindly pardon my lack of manners. Has anyone told you that you have crossed the line by meddling in such matters beyond your jurisdiction?”
The head spy seemed resigned. “I don’t really want to intervene with the matters of the Fifth Department. Unfortunately, life never turns out exactly the way one wishes it to. For some reason, the higher-ups believe that you guys can no longer be trusted.
“So, you must cooperate with me.”
Watson smiled. “Or die?”
“Yeah, or die.” The head spy nodded. “We need to make sure everything can be handed over smoothly. Although you have been fired, you must at least handle the job handover properly, and not leave any trouble for your successor, right?”
In the lengthy silence, Watson smoked and looked at him, expressionless. The head spy sat in the chair and waited quietly for his response.
After a long time, Watson cracked a smile and enthusiastically spread his hands. “Then what are you waiting for, bring me a map. You’re welcome to search the house and confiscate the property, my dear gentlemen!”
Soon, a map was laid on the broken table. With the cigarette sticking out of his mouth, Watson made markings on the map rapidly, one by one. “Presently, within Avalon, we have 17 secret warehouses, nine gangs under our control, and 41 bank accounts.
“The working capital roughly totals up to about 160 million pounds. The fixed assets are worth more than six times of that, and we secretly hold the shares of 51 large companies…”
After a number so astronomical that it was suffocating rolled off his tongue, Watson put out the flame of the cigarette and smiled. “Which one would you like to check first?”
