This was the last gasp before entering hell.

Roscoff Harbor on the northern shore of the Brittany Peninsula lay shrouded in a damp, cold gray mist. This place was a famed smuggling transshipment point on the southern side of the English Channel, and the last resupply stop for the Black Seagull before it would dash across the channel toward Cornwall, England.

Captain Deken was busy haggling with the local black-market merchants, replenishing coal and fresh water, while Lin Jie's squad dispersed throughout the mixed-up little town to make their final preparations.

In an unremarkable attic on the edge of town.

Julian sat at a wobbly old wooden table. In front of him were all manner of oddly shaped glass vials, copper distillers, and a pile of raw materials that looked like dried weeds.

His hand held a glass dropper with unusual steadiness.

A single drop of a strange purple liquid fell from the dropper into a boiling flask below.

“Sss.”

A wisp of blue smoke rose. The liquid in the flask quickly cleared from murky to translucent, finally turning a golden hue like liquid amber.

Julian exhaled.

He set down the dropper and wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

Beside his hand lay an extremely heavy book, bound in some unknown black leather.

The pages were yellowed and brittle, the edges burned and riddled with wormholes.

This was an heirloom that had passed down through the Belloc family for generations, an alchemical manuscript said to have come from the Middle Ages: The Herbal Garden of Hermes.

But for over a hundred years it had been nothing more than a meaningless collection of scribbles to the Belloc descendants.

Because the writing on its pages was neither Latin nor Greek, nor any known ancient tongue.

Until now.

Julian drew out the Scribe's Papyrus from his pocket.

This relic from Thoth, the ancient Egyptian god of wisdom and scribes, now lay over the book’s pages.

A miracle happened.

Through the papyrus’s semi-transparent fibers, the chaotic symbols on the page began to twist and rearrange.

What had once been random ink to everyone else resolved, before Julian’s eyes, into clear, elegant ancient technical script.

“...using the root and rhizome of belladonna as a base, aided by dew condensed from mercury vapor, then mixed with trace nitre powder...”

“...this formula yields a ‘blinding mist,’ and can also serve as a precursor to a potent neural blockade agent...”

Julian’s finger lightly traced the lines.

Against UMAs with strange properties, or hunters like the Sculptor Galliard, simple physical damage often proved pale and impotent.

He needed more methods.

More variables that could alter battlefield conditions and weaken enemy states.

Like the golden liquid he had just finished preparing.

It was a highly volatile stimulant specifically targeted at the olfactory systems of spiritual creatures.

If shattered before a pack of scent-tracking hounds or an UMA, the resulting storm of odor would paralyze their olfactory nerves for ten minutes.

Julian carefully portioned the liquid into several thumb-sized metal throwing vials wrapped in leather.

On the table were other bottles in varied colors.

There was “Phantom Barrier,” which instantly produced vast amounts of low-temperature white fog.

There was “Gecko Paste,” which, when spread on the ground, dramatically increased friction to prevent slipping.

There was also “Armor-Breaking Acid,” inspired by notes from the South Seas Pharmacist, blended from corrosive plant extracts.

Julian packed the jars into a custom carrying pouch sewn inside his coat.

He looked out at the sullen sky and pushed his glasses back up his nose.

At the same time.

In a smithy in the Roscoff harbor district, the forge blazed red-hot.

This environment was far noisier than Julian’s attic. William had stripped off his shirt, showing a scarred, sturdy torso.

At the anvil stood a squat, broad-shouldered Breton blacksmith with a full beard.

This smith was not an I.A.R.C. member, but he had once been an arms technician in the French Foreign Legion and was a well-known “ghost hand” in smuggling circles.

For enough coins, he would do anything and never ask questions.

Right now the smith was sweating as he stared down at a dull gray chunk on the anvil.

It was a remnant shard of a parasitic anchor cluster, and its properties drove him mad.

If left alone it was soft like rubber; struck with force it would instantly harden past diamond, sometimes even bouncing the hammer away.

“What the hell is this thing?”

The smith swore and put down his hammer, his flesh between thumb and forefinger tingling from the shock.

“It doesn’t take to hard, and it doesn’t take to soft.”

“Then use ‘vibration.’”

William sat on a nearby wooden crate, holding a bottle of cheap rum, his tone calm.

“Don’t try to change its shape all at once.”

“Use a small hammer, hit at high frequency, keep it in a ‘semi-hardened’ state.”

“Then when its hardness subsides a bit, quickly set it with a mold.”

This was the method Lin Jie had taught him before leaving.

The smith swapped to a smaller round-headed hammer hesitantly.

This time he didn’t use brute force but struck like playing a percussion instrument, a rapid staccato echoing through the shop.

Sure enough.

The stubborn gray matter slowly stretched and reshaped.

What William was forging was simple.

First, a close-combat weapon.

A trench club about sixty centimeters long.

The shaft forged from solid high-grade steel, the grip wrapped in anti-slip sharkskin.

At the striking head was a sphere encrusted with thick shards of parasitic anchor core fragments.

This was William’s “Armor-Breaker.”

At rest the weapon was not overly heavy and handled smoothly.

But when William swung it, particularly on impact, the anchor fragment at the head would instantly absorb the kinetic energy of the strike.

In that millisecond its weight would multiply many times over and its hardness reach an extreme.

That blow would no longer be mere metal impact.

It would feel like a boulder dropped from the sky.

Even a heavily armored knight or a thick-skinned UMA would have bones and organs shattered under that hammer.

There were also pieces of armor.

Two specially made chest-liner inserts.

They were for Julian and Evelyn.

The lining was sewn between two layers of tough leather with countless fingernail-sized parasitic anchor fragments like fish scales.

Worn normally they felt soft and fitting, almost weightless.

But if a bullet or dagger struck the chest, the struck scales would instantaneously absorb the attack’s kinetic energy and harden into an unbreakable defense.

This instant hardening not only stopped penetration, it converted the shock into mass and pressed it hard against the body, thereby negating most of the shockwave.

Though the sudden crushing might break a few ribs, that was far preferable to a bullet through the heart.

William lifted the newly cooled trench club and weighed it in his hand.

That solid heft made him feel grounded.

Without the Church Holy Cannon he had lost the ability to suppress spiritual entities from a distance.

But he was still the veteran who had survived the Zulu War.

In close-quarters brawling, this club would let any monster trying to close know what physical “cleansing” meant.

Meanwhile, in the back room of a local apothecary, Lin Jie was making his last purchases. On the counter before him sat several wooden boxes.

Inside were high-purity alchemical consumables from the black market.

Mercury.

Rock salt.

And a few ounces of the extremely expensive ambergris extracted from a deep-sea sperm whale.

Lin Jie stowed each item carefully.

His hands were wrapped in a few layers of white bandage from the burns sustained when he fought Galliard at sea.

Although his body had been strengthened by the White Vulture’s Mark and his wounds healed quickly, he nonetheless felt profound fatigue.

This exhaustion was not physical; it was spiritual.

The closer they got to England, the stronger the pressure became.

He could sense a vast net being spread along Cornwall’s coastline.

Lin checked his ammo pouch.

It held twenty special alchemical bullets.

Ten were dum-dum bullets for dealing with hunters.

The other ten were Salt-Core Bullets, meant to take on non-physical spiritual entities.

“Boss.”

Lin looked up at the apothecary behind the counter, a man wearing a monocle.

“We’re heading north. It’s cold there and very damp. Give me the best antibiotics and painkillers.”

“Preferably something strong enough that a man with a broken leg could still run three kilometers.”

The pharmacist blinked, then gave a knowing smile.

“Going to England? That cursed place does call for that.”

He turned and unlocked a cabinet, producing several small brown vials.

“This is purified laudanum and a new synthetic analgesic from the Germans.”

“Use it sparingly. It can save lives or take them.”

Lin paid and stuffed the vials into the inside pocket of his coat.

He stepped out of the shop into heavier rain.

The icy water slapped his face, clearing the dull fog in his mind.

All preparations were complete.

Next was crossing that final channel.

To face the ghost that had waited on the cliffs for half a century.

At nightfall.

The Black Seagull set sail again.

This time it carried no lights, slipping into the turbulent English Channel like a true black fish of the deep, silent and unseen.

The channel’s waves were fiercer than expected.

Massive swells pounded the ship’s sides with thunderous roars.

The hull lurched violently, seeming ready to break apart at any moment.

But none of the four on board felt sleepy.

They gathered in the cramped crew cabin, silently checking their gear.

As the ship continued north toward the coordinate called Tintagel, Lin could feel the badge in his hand growing warm.

Not only the badge.

The White Vulture’s Mark on the back of his right hand began to react abnormally.

A burning, stinging sensation radiated beneath the skin.

It wasn’t a warning; it was resonance.

Like two magnets drawing near.

The air here was thick with an extremely dense, ancient spiritual fluctuation.

This flux could not be felt elsewhere on the Surface World.

It felt like a volcano suppressed for a thousand years, slowly accumulating force under the crust.

“We’re here.”

Captain Deken’s voice came through the speaking tube, strained.

“Up ahead is Cornwall’s coastline. I can’t get too close. The waves are huge and the whole place is full of hidden rocks.”

“All I can do is put you ashore here.”

Lin stood, pocketing the badge.

“This is enough.” He glanced at his teammates behind him. “Prepare to land.”

Ten minutes later.

A black dinghy was lowered into the gale and towering surf.

Four people huddled inside as the tiny craft carved through a stormy, pitch-black night toward that unknown, dangerous shore.

They aimed for a remote sea-cave five kilometers south of the Tintagel Castle ruins, the only possible landing point Ethan had found through smuggling networks.

The waves hurled the skiff skyward and then slammed it into troughs again and again.

Icy seawater poured into their collars, stealing body heat.

At last, after a violent jolt, the keel scraped sand.

They’d reached land.

Lin was first off the boat, dragging the rope as he charged up the shingle beach.

William and Julian followed, while Evelyn stumbled ashore clutching her instruments.

They stood before a huge natural sea-cave.

Its mouth faced the ocean: at high tide seawater would flood halfway in, but at low tide a dry path opened inland.

Inside the cave was pitch black, the only sound the echo of waves.

Lin lifted the windproof lantern’s cover. The dim light revealed the damp interior.

“Welcome to the British Empire.”

Julian wrung water from his coat and forced a wry smile at Evelyn.

“This is truly a terrible way to enter the country.”

Lin did not smile.

He suddenly raised a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture.

At the same time his left hand slammed down onto the back of his right hand.

The mark there was burning like mad; the searing pain nearly pierced through flesh.

That indicated the spiritual density here had reached a critical point.

“Someone’s here.”

Lin lowered his voice to the barest whisper, his other hand already gripping the hilt of Silencer.

William reacted instantly, shouldering his rifle and pointing the muzzle toward the cavern’s dark interior.

Evelyn flicked on the switch of her goggles; a structural-transparency display unfurled.

Julian quietly produced a vial of Blinding Mist, the atmosphere freezing to an icy stillness.

Only the wind and rain outside kept howling.

From the shadowed recesses of the cave came a set of extremely regular footsteps.

A tall figure stepped slowly into the lantern’s circle.

He wore a deep gray trench coat and a broad-brimmed hat soaked by rain.

A shotgun hung in his hand.

Behind him walked several other silent figures in clothes suited for mobility.

But their hunter’s reek could not be hidden.

“Welcome home, Lin.”

The man in front halted.

He lifted his head slowly, revealing a beard-scarred, ruggedly familiar face beneath the hat’s brim.

It was Marcus, the burly man who had fought alongside Lin in London and shared a complicated past.

Yet there was no joyous reunion on his face now—only a grave, inscrutable depth.

“Though this greeting ceremony is a little crude.”

Marcus looked at the four, soaked and on edge, his gaze pausing for a second on the muzzle in William’s hands before returning to Lin.

“But it’s better than being blown to pieces at sea by Ackerman’s execution squad. Don’t you think?”

Lin did not lower his knife. He stared hard into Marcus’s eyes.

He was assessing.

Was this a trap?

Or an extraction?

In a world blanketed by wanted orders, an old comrade could be either a last lifeline or the stone that breaks the camel’s back.

“Why are you here, Marcus?” Lin asked coldly. 𝕗𝚛𝚎𝚎𝐰𝗲𝗯𝗻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝕞

“Because someone didn’t want you to die.”

Marcus slammed his gun butt onto the ground with a heavy sound.

“At least not die at the hands of those dishonorable hawks.”

He stepped aside, creating a path further into the cave.

“Come on, it’s not safe here. We need somewhere private to talk.”

Lin paused briefly, then loosened his grip on the knife hilt.

“Lead the way.”

The four followed Marcus into the deepest darkness of the cave.