Chapter 3 | The Crimson Moon Returns

Steam erupted, sending gray fog surging toward the sky.

The surrounding air was thick with moisture and the pungent stench of coal ash.

Clack-clack.

Several ground-mounted metal boxes at the street corner unfolded, their internal gears turning on their own at erratic speeds.

A section of rail slowly shifted along with them, switching from one track to another.

The next moment, the earth trembled as a train roared past.

Although this was already the industrial gray fog zone, it wasn't far from Lynch's agency in the Valley District—just a fifteen-minute walk.

7:50 p.m. Four hours and ten minutes left on the countdown.

Covering his nose and mouth, Lynch strode across the rails through the stinging stench of coal smoke, bypassed several speeding carriages, crossed the bluestone street, and arrived outside Lattis Kitchen.

The streets of the industrial district were hardly bustling, with few pedestrians in sight, yet carriages crowded outside Lattis Kitchen, and at least a dozen well-dressed couples stood beneath the gas lamps outside the eaves.

At this moment, Lynch truly felt for the first time that he was in another world.

Rolling up his sleeve, he checked his arm. It was as withered as ever, and seemed to have crept slightly past his elbow.

Whether it was just his imagination or not, the oppressive weight on his chest grew ever heavier.

Time waited for no one.

Under the glaring eyes of the waiting crowd, Lynch squeezed straight through the restaurant's entrance.

A waiter in a red waistcoat immediately came forward.

“Pardon me, sir, we are completely full. You...” The waiter looked at Lynch in confusion. “Sir, didn't you visit earlier this evening? My apologies, but someone has already taken your previous table. You will need to wait in line again.”

Phew. At least this memory wasn't wrong. It was a good start.

The anxiety knotting Lynch's chest eased, and his expression relaxed considerably.

Looking inside beneath the bright chandeliers, dozens of solid wooden tables were arranged throughout the hall, occupied by well-dressed gentlemen and ladies. At the table he had previously occupied, a gentleman in formal attire seemed to sense his gaze; raising a top hat embroidered with a blue L-shaped crest, he nodded toward Lynch.

Who is that?

Lynch immediately found the answer in his memory: Mr. Randall, a stingy capitalist. Lynch had taken a few commissions from him; the man always tried to squeeze out extra perks, but he had never defaulted on payment. He was an obnoxious yet high-quality client.

Not bothering to engage, Lynch merely tipped his hat and bowed slightly before pulling his gaze back to the waiter. “It seems you still remember me?”

“Of course, sir. You spent four shillings and even gave me a one-shilling tip.”

Was I out of my mind?

Lynch frowned slightly. In purchasing power, one shilling was equivalent to about sixty yuan in his past life. In his memory, the original Lynch had been a destitute detective who never tipped when going out. Yet today, he had eaten a four-shilling meal and left a hefty tip on top of it.

Murmuring an acknowledgment, Lynch asked nonchalantly, “Since your memory is so good, do you recall which direction I arrived from?”

“Well... uh, pardon me, sir, but I really wouldn't know. I wasn't paying special attention before you came inside.”

“Then how did I arrive? On foot or by carriage? Did you notice?”

“On foot, sir. That I remember very clearly.”

Lynch nodded thoughtfully. Before he could speak further, the waiter added:

“Because you were bidding farewell to a friend outside before coming in. I glanced out at the time, and there were no carriages passing by the door.”

Hm? A friend?

Lynch's pulse quickened, his palms growing damp. With eager anticipation, he asked, “Do you recall what that person looked like?”

“Pardon me, I didn't get a good look—it was just a glance.”

Lynch's heart sank, but then the waiter pondered a moment and added:

“Though I do remember his nose was noticeably red.”

“Hiss, I understand. Thank you.”

Lynch excitedly patted the waiter's shoulder and pulled out his coin pouch, preparing to give him another tip of a... penny. But when he opened the pouch, he froze.

In his memory, the original Lynch's savings of six pounds and fifteen shillings were gone.

Only three shillings and six pennies remained inside.

How did I spend it? I have no memory of this at all.

Lynch realized that this, too, likely belonged to the memories tied to that statue.

Fine. You not only want me dead, but you took all my money too, leaving me no way out.

Now it's not just about surviving. Even if it's just for those six pounds and fifteen shillings, I'm going to drag you out and kill you.

Wash your neck and wait for me.

Hardening his resolve, Lynch patted the waiter's shoulder once more, smoothly slipping the pouch back into his coat, and turned to leave under the waiter's bewildered gaze.

The original Lynch's memories had already told him who that person was:

Drunken Peter, an antique information peddler and one of his informants.

Excluding the low-probability chance of a random encounter, since they had parted ways outside the restaurant this afternoon, the likeliest scenario was that they had retrieved the statue together.

If it were a private transaction between them, it could easily have been conducted at the agency. If they had chosen to meet outside for secrecy, they would have concealed their tracks and severed contact, rather than walking together to the restaurant afterward.

Therefore, Lynch had most likely gone somewhere with him to obtain the statue. As long as he found this man, he could uncover what had happened this afternoon.

As for where he was now...

Lynch quickly flipped through his case journal. While a few pages were deeply unsettling, the earlier records remained normal.

Long ago, an entry had recorded information about this informant.

On most nights, he stayed at the Mole Club.

What kind of place was that?

Lynch's curiosity was quickly extinguished—or rather, fully ignited.

It was less than a kilometer from Lattis Kitchen.

Around 8:00 p.m., with four hours left on the countdown, Lynch followed the dim yellow gas streetlamps through the thin mist, treading through the damp steam billowing from roadside sewer grates until he neared an ordinary two-story townhouse.

The exterior had a touch of style, its narrow windows glowing with ambiguous, faint light. The only unusual feature was the heavy door at the top of the entrance steps, fitted with a peephole hatch.

“Looking for someone?” an inquiring voice asked from behind the peephole.

“Countess Marianne.”

“Someone's already with her.”

“I know, it's Simon. We had an appointment.”

Simon was Drunken Peter's real name.

“Huh? You guys are getting that wild?”

For some reason, the voice behind the door took on a tinge of horror. Then, with a loud clank, the door swung open.

A dark silhouette waved him in. “Get inside quickly. Room 18 on the ground floor. Don't wander around. Disturb the other guests and I'll break your legs.”

Turning up his collar and pulling down his top hat, Lynch slipped quietly into the club.

The moment he stepped inside, a bizarre scent hit him. It was an air thick with tobacco, perfume, alcohol, and a distinctive musky odor.

Lynch could already guess what sort of place this was.

A pink service establishment, without question.

The hallway was dim and deep, flanked by over a dozen sturdy wooden doors painted pink. Each bore a nameplate inscribed with titles like “Marchioness So-and-so” or “Princess Such-and-such.” A few doors stood ajar, revealing pink-hued gas lamps, prominent curtained hardwood beds, and flamboyant figures dressed as noblewomen.

Lynch had no time to gawk. He pressed deep down the narrow hallway and found Room 18 beside the stairs at the end.

Pushing open the pink door, Lynch froze for a second, then pulled it shut again.

Checking the number and nameplate on the door, he had no choice but to push open the door to Room 18 once more.

He faced a heavily made-up... burly man sitting on the bed.

Damn you, Drunken Peter.

“Countess Marianne?”

The burly man nodded coquettishly. “I have a guest, darling. You can come back tomorrow during the day.”

Lynch's expression became quite a sight. Taking a deep breath, he asked, “Where is Simon?”

“Oh, looking for him? He said he was going to the washroom and hasn't returned yet. It's been ten minutes.”

Hm? The washroom? Isn't there one in the room?

Lynch frowned. Did he run off? Why would he run?

With his life on the line, Lynch cast courtesy aside. Slamming the door shut, he turned toward the corridor. Just two steps out, he bumped into a waiter in a black waistcoat.

“Sir, please do not wander around. Are you lost?”

“Marianne asked me to help find Simon. She said he's been in the washroom for ten minutes and was worried he collapsed drunk.”

Hearing Marianne's name, the waiter didn't suspect anything. “Who is Simon?”

“A man with a red nose.”

“Oh, him. He didn't go to the washroom. I saw him head downstairs earlier—looked like he went to the basement.”

“The basement? What's down there?”

“The steam engine room.”

In this world, most large buildings had steam engine rooms to power various equipment throughout the premises.

What did he go there for?

Lynch grew even more puzzled. “Could he have taken a wrong turn while drunk? Come down with me and check.”

“Go on your own. Just take the stairs down. Just don't touch the boiler.”

Without wasting time on further questions, Lynch turned and rushed off.

The steam engine room was an open basement space, reeking with the acrid smell of burning and coal smoke as a rolling wave of heat washed over him.

A massive boiler sat right in the center of the room, the flames within bathing the basement in a fiery red glow.

Yet the moment Lynch rounded to the front of the boiler, he froze.

In an environment steaming with heat, his entire body seized up as if plunged into ice.

A person was lying inside the boiler.

His body was wedged entirely within, with only his head protruding outward.

The flames roasted his flesh, sizzling audibly.

His torso and limbs had already charred to black cinders, yet his head remained intact, eyes wide open, staring straight at Lynch with a bizarre smile on his face. His bright red nose gleamed under the firelight.

“Gag—”

The rich, savory scent of roasted meat made Lynch vomit on the spot until his limbs went weak. The moment he regained his senses, he stumbled in a wild dash out of the building, not stopping until he burst out of the club's main entrance. Leaning against the cold exterior wall, he clutched his chest, gasping for breath.

He was dead. Drunken Peter was actually dead.

And it looked as though he had stuffed himself into the boiler to burn alive.

How is that possible? That's even more bizarre than me hanging myself.

Sheer horror and dread gripped Lynch's heart, tightening every blood vessel in his body and leaving his fingers trembling slightly.

Chaotic shouts echoed from the club behind him; evidently, his panicked rush had drawn attention, leading others to discover the corpse.

Unwilling to linger, court trouble, or waste precious time, Lynch quickly ducked into the shadows of the street, clutching his chest as he slowly regained his ability to think.

A step too late. If only he had arrived ten minutes earlier.

They weren't even friends, merely an informant and a client, so what Lynch felt was simply deep regret.

Did the trail just go cold?

No, I refuse to accept this.

Gritting his teeth, Lynch turned over every piece of information he had gathered. Before he knew it, his chaotic, terrified mind had rapidly regained composure.

Are you helping me, the Witness?

【You are special, Awakened. Your willpower is extraordinarily strong, allowing you to swiftly shake off the influence of fear. This has nothing to do with me.】

Alright, thank you anyway.

Calming down, his thoughts sharpened. Applying the deduction habits he had formed from binge-watching mystery shows in his past life, all the pieces of information began converging in his mind.

I wasn't actually close to him, so we shouldn't have been handling this together. Yet we were seen together today. Considering his profession as an antique information peddler and the nature of the statue, I most likely obtained information about it from him. He then guided me to purchase it, which explains where my money went.

In that case, the location where we acquired the statue was likely tied to his trade—an establishment dealing with antiques. Furthermore, it had to be a place where we could conduct a safe, legal transaction. Museums don't count, as I don't typically dabble in illegal dealings.

Of course, it could have been a private collection, but I wouldn't have carried a large sum of cash to a stranger's private residence alongside someone I barely knew. A public venue remains the most probable. An antique shop comes first.

There are over a hundred antique shops in Rhine City. Checking them one by one would take far too long, but that won't be necessary.

I was always poor, never tipping under normal circumstances—especially when down to my last three shillings. Yet earlier, I gave the waiter a one-shilling tip and even ordered a fine bottle of wine.

It wasn't because I wanted to die right then; otherwise, I would have given away the remaining three shillings as well. It could only mean I was expecting a massive windfall soon, and I was so thrilled that I tipped without a second thought.

In that state of mind, accompanied by another person, if the distance had been far, I wouldn't have walked. In fact, even for distances a normal person would walk, I would have opted for a hired carriage—that fit the mood of someone who had just come into money, taking a carriage even for a ten-meter trip.

Yet I chose to walk. The likeliest explanation is that the location wasn't far from Lattis Kitchen.

His mind raced, unraveling the mystery layer by layer until the truth began to emerge.

Opening the city map tucked inside his notebook, he located Lattis Kitchen, placed his finger on the spot, and slowly expanded a circle outward from that center.

“With this as the center and a radius of three hundred meters, search for public venues related to antiques.”

Habitually kissing the moon pendant, Lynch murmured to himself—hardly knowing which deity he was asking for protection—as his finger traced wider and wider circles on the map.