89: Chapter 27 The New Year

On the final day of 1349, a city-wide blizzard descended upon Backlund.

Large, goose-feather snowflakes fell silently from the leaden, stagnant sky. Fine snow flurries, swept up by the cold wind from the riverbank, blanketed the scattered rooftops and rusted piers along the Hoi River, enveloping the rows of dimly lit gas streetlamps along the streets and draping the entire city in a heavy, deathly silence of pure white.

The porters in the Dock District dropped the sacks from their shoulders early to escape the cold, swarming into the low-ceilinged taverns along the streets. Their rough, gravelly toasts echoed against the mottled walls, mingling with the off-key, desolate strains of the "Song of Loen" as they drifted into the wind and snow toward the river.

In the cramped, damp alleys of the East Borough, children chased each other in snowball fights. A barefoot little boy dug a rusted, battered copper bell out of a trash heap, tied it to a piece of twine, and shook it vigorously. The crisp tinkling sound pierced through the wind and snow, becoming the unique New Year sound of the lower-class neighborhood.

Lu Li leaned against the floor-to-ceiling window of his apartment in the River Bay District, quietly watching the falling snow for a moment before folding the parchment memo he had finished organizing last night—filled with cryptic clues—and tucking it securely into his waist pouch.

The underground market had long since closed; the New Year festivities had swept through Backlund. The vast majority of black market shops and stalls had shut their doors, leaving only a scattering of taverns and old-established bakeries open for business across the city.

He pulled his dark wool scarf tighter, turned the brass door lock, and stepped down the iron stairs, which were covered in half an inch of white snow.

In front of the church on Mingde Street, the old, twisted oak tree was hung with simple prayer ornaments that the local children had handmade from worn-out coarse cloth and rags.

Old Kohler's young daughter stood on her tiptoes, straining to hang a polished silver fragment onto the lowest branch of the oak tree.

Catching sight of Lu Li walking down the stairs, the girl immediately turned around, holding a small package carefully wrapped in old oil-printed newspaper with both hands, and hurried over to present it to him.

Inside the package were two plump white loaves of bread. As usual, the baker had specially added an extra spoonful of scarce white sugar to the dough.

"Papa says we should eat something sweet for the New Year, so that the days ahead will slowly become sweet too." The little girl hugged a brand-new comic weekly tightly to her chest, her eyes filled with the pure expectation unique to children. "The bakery owner said these are the last two white loaves of the year. Once she gave them to me, she was going to lock up the shop and head home for the New Year."

Lu Li took the bread, placed it into his durable canvas backpack, and softly asked about Old Kohler's recent livelihood.

The girl's eyes lit up instantly, her tone full of excitement: The new employer was kind-hearted and, knowing how difficult it was for her father to raise a daughter alone, had cleared out an unused small storage room for them, making it convenient for them to store their things and have a temporary place to stay.

Now, Old Kohler no longer had to carry heavy sacks to load and unload cargo; he was only responsible for cleaning the office area and organizing the shelves. After his daily work was done, his back, strained from years of labor, no longer ached with piercing pain.

She pulled out a piece of white chalk she had found, squatted on the snow-covered flagstone beneath the oak tree, and carefully sketched a crooked little figure stroke by stroke. She looked up and said earnestly, "I want to be a painter when I grow up."

"What do you want to paint?" Lu Li lowered his gaze to the immature drawing on the flagstone.

"I want to paint the solemn church, the fragrant bakery, and this old oak tree that has kept us company through the winter." The girl paused, rubbing her nose against the comic book in her arms, her tone firm and gentle. "I also want to paint the kind person who quietly leaves bread at the warehouse door every morning. I haven't met him yet, but I know he's always there."

Lu Li raised his hand and gently smoothed out the curled, worn edges of the comic book. His fingertips were slightly cool, and he did not respond.

After the little girl ran into the church to pray, clutching her comic book, he turned and left from beneath the oak tree, stepping on the soft snow as he walked slowly along the smooth flagstone path toward Water Pump Street.

That same afternoon, inside the Sherlock Moriarty Detective Agency.

Sherlock Moriarty raised his hand, retracting the last paper figurine, its spirituality exhausted, back into his black cuff. He leaned his back against the leather chair and let out a long, weary breath.

The long-accumulated commissions had all been resolved: The ore theft case from the Geological Research Institute was officially filed and closed, with the compensation paid in full; the commission regarding the cursed portrait of the painter Matthew Edwin had been completely concluded, and the frame tainted with eerie spirituality had been sealed by the Mandated Punishers team and stored in the top-secret archives of the River Bay District church outpost.

He placed each commission report into a cowhide envelope, sealed them with wax, stamped them with the agency's exclusive copper seal, and then stood up and walked to the window facing the street.

Mingde Street was covered in snow, and children were running around, throwing snowballs at each other. At the street corner, an old woman selling roasted chestnuts pushed her tin cart slowly along. The chestnuts crackled and burst under the charcoal fire; their rich, charred sweetness mingled with the crispness of the wind and snow, drifting through the window gaps into the room and smoothing away a bit of gloom.

The warmth and signs of life outside the window suddenly stirred up memories of the past.

He thought of the deep winter in Tingen City.

The gas streetlamps at the Zoutland Street police station burned bright all night. After every late-night patrol, Dunn would always brew a pot of warm black tea in the breakroom; Leonard could never sit still, taking apart and fixing the old toaster, the machine's roaring sound filling the duty room; Old Neil would sit alone in the corner, lowering his voice as he recited the calibration incantations for the seal runes over and over again.

Those warm, vivid memories were now all covered in dust, buried beneath the ashes of the Tingen catastrophe.

Sherlock stood silently in front of the window for a long time before raising his hand to put on his black top hat and pushing open the door to leave the agency. The long New Year's night was approaching; regardless of what lay ahead, he had to have a hot dinner.

Twilight permeated the wind and snow, and the daylight faded completely.

At the corner of Water Pump Street, beneath the lingering snow, Lu Li and Sherlock met face to face. Their eyes met, and there was no need for polite small talk; they both understood each other's state of mind as solitary travelers.

"Have you eaten dinner yet?" Sherlock spoke first, his tone flat and natural.

"No."

"There's an Intis-style bistro in an alley in the East Borough that's open as usual for the New Year. My treat."

The restaurant was hidden deep within a narrow, winding old alley in the East Borough. The storefront was cramped and crude, with a gas lamp featuring a colored glass shade hanging at the entrance. Its warm light cut through the wind and snow of the alley, illuminating the mottled wooden door.

The owner was a stout Intis chef who had immigrated to Backlund. He handled the cooking in the kitchen and served the guests in the front hall all by himself, his deep, booming voice loud enough to drown out the sound of stir-frying in the iron pots.

The menu in the shop was extremely simple: vegetable stew, pan-fried river fish, coarse black bread, and the classic Intis-style garlic butter roasted potatoes.

Sherlock ordered two portions of roasted potatoes, one portion of pan-fried river fish, a pot of hot vegetable stew, and a pot of hot lemon water to ward off the cold.

The stout chef busied himself in the kitchen for a moment, and when he brought out the food, he included two extra crispy Intis almond cookies as a special New Year's gift.

The charred aroma of butter and garlic wafted through the air, warming the small dining room. At a neighboring table, several old dock porters were holding mugs of ale and loudly discussing the latest rumors about a ghost ship in the Fog Sea, their words filled with awe and morbid curiosity.

Lu Li picked up his silver fork and ate quietly. The river fish was cooked to perfection; the skin was crispy and fragrant, locking in the juices, while the meat inside was tender and succulent.

Since transmigrating to this world, he had spent his days in Tingen gnawing on black bread and drinking weak black tea. After arriving in Backlund, he had long subsisted on cold bread and holy water. This hot, steaming meal was the most sumptuous one he had had in months.

Putting down his fork and taking a sip of the warm lemon water, Lu Li suddenly spoke, breaking the noise in the room. "Old Kohler's daughter is determined to be a painter."

Sherlock crumbled the last piece of almond cookie and handed half to the person opposite him, his eyes calm. "If Matthew knew, he would certainly be comforted. That cursed portrait has been sealed by the Church; when the turmoil subsides in a few years and the worldly rumors fade away, perhaps we could suggest he put this eerie experience down on canvas."

"Titled 'The Ghost of the Dock District'."

"Or perhaps 'The Cursed Portrait'." Sherlock raised his glass and lifted it slightly. "Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year."

The two glasses clinked softly, the crisp sound drowned out by the noise of the tavern and the wind and snow.

When they walked out of the restaurant, the wind and snow had already stopped. The two parted ways there; Sherlock turned and headed back to Mingde Street along the alleys of the East Borough, while Lu Li walked alone toward his apartment in the River Bay District.

Passing by a second-hand book stall on the street of the flea market, Sherlock paused and stopped. He picked up a yellowing, dog-eared copy of "Modern History of the Loen Kingdom".

The stall owner was huddled by a charcoal brazier to warm his hands. He looked up and smiled, "Happy New Year, sir. This old volume is only two pence. It records the events of the previous dynasty a hundred years ago; few people ever look at it."

Sherlock put down two copper coins and tucked the thin volume into his inner coat pocket. On the path of the occult, anything could become a foreshadowing.

When Lu Li stepped back into the territory of the River Bay District, the deep, resonant midnight bells of the St. Hillan Cathedral rang out on time. The twelve chimes pierced through the lingering snow mist, echoing heavily over the entire city of Backlund, announcing that 1350 had officially arrived.

In the construction area of the Old Wharf downstream of the Hoi River, the wooden signboard was covered in fresh snow. The writing he had erased with spiritual chalk a few days ago had been redrawn by someone with a rough charcoal pencil—a crooked and sloppy "Happy New Year." The strokes were casual; it was likely an old boatman keeping watch through the New Year, leaving the simplest of blessings for this city.

Returning to the door of his apartment, Lu Li moved the ivy, which was growing increasingly lush on the windowsill, inside.

The Landlady had mentioned during a chat last night that ivy sprouting on New Year's was a good omen for avoiding bad luck and attracting good fortune.

He softly wished himself a Happy New Year, locked the door, and checked his portable holy water copper flask and spiritual detection needle one by one. Then, he opened his leather notebook and wrote the first entry of 1350.

The wind and snow outside had dissipated, and moonlight spilled onto the river surface. The thin mist of the Hoi River shimmered with a faint silvery-white light, mingling and intertwining with the fog from the Sea of Wraith that was slowly churning and dissipating at the end of the pier.

The first rays of the New Year's sun would still need several hours to illuminate the streets of Backlund.

And deep in the distant Fog Sea, the towering black masts of a Church of Storms black sail ship had already broken through the thick fog, slowly sailing toward this metropolis.