Following two successive days of snowfall, a fleeting spell of clear weather appeared to dissipate the pervasive gloom that had enshrouded the city-state. As if waking from a deep slumber, Frost returned to its usual life rhythm. Snowplows and snow-melting equipment were set in motion, diligently clearing the heavy snow accumulation from the primary arteries of the city. The time-tested high-pressure gas pipelines and power systems once again stood up to the test, proving their reliability, and vital urban mechanisms such as factories and public transportation resumed their operation.
The hums and clanks of various carriages and machinery gradually swelled, harmonizing with the rising sun, signifying the city’s awakening.
However, beneath this veneer of returning normalcy, an unusual and palpable tension was gradually permeating the entire city. This shift in mood, previously discernible only to the perceptive few, was now apparent even to the average citizen.
The chain of events that triggered this unease started with reports in the local newspapers. An emergency control announcement issued by City Hall had roused the suspicions of those attuned to such news. In addition, subsequent rumors of the dreaded Mist Fleet’s sightings near the city-state, emanating from the coastal neighborhoods, added fuel to the fire. Before long, a blend of legitimate and spurious news began to pervade every corner of the city.
Other unsettling observations further stoked the city’s apprehension: the city’s security forces were frequently mobilized; guardian troops were amassing around several graveyards; alarming news from specific neighborhoods, coupled with uncanny tales of the “return of the dead” that had been making rounds in the city for a month. These disconcerting elements seemed to merge into a single narrative of foreboding, stealthily permeating throughout the city.
City-states on the Boundless Sea resembled crowded dove cages, separated by vast expanses of ocean yet within an arm’s reach of each other. Communication between city-states was challenging, yet nothing was easier than disseminating news within a city-state.
Despite the brewing tension, life had to proceed as usual. While unsettling rumors continued to circulate in the city’s veins, its citizens carried on with their everyday lives. The unnerving city atmosphere made for interesting conversations during commutes on public transportation or gatherings at local bars, but it wasn’t sufficient to disrupt the functioning of the city-state.
The inhabitants of this world had long grown accustomed to the shadows in their existence. In their eyes, the strange incidents happening in the city were just the status quo. The daily tableau of cultist activities and sporadic appearances of nocturnal monsters were accepted as part of their reality. Conversely, a city that remained peaceful and tranquil after the sun set would seem an aberration to them.
At the junction of Cemetery No. 4 and Oak Street, a modest pub known as the “Golden Flute” was gradually starting to buzz with activity.
In the early morning, a significant number of citizens destined for the factories would pass by this intersection. The Golden Flute, a budget-friendly pub frequented by the city’s everyday people, was an ideal pit stop for a quick bite or drink before work. Offering not just beverages but also satisfying coffee and simple breakfasts, it was a haven against hunger and the biting cold. The chance to engage in casual banter over breakfast at the Golden Flute provided a brief moment of relaxation before the hustle and bustle of the workday commenced.
The hostess of the pub was energetically darting between the round tables, serving customers in a jovial manner, while the bartender industriously attended to patrons from behind the bar. Warm, inviting light flooded the room from overhead fixtures, effectively banishing the winter cold from the bustling establishment. Not far from the bar, a middle-aged man with a thin, elongated face and straw-colored, brittle hair sat engrossed in a newspaper, all the while maintaining a watchful, yet discreet, vigilance over the pub’s activities from the corner of his eye.
The pub was generally loud, a cacophony of voices filled with the occasional crass humor and unrestrained profanities. Its clientele wasn’t comprised of the so-called “upper-class citizens”. Instead, it was mostly frequented by ordinary laborers from the city’s lower quarters en route to their jobs in the industrial belt. These men and women congregated here, utilizing the brief respite provided by breakfast to discuss the happenings in the lower city and the industrial areas and to exchange views about the recent transformations in the city-state.
Most of their opinions were typically shallow and monotonous, hardly warranting any serious attention. No one was genuinely interested in their perspective on the city’s affairs, and as long as no physical altercations broke out within the pub, everything was deemed to be in order.
The middle-aged, yellow-haired manager casually turned to the next page of his newspaper, suppressing a yawn that betrayed his boredom.
Suddenly, he sensed an unexplained lull in the room’s usual clamor. Moments later, it felt as though something was obstructing the overhead light.
He glanced up, finding a formidable figure looming over him.
The person was garbed in an all-black coat that was evocative of the night sky, with a high collar that concealed most of their face. A wide-brimmed hat rested heavily on their head like an ominous storm cloud, shielding their features from prying eyes. The limited view between the garments revealed an intricate pattern of bandages.
The manager was hit with an overwhelming sense of intimidation. It was almost as if he could visually perceive the pressure radiating from the daunting figure. His heart skipped a beat, and a look of panic reflexively flashed across his eyes. His initial thought was that the intruder was a clergyman from the Death Church. After all, those devout priests had a penchant for the exaggerated “bandage aesthetic” that was somewhat unconventional for the common people. However, he quickly realized that the person was not adorned with the church’s triangular emblem and didn’t carry the guardians’ standard-issue staff.
After an initial wave of panic, the middle-aged manager struggled to regain his composure. He noticed three individuals standing behind the towering figure: an unusually tall young woman, a gentle-looking elderly man, and a refined, enigmatic blonde woman hidden behind a veil. He quickly found himself racking his brain for possibilities.
These were clearly “guests” who had come with a specific interest in him. Judging by their ominous attire, they didn’t seem to harbor any benevolent intentions. The intimidating aura they emanated made it challenging for him to even breathe. Were they undercover officials from the central city’s security department? Or were they emissaries from some other power based in the chilling sea? Why had they sought him out? Were they here to intimidate him, recruit him, or to request his assistance?
Setting aside his newspaper, he rose from his chair with composed dignity and directed his gaze at the enigmatic figure in black. “May I know whom you seek?” he asked.
“Nemo Wilkins, sir,” Duncan began, taking note of the panic and tension shimmering within the eyes of the middle-aged man before him. His imposing presence was clearly causing unease, but Duncan’s intention was not to intimidate. Rather, he was observing Wilkins’ reactions – these involuntary emotional responses would reveal any potential cognitive interference or memory modifications. “Is that your name?”
“Every patron here is familiar with my name,” Nemo Wilkins acknowledged with a nod, subtly gesturing to the bartender nearby. “I assume you are looking for me? I should mention, though, I’m merely an unassuming businessman…”
“Of late, the sea has been shrouded in mist, and the wind carries a bitter chill,” Duncan responded, drawing out a city-state map crafted by Tyrian from the recesses of his coat. “We’re in search of a warming drink, something potent enough to reignite even a deceased man’s heart.”
On hearing Duncan’s cryptic remark about the sea and the wind, Nemo’s breathing pattern underwent a nearly imperceptible shift, and his eyes drifted towards the city-state map.
The “manager” was extraordinarily adept at concealing his emotions and eye movements. In fact, save for the fleeting changes in his breath and pulse, there was nothing to suggest any unusual reactions. However, even such minor alterations did not go unnoticed by Vanna.
“It seems we’ve found our man,” Vanna murmured under her breath.
Duncan subtly acknowledged her remark with a nod and proceeded to fold up the map. “Are there any available seats upstairs?”
“The upper level is currently occupied,” Nemo countered, shaking his head. “Please, follow me.”
With these words, he ventured out from behind the counter, beckoning the unexpected visitors towards a door located near the stairwell.
The pub remained a vibrant hub of activity, and while some patrons might have noticed the peculiar exchange at the counter, no one seemed particularly intrigued by the ongoing proceedings.
Duncan and his companions trailed behind Manager Nemo, navigating through a narrow wooden door and into a corridor that appeared to lead to the pub’s back storage area. Halfway down the passage, they slipped through another door, descending a steep ramp for a considerable distance until the familiar sounds of the bustling pub seemed a distant murmur. They finally halted before an imposing dark wooden door.
“This establishment goes quite deep underground,” Morris couldn’t help but comment.
“A cautious approach is never a detriment, especially since this city isn’t welcoming to those associated with the Mist Fleet,” Nemo Wilkins replied as he neared the door. “Adversaries lurk at every corner, even after all these decades.”
“How have you managed to construct such an expansive underground hideaway right under the city-state authorities’ surveillance?” Vanna questioned, her line of interest diverging from that of the others. As an inquisitor, she found the ability of a “grey middleman” to hide within the city-state’s infrastructure quite intriguing. “How were you able to excavate such a long tunnel beneath a busy pub? How did you dispose of the rocks and soil? And, perhaps most intriguingly, how did you muffle the noise of the excavation?”
Nemo Wilkins shot a sideways glance at the unusually tall, white-haired woman and a hint of amusement colored his voice as he responded, “Actually, it’s quite simple – there was no need for any excavation. This place was already part of the Frost Underground Waterway.”
As he concluded his explanation, the ominous dark door swung open, its rusty hinges groaning in protest. The warm, welcoming glow of gas lamps flooded into the hallway, reaching the eyes of Duncan and his team.
In combination, they could also detect the soft murmur of water flowing from an undetermined source.
Duncan’s gaze traveled beyond the door, taking in the astonishingly vast “hall” that sprawled on the other side. It appeared to be a juncture of an ancient sewer system, its tunnels extending into the abyssal darkness in all directions. The hall was furnished with tables, chairs, beds, and shelves, organized neatly in the corners, rendering it quite habitable.
It was evident that the space could accommodate a significant number of people.
