98: Chapter 36 The Visitor in Red Gloves

The early spring in Backlund was always wrapped in an inseparable chill and dampness.

The smell of coal smoke mixed with the fishy scent of the river permeated the air, piercing through thick clothing and clinging between one's skin and lungs.

Leonard Mitchell stepped off the steam train carrying a slightly worn suitcase, a pungent, choking smell of dust suddenly rushing into his nostrils, causing him to instinctively knit his brows.

He was already wearing a brand-new dark grey trench coat, the standard uniform issued by the Church for members of the Red Gloves, with an exquisite, finely detailed red glove emblem secretly embroidered on the inside of the cuff—low-key, yet symbolizing a completely different identity.

From the moment he stepped off the carriage, the lazy, free-spirited young poet of the Tingen Nighthawks, whose patrol logs were always rejected by Captain Dunn, had become a thing of the past.

He had officially joined the top elite directly under the Goddess's Church—the Red Gloves, shouldering the responsibility of hunting down escaped Beyonders and handling high-risk abnormal incidents.

The two months of closed-off special training prior to this were far more cruel and rigorous than Leonard had imagined.

Deep theory of Sealed Artifact runes, prohibition on operating high-risk Sealed Artifacts, tracking and anti-tracking of high-level Beyonder traces, close-quarters combat, precision shooting with standard firearms... All courses started from scratch, with assessment standards raised several levels higher than ordinary Nighthawks, bordering on harsh.

The leisure of reciting poetry in his spare time had completely dissipated.

He got up at five every morning to recite obscure rune classics, and was still grinding his shooting feel in the training ground at eleven at night.

That poetry book that had accompanied him for a long time was pressed to the very bottom of his suitcase, having only been opened twice in two whole months.

Deep within his spiritual body, the ancient angel Pallez Zoroast, who resided there, would often let out an ambiguous hum, either mocking his immature and clumsy marksmanship or correcting the sealed runes he had written incorrectly, his words sharp, yet it could be considered a disguised form of accompaniment through the most grueling special training period.

Relying on a tenacity of gritting his teeth and persisting, Leonard eventually passed all subjects in the assessment and successfully obtained his official Red Gloves appointment qualification.

The reporting process at the Backlund Diocesan headquarters was concise and solemn.

He was received by a female clerk wearing gold-rimmed glasses, who, after verifying his identity file and assessment credentials, handed him an encrypted internal briefing for the Red Gloves.

"The last tracked traces of the traitorous Saint Ince Zangwill have been locked to the Old Industrial District of Backlund, after which he completely concealed his tracks. At this stage, our squad has full authority to pursue this case. You may independently determine your investigation direction, only needing to submit progress reports on time every week."

Leonard's fingertips brushed over the cool paper briefing.

After flipping through the few lines of basic clues, he raised his voice to ask, "Are there no more detailed tracking records or traces of anomalies left behind?"

"Not at the moment. If you need to consult past files or apply for assistance with clues, you can obtain permission to access the diocesan underground archives after reporting." The lady replied truthfully.

Leonard nodded slightly, thanked her, and turned to leave the headquarters, renting a residence near the Old Industrial District for subsequent patrols and investigations.

After getting settled, he went to the River Bay District church outpost at the first opportunity to complete the jurisdiction registration.

At this moment, he suddenly felt a gaze sweep over him, and Leonard turned his head to look.

Inside the outpost hall, a private detective was calmly submitting documents.

The other party was wearing the same style of dark grey trench coat, wearing a slightly worn bowler hat, with an upright posture and restrained, refined manners, carrying a scholarly sense of prudence and calmness.

He was holding a spiritual pollution investigation report, explaining the situation to the outpost clerk, stating he was entrusted by a local freight company to detect residual Sea of Wraith tidal dust in the soil and water vapor of the Old Wharf area to assess potential spiritual pollution risks.

Leonard stood quietly to the side waiting to register, his gaze inadvertently sweeping over the signature at the end of the report—Sherlock Moriarty.

The handwriting was neat and steady, the strokes restrained and introverted, upright to the point of being rigid.

This handwriting was vastly different from the free-spirited, slightly lazy signature on the Tingen patrol logs in his memory.

A faint suspicion grew quietly in his heart, yet there was not a shred of concrete evidence.

Leonard retracted his gaze without a change in expression, his face calm, and he did not say a word.

A moment later, the two finished their procedures one after the other and brushed past each other at the outpost entrance.

Sherlock Moriarty seemed to notice his gaze, tilted his head slightly, and nodded in acknowledgment, polite yet distant.

Leonard also nodded faintly in response without stopping.

The two went their separate ways at the damp street corner, instantly merging into the grey, hazy streets of Backlund.

Dusk deepened, and lead-grey clouds pressed down on the horizon.

Leonard followed the established route, slowly patrolling the outskirts of the Old Industrial District.

Rows of abandoned factories had their doors tightly closed, the walls mottled and peeling, and every door was plastered with the Church's sealing tape.

The edges of the tape had obvious traces of being torn open and then carefully stuck back together, and in the gaps of the traces, a few wisps of extremely faint space rift spiritual light remained.

It was a typical trace of the Apprentice Pathway.

However, this spiritual fluctuation had long since dimmed and weakened, lacking any fresh quality; it was definitely not left behind recently, but was a mark left by someone secretly entering and exiting at least several weeks ago.

Leonard's gaze narrowed slightly, and just as he was about to step forward for a detailed investigation, Pallez's lazy, aged voice, which seemed to see through everything, suddenly sounded deep in his mind:

"In the third factory ahead, there is a secret compartment in the mezzanine of the second-floor wallboard; something is hidden inside."

"What is it?" Leonard asked silently in a low voice.

Pallez scoffed, his tone lazy: "Go see for yourself. I am just a residing remnant soul, not a private detective for you to order around."

Unable to get more clues, Leonard simply walked straight to the target factory.

Relying on the trace detection techniques he had learned as a Red Glove, he quickly found the hidden wallboard mezzanine and successfully retrieved a heavy lead box.

Opening the lid, inside were neatly placed several bottles of Sea of Wraith tidal dust diluent, as well as a small bag of finely ground low-Sequence Apprentice Pathway potion auxiliary materials.

And most glaringly, on the inside of the lid, a snake-shaped ring pattern was finely engraved with a sharp object—the exclusive mark of the Aurora Order.

In an instant, all the clues had a landing point.

Leonard's expression was calm and restrained.

He carefully sealed the lead box and put it into an exclusive evidence bag, intending to bring it back to the diocesan headquarters for a deep spiritual source analysis.

He could not yet be certain if this batch of items was related to Ince Zangwill, but it was enough to prove: the long-silent Old Industrial District of Backlund had always had secret forces operating in the dark, never having completely fallen silent.

The doubt about the private detective on Mingde Street still swirled in his heart, its outline blurred and elusive.

But with a major case at hand, hunting Ince and investigating the traces of the Aurora Order were the primary tasks, so he temporarily suppressed his distracting thoughts and focused on subsequent work.

Pallez within his spirit body sighed softly, with no discernible emotion, as if lamenting that he had finally shed his past impetuousness and learned to investigate steadily, or as if secretly evaluating that this level of insight was still far from enough.

The evening wind blew through the streets with a chill.

Leonard put away the evidence bag, stepped through the heavy dusk, and walked slowly back to his residence.

Pushing open the wooden door of his rented cottage, he had not even had time to properly store the evidence bag when his eyes precisely captured a folded note pressed into the door crack.

The paper was ordinary, the handwriting extremely faint, written with a pencil, the strokes clean, concise, and powerful.

"The lead box in the secret compartment of the third factory in the Old Industrial District has been verified. The mezzanine on the second floor of the factory has residual Sequence 5 Guardian Pathway spiritual fluctuations, with a source time of no more than three weeks.

Ince Zangwill has indeed been active here and is currently still hiding within Backlund.

It is suggested to take this factory as the core and comprehensively investigate all abandoned buildings, underground secret passages, and hidden spaces within a five-hundred-meter radius.

The remaining personnel at the Dock District pharmacy have been marked; do not alert the enemy.

If intelligence assistance is needed, you can go to the old bookstore on Water Pump Street to connect."

The entire text was calm and objective, logical and clear, precisely hitting all the key clues.

There was no signature at the end of the note, only a minimalist and concise snake-shaped ring emblem.

An Aurora Order mark, yet it was secretly tipping off him, a Red Glove?

Leonard held the thin note, his fingertips tightening slightly, standing in place in long silence.

Absurd, weird, yet vaguely revealing a hint of unspeakable tacit understanding.

He repeatedly scrutinized the familiar snake emblem, many chaotic thoughts surging in his heart, eventually all returning to calm.

After a long while, he rummaged through the bottom layer of his suitcase to find the copy of "Selected Modern Loen Poetry" with scorched burn marks on the cover, and on the clean blank page, he wrote down a line of neat handwriting:

"Confirmed Ince spiritual residues, hiding in Backlund. Goal: Investigate underground hidden spaces in the Old Industrial District."

No header, no salutation.

At the signature, he gently drew a feather pen pattern derived from the same source as the burn marks on the poetry book, low-key and secret, known to no one.

After writing, he carefully folded the note and planned the transfer method according to the connection channel reserved by the other party.

After doing all this, Leonard picked up the internal briefing of the Red Gloves on the table again, and by the dim light in the room, combed through the clues one by one, earnestly planning tomorrow's investigation route.

In the chilly night of Backlund, a secret investigation had already quietly unfolded.