The celebration banquet filled with strong liquor, tobacco, and the rugged stories of hunters concluded amidst the clamor of midnight.
As Lin Jie, William, and Julian, the three of them carrying the scent of alcohol and a slight tipsy intoxication, stepped out of the "Old Captain" bar and onto the quiet, empty main thoroughfare of the Underground City, a tranquil understanding, different from the bar's liveliness, flowed between them.
The elegant French scholar Julian was clearly not very accustod to the wild style of Arican cowboys chugging whiskey;
his steps were already sowhat unsteady, and two rare patches of red flushed his scholarly face.
But his eyes appeared particularly bright, filled with the satisfaction of completing a mission and the joy of finding kindred spirits.
"I must admit," Julian said tipsily, leaning against William's sturdy shoulder, his tone slightly slurred, "although your London branch's celebration thods have a certain Anglo-Saxon barbarism and roughness, experiencing it once in a while isn't so bad."
"At least the Scotch whisky here is much more honest than those Bordeaux red wines in our Paris archives that can only serve as preservatives."
A rare, relaxed expression also appeared on William's face.
He did not refute Julian's biased joke, rely silently providing reliable support for this great scholar who could barely stand steady.
"Tonight is a night worth rembering," Lin Jie said with a smile, looking at his two companions of vastly different personalities beside him. "For victory, and for surviving. Cheers."
He raised the unfinished "Kiss of the Abyss" in his hand.
Julian and William also raised their glasses simultaneously. Three heavy glass cups engraved with the I.A.R.C. emblem gently clinked together under the soft light of the Underground City, producing a clear, pleasant sound.
"For friendship," Julian said softly.
"For living," William's reply was, as always, concise and pragmatic, in the style of a veteran.
Before parting, the ticulous scholar Julian solemnly handed over the tal box, which he had carefully safeguarded and contained a piece of the "Nightingale Fragnt," to Lin Jie.
"Keep it safe, my friend," Julian's gaze beca clear and serious. "This fragnt contains the 'Power of Sound' of the Catacomb Nightingale, sufficient to affect the human soul."
"It can be used to create the most wonderful 'Sacred Hymns,' or to compose the most terrifying 'Requiems.'"
"Its future will rest in your hands."
"When you next conceive a new plan that would even make that madman Arthur tremble, do not forget that this trophy was 'liberated' by the three of us together from that profound darkness."
Lin Jie nodded gravely and carefully stored the Nightingale Fragnt close to his person.
After bidding farewell to his two companions, Lin Jie returned alone to his quiet, empty apartnt on Baker Street.
He did not rest imdiately.
He first placed the "Nightingale Fragnt," which carried imnse potential, into the heavy steel safe in his study specifically used for storing "hazardous items."
He needed ti, needed more knowledge, and needed a truly new idea that could utilize its usefulness.
After handling these matters, he then brewed himself a pot of steaming hot black tea and sat at his large desk.
He did not think about any matters concerning cult conspiracies or weapon modifications.
He simply took out a brand new blank diary and a fountain pen from a drawer. The diary had a tough black calfskin cover and high-quality wood-free paper.
On the title page of this blank diary, he first wrote his full na in Chinese, then, with a stroke mimicking German precision, solemnly wrote another na.
— "Cartographer" Karl von Stein.
Then he opened the diary to the first page and, by the quiet London moonlight outside the window and the warm glow of the kerosene lamp on the desk, began to ticulously record, in objective and rigorous words, all the bizarre, dangerous, and miraculous experiences he had undergone since boarding the "Sea Witch."
He recorded the fierce siege by the Deep Sea Sirens and the Cartographer's final act of bravery.
He recorded the ghostly killings of the Ripper in London's thick fog and the ultimate truth.
He recorded the grand appearance and benevolent gift of the Guardian Deity in the Scottish Highlands.
This was not rely a simple personal diary, but an inheritance of will.
He might never reach the encyclopedic breadth of knowledge of the Cartographer Karl, nor possess his exquisite skill in hand-drawing precise anatomical diagrams of UMA.
But he could, in his own way, with a unique perspective emphasizing logic, analysis, and tactical review, continue the legacy of this "investigation log" written with life and blood.
By the ti he wrote the final period, the sky outside the window already showed a hint of the whitish light of dawn.
The crowing of roosters mixed with the crisp ringing of distant milk carts announced that this vast city was welcoming yet another day full of vitality.
Lin Jie slowly closed the diary.
A calmness mixed with fatigue and peace of mind enveloped his entire being.
He walked to the apartnt window and pushed open the glass pane.
The morning London air carried the crisp coolness unique to early autumn.
A fresh breeze, mingling the fragrance of damp earth after rain and the rich aroma of wheat wafting from the bakery downstairs, t his face, soothing his weary nerves.
He observed the awakening mundane world outside his window with keen interest.
At the entrance of a newly opened café on the street corner, several elegantly dressed gentlen wearing bowler hats were leaning on walking sticks adorned with silver animal-head finials with one hand, holding copies of the newsboy's *The Tis* in the other, vehently debating the Bank of England's interest rate adjustnts or what foolish speech Mr. Gladstone, the Liberal Party leader, had delivered lately.
It was all so ordinary and real.
Over the next few days, Lin Jie temporarily detached himself from that inner world of killing and conspiracy.
He unexpectedly found a small tea shop in an inconspicuous alley near Baker Street. Its storefront was small, but it wafted a pure, familiar, and nostalgic tea aroma.
The shop's signboard featured slightly clumsy English alongside beautifully written small regular script in calligraphy: "Liu's Tea Shop."
The shop owner was a spirited fellow countryman, Uncle Liu, over sixty years old, sporting a long, glossy queue.
According to Uncle Liu himself, speaking with three parts pride and seven parts world-weariness, his ancestors were imperial tea officials in the Forbidden City's Imperial Kitchen, specifically responsible for roasting tribute tea for the Daoguang Emperor.
Not only did Lin Jie buy, at a fair price from this well-inford "old Londoner," top-grade Lapsang Souchong—reportedly smuggled by fast ship from Wuyi Mountain—which was far more llow, sweet, and rich compared to the local astringent and bitter British black teas.
More importantly, in the back room of that small shop, through conversations with Uncle Liu and other Chinese laborers who ca to drink tea and play chess, he caught a glimpse of the harsh silhouette of their "holand" in these turbulent tis.
From an old shipwright who had once served as a pipe technician in the Beiyang Fleet, he heard how the two most advanced ironclad warships in the world at the ti, the "Dingyuan" and "Zhenyuan," ordered by the imperial court for millions of taels of silver from Germany's Vulcan Shipyard, caused panic and awe throughout Japan when they passed through Nagasaki on their return voyage, like two moving steel behemoths.
The old shipwright's face was filled with pride and longing when recounting this.
But then he would lower his voice and complain in a tone of worry and bewildernt about how the princes and nobles wearing yellow mandarin jackets in the navy diverted funds originally ant for purchasing ammunition to build a luxurious garden for the Empress Dowager, whose sixtieth birthday was approaching.
"They don't understand! Those great n will never understand!" the old shipwright exclaid agitatedly, slamming his cup heavily on the table. "No matter how big our ships or how thick our cannons are, if we don't have enough good ammunition, what difference is there from being an iron coffin at sea?!"
Lin Jie listened quietly, his heart fully aware.
The wheel of history was crushing forward along its predetermined, cruel trajectory.
Just a few short years later, that seemingly powerful, number one fleet in Asia would et its bitter end in another cold sea, due to issues with the quantity and quality of its shells.
From another down-on-his-luck Bannerman who had once worked as an interpreter at the Tianjin Customs, he heard an even more bizarre rumor tinged with elents of the inner world.
That Bannerman, who had also lived a dashing life in his youth, mysteriously told Lin Jie that, reportedly, early this year, the Emperor, who was only seventeen and had long reached the age to rule personally, issued a cryptic "search for immortals" secret decree to several trusted senior ministers after a mysterious serious illness.
"... I heard that the Emperor dread of the legendary Queen Mother of the West during his illness. She told him that the reason our country faces constant internal troubles and foreign invasions is because the dragon veins are damaged and evil spirits are everywhere."
The Bannerman lowered his voice, his eyes shining with superstition. "That's why the Emperor is urgently sending people to seek out those enlightened masters hiding in famous mountains and great rivers, to establish so kind of yan capable of dealing with evil spirits and such!"
"This matter even startled Viceroy Li, who ultimately suppressed it, only saying that the young Emperor had been deceived by the eunuchs beneath him."
Lin Jie's hand holding the teacup trembled slightly.
He discreetly noted this information in his mind;
behind this matter might lie connections to that Zhengyi, which had an Accord with I.A.R.C.
After bidding farewell to the talkative Bannerman, Lin Jie did not linger outside for long.
He returned to his apartnt on Baker Street with several copies of the latest European newspapers he had just bought.
As he prepared to open the door, he noticed an ordinary letter wrapped in kraft paper slipped under the door crack.
The letter paper did not contain the mission briefing or official docunt from I.A.R.C. that he had anticipated.
There were only a few lines written in a graceful, childlike script;
between the lines, one could see the writer's clumsiness and sincerity.
"To my most respected friend, Mr. Lin:
Hello.
Father says that thanks to your help, Mother's condition has improved considerably. The doctor has changed her dicine to a new, more effective one from Switzerland.
To express our gratitude, we sincerely invite you to our ho this Saturday evening to share a simple yet heartfelt dinner with us.
Mother says she will personally bake her specialty double-cream apple pie for you.
Looking forward to your visit,
Sincerely,
Lily Weston"
At the end of the letter, a crooked yet charmingly childish smiling face was drawn in pencil.
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