During the two days Claire slept, Liz had not been idle.
Her figure moved through the fine spring rain of Kent Harbor’s night.
The continuous night rain carried a slight chill, lightly striking the ancient eaves and empty streets.
Kent, once a glorious major port of Albion, now lay like a corner forgotten by the times, quietly resting in the long river of history.
After the formation of the United Kingdom, numerous new trading cities had sprung up along the coastline of Hibernia.
The merchant guilds of the Wind Folk, like greedy sharks, had swallowed the former glory of Kent.
The wave of the mechanical revolution had swept across the entire Northern Continent, yet Kent seemed still immersed in a medieval dream from several decades earlier, unwilling to wake.
On the streets sparse lights swayed in the curtain of rain, reflecting a few lonely figures.
Scattered men wrapped in heavy trench coats hurried along with pipes clenched in their mouths, their eyes revealing numbness and helplessness toward life.
The city’s decline had long since become part of their habits.
The castle of the Earl of Kent, once a symbol of power and glory, now stood alone in the rain, completely dark.
The castle gates were tightly shut, mottled with rust, as if no one had set foot there for a very long time.
The childless old earl had died of illness several years earlier.
After great effort the municipal hall had finally found a distant relative in the earl family’s genealogy to serve as heir.
Yet that heir was an absolute wastrel.
Not only had he squandered all the property left by the old earl, he had also mortgaged the castle for a large sum of money and finally absconded with the funds, leaving Kent with nothing but masterless chaos.
Kent on a rainy night was like an unfinished rough sketch—its lines coarse and heavy, revealing a kind of indescribable sorrow.
Liz moved through the complicated alleyways, her umbrella swaying in the wind and rain and making a soft patter.
After several twists and turns Liz found the building of the municipal hall; fortunately it was conspicuous enough in the urban district.
This should have been an old building from the era of Queen Christine.
Under her reforms the municipal halls had taken over the power to govern local affairs from the lords’ castles, so that the various earldoms were no longer independent entities of real power, forming a systematic administrative structure that covered the entire Northern Continent.
The body of the municipal hall had been eroded by the years until it was mottled and uneven, yet it still watched over this withered city like a giant in the rainy night.
Rainwater dripped from the eaves, producing a monotonous and rhythmic sound.
The main door of the old building was tightly closed; only a few dim yellow lights shone through the windows, barely illuminating the open space in front of the entrance.
Liz folded her umbrella and gently pushed the door open; a damp and musty atmosphere rushed toward her.
The interior of the municipal hall was empty; only a few staff members were still busy.
They glanced up at Liz, then quickly lowered their heads again and continued their work.
Liz passed the offices of a series of functional departments—the Property Department, the Tax Department, the Religious Affairs Department—and finally found the inconspicuous Cerberus branch office.
The three-headed dog pattern carved on the lintel and the words “First Agency” were covered with a layer of dust.
Inside the office the light was dim.
Several human clerks sat at the tables near the door, laughing and playing cards.
The bloodkin person in charge here, Booker Vandro, was sitting at a desk almost buried under files, toying with a half-empty blood bag.
Liz gently pushed the door open.
Her gaze swept the surroundings and she could not help sighing softly, yet her face still maintained a professional smile.
She walked toward Booker and handed over the blood sample of John Cornwall, saying politely, “Hello, sir. The Cornwall case can be filed. This is the blood sample we collected from the scene. This fellow injected some kind of drug; please send it to Headquarters for examination as soon as possible.”
Booker raised his head; his gaze lingered on Liz for a moment, clearly somewhat surprised by this sudden visit from an enforcer.
“Thank you for your efforts, Miss Enforcer. I am Booker, the person in charge here.
Rest assured, I will send someone to process these samples.” His voice was low and hoarse.
Liz looked around, her brows slightly furrowed. “A pleasure to meet you. I am Liz of the Toriduo family. The environment here seems a bit… dilapidated. How could the municipal hall allow such a situation?”
Booker gave a bitter smile, set down the blood bag in his hand, and explained, “You have seen the current state of Kent Harbor yourself. The municipal hall has cut quite a few positions. My clerks are actually all ordinary people hired externally. The other departments of the municipal hall are already overwhelmed by enormous local debt. When those in power lose their dignity, naturally no one pays attention to the overseers either.”
Liz nodded to show understanding, then shifted the topic.
“The reason we came to Kent this time is actually a special mission.”
Booker’s eyes flashed with a trace of curiosity. “Oh? Miss Enforcer, you mean…”
Liz said seriously, “We are here to investigate the Mutual Aid Society. John Cornwall, who received help from the Mutual Aid Society, fled by train, and the terminal of that train was Kent Harbor. We have reason to believe Kent has already been targeted.”
From Northumbria to Wessex, riots or collective escapes had occurred in the demon containment zones of Albion from north to south—all the handiwork of the Mutual Aid Society.
Kent, located at the end of this line, also had a containment zone; the Mutual Aid Society’s next target was very likely here.
Booker’s brows locked tightly.
“The Mutual Aid Society… so the fire has finally reached this place. Unfortunately the situation of the Kent containment zone is somewhat special. Two years ago the municipal hall hired a local gang to manage it. This is simply playing with fire.”
Liz raised an eyebrow and questioned, “Mr. Booker, as a supervisory commissioner of the First Agency, how could you tolerate such a practice?”
Booker shook his head helplessly. “I once applied to the superior branch office of the duchy for an investigation order, but the next morning people from that gang slapped an administrative permit down on my desk. That permit even bore a seal from Londinium.”
At this point his words were filled with indignation and helplessness.
As a vampire Liz knew how severe human discrimination against alien races was.
The good-natured class monitor from the Intelligence Academy had taken a clerical post after graduation; unable to integrate into the circle of her human colleagues, she had been constantly excluded.
Blind forbearance had not brought her peace.
One month her rationed blood bags had been stolen; she knew it was the work of those human colleagues.
The only response to her pleas had been cold, gloating eyes.
Fortunately Liz and Claire had come to her aid in time and prevented an outcome of frenzy and injury to others.
If even vampires who possessed citizenship were treated this way, the lives of the demons in the containment zones could only be worse.
Because of various historical and religious factors, in the eyes of human residents they did not even count as equal intelligent beings.
The demons of the containment zones, regardless of race, lived mixed together in high buildings composed of hundreds of cramped rooms, engaged in exhausting and monotonous heavy physical labor.
There was no currency or market inside the containment zones; only demons who had fulfilled their labor obligations were qualified to receive the supplies distributed by the government.
Those without the ability to labor could only starve to death.
Liz did not dare imagine what kind of living hell such an already harsh survival environment would become under the management of a gang.
If she were a decision-maker of the Mutual Aid Society she would inevitably treat the Kent containment zone as a primary target.
“Mr. Booker, in view of the current situation I suggest you immediately go to the Guard Department to make a report and have the police force temporarily take over the containment zone,” Liz proposed.
Booker pondered for a moment before responding, “Your suggestion is indeed necessary, but the actual situation may not go as you wish. The police chiefs of the various districts have long established intricate webs of interest with the local gangs; they are unlikely to assist you with any sincerity.”
After hearing this a trace of worry flashed through Liz’s eyes, yet she did not give up. “In that case, can we apply to Headquarters for a forced search warrant? I have a premonition that something major is about to happen.”
Booker sighed and shook his head helplessly. “If we go through that entire procedure it will probably already be a month later.”
Liz’s brows locked tightly.
“It seems we can only consider taking some unconventional measures. Mr. Booker, do you have any way to help us secretly infiltrate the containment zone?”
At these words Booker immediately waved his hand in refusal.
“That’s for you, miss—don’t drag me into it. As far as I know the containment zone is airtight; the only entrance and exit is the main gate. Forcing entry would inevitably lead to conflict with the gang. They have a special permit; I have no desire to end up in court.”
A flash of disappointment crossed Liz’s eyes.
“So you just plan to sit in this office and watch the Mutual Aid Society march in with your own eyes?”
Booker responded with a bitter smile, “Miss Enforcer, you may have misunderstood my position. The duty of punishing alien criminals mainly belongs to the Fourth Agency. As a supervisory official of the First Agency I truly cannot help.”
He shrugged helplessly, clearly unwilling to take any risks.
Just then a piercing howl suddenly came from outside the window, shattering the quiet of the room.
The sound was like a combination of a canine howl and a human whimper, appearing especially eerie in this rainy night.
Liz’s expression changed.
She had read about the characteristics of this sound in the textbooks of the general knowledge of monsters course at the Intelligence Academy.
Werewolf—a patient of lycanthropy.
This disease might originate from heredity or from the bite of another werewolf.
And at this moment a werewolf might be wandering the urban district of Kent Harbor.
Booker stood up from behind the desk and put on his black coat.
“You see? A perfectly legitimate reason for a search has just arrived.”
***
Spring thunder cracked over the skies of Kent Harbor.
A werewolf of massive build raced madly through the complicated alleys of Kent Harbor.
Its eyes flickered with the green light unique to beasts under the dim illumination; sharp fangs were occasionally revealed at the corners of its mouth.
Rainwater slid down its twisted features, making it appear especially ferocious.
Yet at this moment it looked unusually wretched; bullet holes in its arms continuously poured out blood, staining the surrounding ground red.
Before completely transforming into a wolf and losing its reason, the pre-transformation werewolf had escaped from the containment zone.
When it stepped into the free land beyond the walls it had not expected that an even stronger hunter was lurking in the shadows.
The roar of firearms rang out; a bullet precisely pierced the werewolf’s left leg.
It let out a deafening roar, yet could not catch sight of the hunter’s figure and could only stagger away through the rain.
Residents in the vicinity scattered in all directions, but this beast no longer had the heart to hunt; it itself was the prey of the hunter in the shadows.
That invisible aura of terror followed it like a shadow, locking tightly onto the werewolf.
Whether it leaped onto slippery eaves or hid inside dark shops, it could not shake off the pursuer’s chase.
Every time the click of a firearm and the whistle of a bullet rang out, they were accompanied by the tearing of the werewolf’s body and pain.
The former apex predator had now become a lamb awaiting slaughter, experiencing unprecedented fear and despair.
Even so it still did not abandon its struggle and continued to stagger forward through the rain with its already scarred body.
With the echo of the final gunshot, the werewolf’s massive body crashed down onto the cold street.
Its eyes were wide open, filled with unwillingness and fear.
It could no longer run, because the joints of its limbs had been precisely pierced by bullet holes.
Rainwater mercilessly beat against its face, mixing with the flowing blood.
Claire slowly stepped out from the shadows.
A look of satisfaction flickered in her eyes as she examined her prey.
Claire had deliberately not used silver bullets and had precisely avoided vital points.
Although she had not paid much attention in the general knowledge of monsters course and her final assignment had been written with Liz’s help, she knew that these patients of lycanthropy should not actually be classified as demonkin.
Yet because of the social harm they caused after transformation they had been ruthlessly sent into the containment zones.
The werewolf before her hung its head; heavy iron shackles tightly encircled its neck, wrists, and ankles.
These iron shackles had been cruelly locked onto it while it was still human; one could imagine what inhuman torment it had experienced.
Although its physique had expanded violently after transformation, it still could not break free of those cold iron shackles.
The shackles bit deeply into its flesh as if intending to tear it apart.
Blood slowly seeped from the seams between the shackles and its body, staining its coarse fur red and dripping onto the ground drop by drop.
Its eyes were filled with pain and despair, as if silently pleading for release.
Claire looked at this scene and felt a nameless sympathy rise in her heart.
The carriage carrying Liz and Booker slowly approached through the thin mist.
By the time they arrived at the scene the eastern sky had already taken on a faint fish-belly white.
The fallen werewolf had already been surrounded so tightly by the crowd of onlookers that not a drop of water could get through.
Under the cold gazes of the crowd the werewolf rolled painfully on the ground; every struggle was accompanied by a mournful moan.
Its form gradually shrank amid the intense pain and finally turned into a thin and haggard man.