Steampunk Era: Mad Abield
Chapter 467 - 315: Blind to You (Part 2)_2

Chapter 467: Chapter 315: Blind to You (Part 2)_2

The apprentices dragged the body aside, cleared the tables, and lifted the entrance to the basement.

"Who’s there?" someone asked from below.

Then came a scream, caused by the oil along with the box being thrown in; Logan lit a cigarette, then tossed it down as well.

An apprentice sealed the entrance with mudstone.

"You’re being wasteful, Logan," complained an apprentice.

"I’d get caught by Miriam for the smell if I smoked it," Logan explained calmly, then turned to look at the creatures breaking out of their skulls, pointed his revolver, and the blessed silver bullet pierced through one of them. It shrieked and struggled on the ground for a while before stopping altogether.

An apprentice threw a firebomb over, and the creature struggled again until, after a while, it finally turned into a charred lump in the flames.

"God knows what kind of hellish things they come up with," Logan muttered, checking his pocket watch to make sure the burning lasted the planned duration, then took a mask passed to him by a comrade and put it on. After the transformation into mud, they went down with their guns in hand.

After confirming all the dead, Logan led his people back upstairs, then pushed open the shop door.

"Logan, that guy across the street has been taken care of," the girl maintaining the barrier outside turned and asked.

"That’s great, how about the hotel across the road?"

"That’s Colin’s team, he’s more seasoned than us."

Feeling like he was robbed of business, Logan sighed, "Let’s go, Ben, don’t forget to make a call to the police station."

"Leave it to me." The short one in the team nodded, caught the coin tossed by Logan, and headed to the phone booth—the newly installed device was mainly for calling the police. In such a big city, it was foolish to expect the patrolmen to handle everything.

A phone call to the police required a coin, but if the alarm was genuine, there was a twenty-fold reward.

If not, prison and flogging would give a curious gentleman an unforgettable memory.

.......

Donald returned to his shooting position; he had received a recent photo of the target—a frankly, not very handsome man.

Really, all men handsomer than him were unattractive.

It was rumored that this man helped factory owners and merchants with their lawsuits, earning enough each month for the average person to live on for years.

It was a beautiful yet cruel era. It was said that it was because of him that the Capital’s big merchants won their cases, the workers got no compensation and were driven out of their factories. Some got sick, some were disabled, and others lost their lives over unfulfilled promises.

And the reason that big merchant got away with it was that he hired lawyer Casaman.

"Rather give money to a lawyer than to those who worked for him, huh?"

Donald was very puzzled by this; in his eyes, those who worked for him should be like stewards or servants, people who deserved pay for their loyalty.

No, Donald, those were merely replaceable parts on a locomotive, dust on a table that could be swept away at any moment, faces in human history that could be reduced to mere numbers.

The chairman of the Assassin’s Guild told Donald so.

Each of us is struggling to survive; what the Assassin’s Guild practices is a battle of life and death between hunter and prey, assassins and targets differ from person to person... and such scum, building his happiness on others’ blood and tears, that’s why we take on those bloody tasks.

Donald, we are assassins, but first and foremost, we are people of flesh and blood.

Because every mortal must pay for their actions.

Donald pulled back the bolt, loaded the bullet into the chamber, then picked up the pocket watch beside him for a glance.

In ten minutes, his target would surely appear from here; all he had to do was slip the man’s head into his sights and pull the trigger, and such a traitor would pay for his life with death.

May the Lord bless me, help me kill the enemy.

```

......

The carriage stopped by the street, and Colin leaped down, taking the sawed-off rifle from a team member’s hand—a small firearm with a short barrel, a semi-automatic weapon with far superior versatility and firepower in a room compared to its predecessors.

A police officer approached, and a team member by Colin’s side presented their credentials. After verification, the officer began to disperse the onlookers. The citizens, noticing Church members, scattered like birds and beasts—the long-standing fact had proved that Church members’ presence here was to kill Spirits or different kind.

Thinking of their own lives, it was only proper to keep a respectful distance.

Colin led the way, and the group arrived at the hotel’s front door in silence.

"Why this place?" a team member seemed puzzled.

Colin glanced at him.

"A few years ago, when Church members met a mishap in an alley, our trail led to this hotel and then went cold, you remember, don’t you?" the team member said as he looked at Colin.

Colin nodded.

"It’s this hotel. Now, the previous owner’s son is running it. Back then, we found out that his father had been admitted to a nursing home due to senility."

"I know, we’ll reinvestigate in due time," Colin replied after checking the rifle’s chamber to ensure it was loaded with live rounds, then moved to the side of the door.

Another team member took up position opposite him.

The team member responsible for initiating the barrier nodded.

Colin pulled the pin of the Shock Grenade in his hand, his teammates opened the door, and he tossed it inside.

......

The young innkeeper returned to the front desk, delighting in the pocket-sized novel in his hands—a convenient way to pass the time for someone with an abundance of it.

Incidentally, a friend from the National Publishing House mentioned that the new book by the Author of Holmes had passed review and would go to print within the week.

He was determined to get his hands on the novel as soon as it was released, preferably in pocket format since the larger versions were too bulky, unfit even for pockets and fearsome enough to squash something if need be.

As the person in charge of the Guild’s safehouse, the young man’s life was just that simple and tedious.

Next time he had a day off, should he go play at The Capital or experience the forest hunting in the Eastern Region?

Although there were such activities to the North of Carterburg, they were... just too dangerous.

Ever since an Ogre had appeared, the hunting enthusiasts had quieted down for quite a while—after all, they paid to be Hunters, not prey, and the idea of fighting for freedom in the woods under frosty skies wasn’t precisely appealing.

The young man understood and supported this, for the relationship between humans and nature was indeed that of hunter and prey, and if their roles were reversed... it wouldn’t be fun at all.

And speaking of hunters and prey, the young man had some insight into the targets the Guild’s assassins had to kill, and he found these fellows quite interesting—according to the information, the target had been a laborer in his early years, but as a fallen Noble with education from his younger days, he had worked as a laborer, then began accounting for his boss, and what happened after became somewhat murky. Some said he’d embezzled money which funded his career as a lawyer, while others attributed his success to luck or the patronage of a Noble... tales varied, and even though none of that mattered much, what truly made him infamous was the huge lawsuit he won for a major Merchant, earning a fortune and the scorn of the textile factory workers.

So, someone who rose from laborer to betraying laborers, just like the traitors in the Guild or Church, was someone that any group must eliminate promptly.

Feeling thirsty, the young innkeeper turned and took a can of tinned alcoholic beverage from the shelf behind him—this fruit liquor was very popular in regions like Southern Carterburg, made from cherries harvested near the oak grove in the North and utterly delicious.

Plus, it was affordable, even amiable, enough for civilians to drink quenching their thirst since it was sold only in Carterburg, one could say it was Carterburg’s signature alcoholic drink.

He popped the ring-pull and took a sip when he heard a noise from outside the door.

Perhaps it was a potential guest debating whether to stay at the inn.

The innkeeper was indifferent to the prospect—he had compensation from the Guild as part of his income, so the presence or absence of one or two customers wasn’t an issue. If they stayed, good; if not, so be it.

With this thought, he noticed the door crack open slightly.

The next second, an object resembling a black iron pipe was thrown inside.

```

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