"Hello, Sir Ulrich." He greeted, his voice stout and deep. "My name is Billie—"

  Ulrich froze in the air, though the knife still nicked the flesh of the tall, suited man. It was only a mark, but deep enough to bleed, and enough for blood to drip to the ground.

  Ulrich's sudden attack startled him, and for a second, he almost let go of the ladder handle. This fall would've certainly resulted in severe injuries. Luckily, he did not let his fear and shock control his actions.

  "My apologies." Ulrich curtly nodded, his face blank. From the way the man greeted him, to his demeanor, as well as his appearance close up, Ulrich had an idea about this person's origin.

  Meanwhile, Ulrich's indifferent behavior only further frightened the man. He had heard some rumors regarding this young man, but to see him in person—it was truly an eye opener.

  "No, no, Sir, it was our fault. Your action is understandable." He bowed respectfully, then smiled wryly, glancing at the door. "The others should be coming in by now."

  Tuk, Tuk.

  Not far from their position, the handle of the locked door was pulled and twisted, finally opening to reveal two tall men with black coats and white undershirts. Their faces were rough, and with a closer look, there were scattered scars on their necks and hands.

  The first thing they saw was Ulrich, who was standing not far from Billie. This in itself was not strange, but what was strange was Billie's reaction and expression.

  Immediately, they examined Ulrich's appearance. Skinny, pale, scars on his arm, poor attire, black short hair, stained marks. Eventually, their eyes dropped toward Ulrich's right hand, holding a knife.

  'Blood!'

  They raised their hands toward their waists, though they did not draw their weapons just yet. Seeing this, Ulrich sighed and threw them a helpless glance.

  "Donnie sent you goons?" He said, his voice deep and firm, as though his words were not to be questioned. This attitude startled the two men as it was unusual and strange. Such a young man should not have such presence!

  For a second, they didn't reply.

  At this moment, Billie intervened and shouted, "It's a misunderstanding."

  He pointed his finger at his neck, exposing a small yet still barely bleeding nick on his skin. Seeing this, they finally relaxed and lowered their guard.

  Ulrich nodded, satisfied by their quick shift in attitude and approach.

  "Sir Ulrich?" They questioned in unison.

  "It is an honor to meet you, sir. I'm Bogie." He extended his hand cautiously, his gruff voice carrying a note of respect. He was the stockier of the two, with a scar running from his left ear to his jawline.

  The man beside him stepped forward, taller and leaner, with sharp features and calculating eyes.

  "Bunce," he said simply, offering a curt nod rather than a handshake. His voice was quieter, more measured.

  "We've heard much about you from the boss."

  Ulrich regarded them both with a blank expression, ignoring Bogie's extended hand. After a moment, Bogie awkwardly lowered it with a wry smile.

  "Billie here is our middleman," Bunce continued, gesturing toward the man still on the ladder, who had finally climbed up fully and was dabbing at his neck with a handkerchief. "Bogie's our muscle. I handle the... delicate matters."

  "And Donnie Shelby sent all three of you?" Ulrich asked, his tone flat. "Must be important."

  "The boss wanted to initiate a meeting," Billie interjected, his voice steadier now despite the blood still seeping through his handkerchief. "He thought it best to send... familiar faces. Well, soon-to-be familiar faces."

  "He also thought you might be difficult to find," Bogie added with a slight grin. "Seems he was right about that."

  "You found me. Now what does Donnie want?"

  They all looked at each other, not knowing what to say. Seeing this, Ulrich chuckled, a change in expression which surprised them.

  "Some things remained unchanged." He mused. His casual assessment and comment about Donnie, their boss, only further elicited their respect. At this moment, Ulrich looked petite and harmless, but they did not dare to think they were above him. Billie's blood alone was enough to prove this.

  Ulrich raised his hand to glance at his watch.

  07:01.

  There were still five hours til midnight.

  He thought about the Blackhand, the gang, and Donnie, the family head of the Blackhand, and himself, who shared a certain connection and role in the family. Then he recalled telling Donnie not to contact him unless necessary.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  This time, he even sent hired goons instead of showing up himself, an act which was quite unlike the Donnie he knew. This alone had many implications. But Ulrich was constrained by time and other matters.

  Ancient Hermes—this was something he needed to research before midnight. But was such a thing so easy? The harpoonist, the clues in the dream, the person who sent Zheng San to steal the book, as well as the leader of this anonymous organization.

  They weighed down Ulrich greatly. And for a moment, Ulrich fell into deep contemplation.

  "..."

  After giving it some thought, Ulrich finally spoke. "Let it be known that I have received his and your message."

  Billie wanted to protest; however, Ulrich raised his hand to stop him. "I have some matters to resolve first."

  Helpless, they could accept his words and relay them back to the boss. "Alright, I hope we meet again, Sir Ulrich. It was pleasant meeting you."

  Since their task was completed, they had no reason to linger any longer. Ulrich didn't think much of this meeting and quickly went to retrieve the satchel hidden in the air vent.

  Quite frankly, even if Donnie did not contact him, Ulrich would have come first. There were several reasons for this, the main one being resources.

  When it came to his source for historical texts, reference books, and academic work, the library was secondary; the first had always been the underworld. How else would Ulrich have chanced on Ancient Hermes in the past? Or have the opportunity to truly delve into the world's history?

  After fixing the vent, Ulrich scurried through the streets, keeping to filthy alleys populated by vagrants and the occasional whore. Most people avoided these areas—and those who didn't, he had no qualms about 'defending' himself if necessary.

  Eventually, he crossed to the other side of the outer district and arrived at the red light district, alive with its blossoming promises.

  As Ulrich turned down a familiar alley, the flickering street light cast a particular shadow. Not like a straight pole, or rectangular building, but very lively, moving shapes. Coupled with the thick fog at night, it made it even more startling.

  Seeing this, he stopped in his tracks, staring forward.

  It was a male figure. With the darkness, it was impossible to see his exact details, but Ulrich could feel the man turning his head before walking away. In that moment, the lamp light flickered, casting a sharp glow against the weapon on the harpoonist's back.

  Ulrich laughed, though his voice was hollow and weak.

  The harpoonist's sudden appearance startled him, and what was even more terrifying was the fresh scent of blood. To think that he'd encountered a harpoonist hunting at sea—it was frightening!

  During the day, most harpoonists and even fishermen could dive in the sea with relative ease. This was because sea beasts were weak to sunlight and often avoided the surface. However, the same could not be said for nightfall.

  The arrival of night and darkness enhanced Sea Beasts, making them crazed and deranged. In such a state, even pain could not deter their madness, say less for trying to hunt it. To those who hunted at night, they were either madmen or extremely dangerous individuals.

  Either way, Ulrich changed his mind and headed in another direction. This certainly wasted some time, but he'd rather take a safer route than face the chance of encountering another harpoonist.

  Moving toward his destination, Ulrich kept his head low, not daring to draw attention to himself.

  The street was grubby, littered with trash, cigarettes, and empty alcohol bottles. With each step, the mud clamped onto his feet like glue, followed by a mushy sound. Occasionally, he would pass by many people watering one another on the public benches, brick walls, and lamp-posts. As long as there was a wall or ground, there would be a pair or two there.

  With several glances, he could easily tell they were Celtors, denoted by their fair complexion and manner of speech.

  Only the Celtors can be such open-minded individuals. Ulrich mused, keeping his eyes to himself to avoid interrupting their wondrous sessions. He maintained a blank expression, and only when reaching his destination did he let out a smile.

  Lower Darwin Street.

  This was an impoverished area even by the outer district standard. But compared to the metal shack on the other end of the shore, it was substantially better.

  The officials rarely patrolled this street for a number of reasons, but the main one was the Blackhand. As Lower Darwin St. was under the management of the Blackhand, the officials' influence here was nonexistent, if any, scattered.

  Ulrich quickly ran toward Unit 106 of Lower Darwin St, an uninhabited building, known by only a select few members of the Blackhand.

  The building stood crooked against the night sky, a relic of the industrial past. Three stories of weathered red brick, stained black from decades of coal smoke and factory soot.

  The windows on the upper floors were boarded with rotting planks, some hanging at odd angles like broken teeth. Meanwhile, the ground floor entrance was recessed into a narrow alcove, hidden from the lamplight's reach. The door itself was painted a faded green, though most of the paint had long since peeled away, revealing the scarred oak beneath.

  Above the doorframe, the number "106" had been etched into the brick with something sharp—a knife perhaps, or a nail and hammer.

  Ulrich produced a tarnished brass key from his satchel. The lock groaned as he turned it, a metal screeching cry. He slipped inside quickly, shutting the door behind him with a dull thud. Immediately, darkness swallowed him whole.

  The air inside was thick and stale, carrying the scent of damp brick, old timber, and something else—tobacco smoke, lingering from previous attendants. His eyes adjusted slowly to the gloom. A narrow corridor stretched before him, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight with each careful step.

  To his left, a doorway led to what had once been a sitting room. Ulrich quickly scanned the three rooms, making sure there was no one else who had sneaked inside without his awareness. After making sure that it was secure, he headed upstairs.

  Once again, he found himself facing the narrowed hallway. There were two doors, indicating two different rooms. He didn't pay the first room much attention, only opening the door to enter and check if anyone was inside.

  He sighed in relief, walking out and closing the door behind him with a dull thud.

  After doing so, he walked to the second door and pushed it open, its hinges protesting with a low groan.

  The room was smaller than the one downstairs, barely large enough for a man to lie across its width. A single window faced the alley behind Lower Darwin Street, its glass so thick with grime that only the faintest suggestion of lamp light seeped through.

  Against the far wall sat a narrow iron-frame bed, its mattress thin and stained. No sheets, just the bare ticking. Beside it, an overturned crate served as a table, littered with the waxy remains of old candles and a dented tin cup.

  The wallpaper—what remained of it at least—was a faded floral pattern, peeling in long strips like dead skin. Water damage had left brown blooms across the ceiling, spreading outward in irregular patterns. It was hideous, and to call it a habitable shelter would be true, if that shelter was meant for rodents!

  . Ulrich closed the door behind him and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Here, at least for tonight, he was safe from harpoonists and officers alike.

  In that moment, he moved toward the window, careful to stay to the side, and peered down at Lower Darwin Street. He stared for a good minute, and only after seeing that no one was suspicious did he truly relax.

  After doing so, Ulrich glanced at the time on his watch—8:13 PM.

  He quickly placed down the satchel on the crate and urgently pulled out the thin book.