The Royal Mail steamship "Leinster" slowly docked at the berth of Dublin's North Wall Quay amidst the piercing screech of tal grinding and the groaning of ropes. A complex atmosphere, utterly different from that of English cities, washed over them.
This scent was a mixture of the salty tang from the Liffey River estuary, the bitter smoke of burning peat from city hearths, the rich aroma of malt ferntation from the Guinness brewery, and a pervasive dampness and lancholy steeped in centuries of rainy weather and a history of struggle.
This sll was the very soul of Dublin. It lacked the frantic anxiety of London's Industrial Revolution and the arrogance of empire, instead carrying a weathered depth and resilience.
Lin Jie and his two companions mingled with the noisy crowd descending the gangway, setting foot on Irish soil.
The rough, cobblestone ground of the quay was slick from perpetual dampness, with puddles everywhere reflecting the leaden gray sky.
The dockworkers were mostly sturdy, resolute-looking Irish locals.
When they looked at the well-dressed English travelers, their eyes maintained the duty of service personnel, yet deep within them lurked a complex mix of wariness, alienation, and even a deep-seated hatred rooted in their very blood.
This subtle, oppressive hostility perated every corner of the air.
Lin Jie imdiately understood that Julian's words on the ship were far from alarmist.
This was a "conquered" land, and the invisible scar between conqueror and conquered still throbbed faintly even after centuries of ti's erosion.
They did not linger long in the chaotic port. Instead, they quickly hired a local-style four-wheeled open carriage and sped towards their destination: Trinity College, located in the heart of Dublin.
Traveling through Dublin's streets, the city's distinct character, so different from London's, beca even clearer.
The architecture here was also influenced by Georgian style, featuring elegant red-brick facades and neatly aligned white window fras, but it lacked the grand opulence of London's West End, possessing instead a sowhat worn, restrained quality.
They finally stopped before the ancient, grand main gate of Trinity College.
This oldest university in Ireland, founded by order of Queen Elizabeth I, was a fortress bearing the stamp of English Protestant culture.
Its very existence was a symbol of historical contradiction and cultural conflict.
Julian seed very familiar with the place. He led Lin Jie and William through courtyards bustling with tourists and students, arriving directly before an ancient building whose walls were thickly covered in ivy.
This was the location of Trinity College's History Departnt.
Julian's old friend, Professor Kevin O'Donoghue, had been waiting for them by his office window for so ti.
He was a typical Irish scholar in his sixties, tall and slender, wearing a slightly oversized tweed jacket dusted with chalk. A head of snow-white, curly hair was untad and disheveled.
"Julian! My dear old friend! You've finally co!"
Upon seeing Julian, the tense, worried expression on Professor O'Donoghue's face lted into one of imnse relief. He opened his arms and gave Julian a warm hug.
"And this must be the mysterious Eastern 'Interpreter,' Mr. Lin Jie, whom you ntioned in your telegram?"
The professor's gaze shifted to Lin Jie, his eyes holding a scholar's curiosity and scrutiny. He couldn't comprehend why a young man from the distant East would be drawn into this bizarre affair of Celtic mysticism.
"And this one…" His gaze then fell upon William's silent, imposing figure. "The aura of one who has survived a hundred battles, I could sll it clearly even from across the Liffey. A true warrior."
After brief pleasantries, Professor O'Donoghue imdiately ushered them into his office, which was piled high with ancient texts.
He dismissed his students and closed the heavy wooden door, shutting out the outside clamor.
The atmosphere inside the office instantly grew grave.
"The situation is worse than I ntioned in my letter."
Professor O'Donoghue got straight to the point without further ceremony, his eyes filled with deep exhaustion and fear.
"The very day after I sent you the letter," he said, looking at Julian, his voice trembling slightly, "the last heir of the O'Connor family, that poor young man nad Kevin O'Connor… he heard it too."
This news struck a chord in Lin Jie's heart.
"When did it happen?" Julian's expression also turned serious.
"The night before last. According to his old butler's account, young Master Kevin was alone in his father's study, sorting through his belongings, when he suddenly leapt up from his chair."
"He clamped his hands over his ears, his face deathly pale, his entire body shaking violently. He kept screaming in a voice distorted by terror: 'That singing… that damned crying! It's coming! It's co for !'"
"The episode lasted nearly a full minute. Afterward, he broke down completely. He refused to see anyone, refused to eat."
"He just kept pounding his fists against the wall, trying to use physical pain to drive away the fear."
"And the most bizarre thing is," the professor paused, his blue eyes fixed intently on the three n present, "none of the servants present at the ti, including the old butler who was closest to him, heard any singing or crying. To them, the entire study was as quiet as a tomb."
This detail confird for Lin Jie that the Banshee's wail was similar to the Deep Sea Siren's shanty: a targeted, ntal-level attack imperceptible to ordinary people, directed at a specific target.
Its target was solely, and exclusively, those heirs possessing the bloodline of the O'Connor family.
"So that ans…" Lin Jie spoke up, "according to the legend, that Mr. Kevin now has only one day of life left?"
Professor O'Donoghue slowly closed his eyes, then nodded with imnse heaviness.
"Yes," he said in a weary tone. "If that ancient curse that has haunted their family for centuries remains as 'punctual' as it has always been, then before sunset tomorrow, the O'Connor na—once illustrious in Irish history—will see its last male bloodline extinguished from this world."
His words seed to drop the temperature in the room by several degrees.
"The bizarre manner of death…" Lin Jie pressed, his mind racing, trying to find the key to unraveling this from the limited information. "Professor, do you know the official, determined cause of death for his recently deceased father and elder brother?"
A strange, almost absurd expression appeared on Professor O'Donoghue's face.
"That is precisely the most inexplicable and most spine-chilling aspect of this entire affair."
He pulled a copy of an autopsy report, issued by the Dublin tropolitan Police and stamped with an official seal, from a pile of ssy docunts on his desk.
"The O'Connor patriarch, the old lord who once held sway in both Dublin's political and business circles, was found dead in his own stables."
"He was about to mount his favorite thoroughbred horse. But for so reason, that usually gentle champion horse suddenly went mad."
"It threw its master violently from its back, then used its hard hooves to trample the old patriarch's chest over and over again, until his heart ruptured."
"And his eldest son, the young heir hailed as the 'Lion of Dublin'," the professor's tone grew even more absurd, "he was attending an upper-class dinner party when he choked on a small, ordinary piece of roast beef. He died from suffocation."
These seemingly random "accidents," when they all precisely occurred "within three days of hearing the wail," revealed the fangs of malice and a sense of inescapable fate hidden behind the veil of coincidence.
"This is not a curse."
Julian offered his view.
"This resembles a series of perfectly planned and executed murders."
He had pinpointed the core of the issue with sharp accuracy.
And this was precisely the bold deduction slowly taking shape in Lin Jie's mind.
Perhaps there was no real "Banshee" behind this at all.
Or perhaps the ssenger who issued the wail and the true killer who carried out the deaths were not one and the sa.
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