Chapter 244 Fog Castle
“Second brother!”
Jack Rabbi, his face painted black, bent his body nimbly, crossed the trench dug by the Seamen's Union, and ran to the temporary command post where Eske Rabbi was, which was converted from an old warehouse.
His second brother was observing the harbor where the navy was stationed through a telescope—it was completely silent, the sea shimmering in the moonlight. It was approaching midnight, and the soldiers on guard seemed to be relaxing their guard. The nighttime sounds of gunfire had been audible for over two weeks. Initially, the navy had been on high alert, their entire force on alert. But the gunfire came from all directions, and the seamen's union hadn't attempted to storm their headquarters. After repeated occurrences, they'd grown accustomed to it, believing it was perhaps a merchant ship exchanging fire with a few scattered pirate ships.
Some merchant ships, unable to wait any longer, have been allowed to pass through the Kasa Strait after paying a "toll." The local navy has reacted calmly, warning these ships that such behavior may constitute "treason."
"Someone is coming from Port Morris?" After taking a look at his brother's excited expression, Eske Rabbi immediately understood.
"Yes! There are 500 people in total, bringing their own ammunition. In addition, there are five rapid-fire cannons and 300 guns provided by the Wheat Ear Association." Even though he knew this place was safe, Jack Rabbi subconsciously lowered his voice. "Those navy thought it was a merchant ship and didn't pay any attention. Brother Ole is already commanding on the scene!"
A cheerful female voice interrupted: "Well done, little messenger!"
Jack was rubbed all over again, and he couldn't help blushing: "Sister, Sister Marcylin!"
The red-haired girl raised her eyebrows proudly at Esker Rabbi: "Are you relieved? I told you Mr. Ghost wouldn't abandon us!"
Yes, that's not the case. Esker Rabbi couldn't help but roll his eyes mentally. The other party had simply calculated everything, blocking all options and leaving him with only one predetermined path. But even he had to admit that this was the right path—that guy was definitely not just a weak scholar who could only wield a pen.
"He's really something," he muttered softly, remembering the recent letter from the Wheat Ear Association. "He made the old man so happy that he pulled out all the treasures from the bottom of the box."
Even with the long-standing friendship between Casa Strait and the Wheatear Association, Esker Rabbi had never seen the old man so generous. He was clearly placing his bet on the other party. To persuade the usually cautious Ben Raj to make such a decision, besides his personal charm, Ghost must have offered him a significant benefit.
"If everyone has no other opinions, then we'll follow the previous battle plan. In an hour, we'll launch our formal counterattack and strive to capture the harbor before dawn!" Marshilin announced. She glanced at the solemn-looking Ask, then suddenly patted him on the shoulder, startling the sturdy sailor.
"Relax! Why are you so nervous?" the red-haired girl said carelessly, "There's only one Lord's Prayer-level warlock here, and that's Orel. Warlocks and warriors below the Lord's Prayer level aren't capable of fighting with their bodies and weapons. We will win."
Rabbi Eske rubbed his sore shoulder blade and glanced at her with a complicated expression. He had never seen a girl of sixteen or seventeen so at ease on the battlefield. It seemed as if moving through the battlefield, cutting through the enemy lines, and making judgments were as easy and natural to her as breathing.
What shocked him most was the sophistication displayed by the other party - she was not bloodthirsty, but was unusually calm about the countless deaths caused by her own hands, just like a general who had experienced hundreds of battles and crawled out of a pile of corpses.
...Who is she?
Elsewhere, the professor and his companions finally reached Spindelburg, the main city nestled at the southern foot of the Batalha Plateau. This city boasts a thriving textile industry, home to countless textile mills. Tall chimneys continuously belched black smoke into the sky, casting a gray, misty haze over the city, creating an unusually gloomy atmosphere.
Nova couldn't help but frown. This city hadn't escaped the historical process of capitalist development. The severe pollution that was most common in early industrial cities was vividly displayed here - and this also earned Spenderberg a nickname that was very familiar to people on Earth, "Fog Castle".
"Try to cover your mouth and nose," he instructed his two companions. "The air is full of toxic substances like sulfur dioxide. Inhale as little as possible."
Yialos frowned. He didn't understand what... uh, "sulfur dioxide" meant. It sounded like a series of random symbols, but he did understand the word "toxic".
The Knight Commander's expression gradually grew serious. "Are you saying someone poisoned me?"
"The fumes from the factory are poisonous." The professor glanced at him and explained with a hint of sarcasm, "But you're not wrong. This is a long-term, large-scale mass poisoning incident targeting textile workers and surrounding residents."
Yialos was silent for a moment. "...The newspapers called it a symbol of development and wealth."
"It's so advanced it's lethal." The black-haired young man sneered, but he didn't say anything else. He simply pulled his collar over his face. Azuka calmly snapped his fingers, and a clean stream of air emerged from nowhere, dispelling the strange smell in the air.
Instead of rushing to the Twelve Spinning Wheels, they wandered the streets of Fogburg. The fog thickened like solidified mortar, clinging to the bricks and stones. The light from the kerosene lamps blurred into dim yellow spots five steps away. As they turned a corner littered with coal slag, a bony hand suddenly reached out from the shadows, startling Nova.
"Master... cough, cough, cough, please be kind..."
The Knight Commander instinctively grasped his waist before remembering he was unarmed. The man reaching out to them was a skinny man curled up in a torn sack. His age was indistinguishable, and bits of cotton wool clung to his purple skin.
He was hunched over, his lips were cracked, and every breath he took made a painful sound, like a bellows with a hole in it, with dark red blood oozing out.
The dying man's two cloudy eyes were covered with gray, but he still struggled to reach out his hands to the people passing by, begging for mercy that was already useless: "Ahem... Fa Fa, mercy..."
He suddenly spat out a ball of bloody vomit mixed with strange flocs. The Knight Commander subconsciously took a step back, but caught a glimpse of the black-haired young man stepping forward, squatting in front of the man, carefully observing the beggar's condition, and even grabbing the skinny and deformed hand that looked like a skeleton, and checking the other's dirty nails.
"...It's most likely byssinosis." The professor withdrew his hand, his brows slowly furrowing. "It's caused by long-term, unprotected inhalation of plant dust from cotton, flax, hemp, and other plants, which triggers bronchoconstriction and pulmonary fibrosis. It's common among textile workers."
"In other words, it's an occupational disease," the black-haired young man said expressionlessly, "but it's obvious that he was abandoned by the textile factory, and there's a high probability that he didn't even receive any compensation."
Azuka also squatted beside him, pressing his slender fingers lightly to the unconscious patient's forehead. With a faint flicker of light, the pain seemed to disappear from the patient, and the bruised face became noticeably calmer.
The god withdrew his hand and shook his head slightly at the others: "I can't cure the disease. The best I can do is to make him feel a little better."
The beggar coughed a few times and strained to open his eyes. The gloom on his eyeballs made it difficult for him to make out the flickering of light and shadow, but the long-lost sense of relief in his body convinced him that he had witnessed a miracle.
“Oh my god…”
Turbid tears flowed down the man's face. He suddenly struggled hard, hugged something carefully wrapped in rags from behind, and tried his best to hand it to the three people.
"Please, please, save him--" The beggar trembled and fumbled with his fingers to open the cloth bag that he treasured like a treasure.
The three of them suddenly fell silent.
Inside the cloth bag was a child who looked no more than four or five years old, with similar blood foam on his lips. However, his innocent face had turned a stiff, horrifying gray, and his lifeless eyes reflected the dim sky.
A dead child with cotton wool stuck in his fingernails.
Yialos suddenly felt as if something was squeezing his stomach hard, and he felt extremely uncomfortable.
The Knight Commander had seen death before—as a knight protecting the royal family, he had dealt with the bodies of rebels, suppressed rioting civilians, and interrogated assassins who had attempted to kill the royal family. But those deaths were cold and sharp, carrying the iron smell of power struggles, completely different from the small corpse curled up in rags before him.
He was no longer the young man who was easily excited and indignant. He had seen a lot of filth and understood a lot of injustice - he thought he would not be moved by this.
But Jophiel Yialos still heard his own voice become unusually strange, as if it came from far away: "Are these also... workers recruited by the textile factory?"
"Child laborers' hands are smaller and more flexible, and they are also cheaper." The professor stroked the child's cold face with his hand, causing the child to close his eyes.
Suddenly, the Knight Commander's mind flashed back to the exquisitely intricate lace shirts in the king's wardrobe. No, that wasn't right. These people were all the king's subjects, even this young child. Sacrificing for the king was glorious, but perhaps they should have done more. The rebel leader had also said that this occupational disease was caused by "lack of protection."
...But he also knew that instead of expecting those greedy guys to bleed and cut flesh for a group of untouchables, it would be better to pray for the gods to show mercy.
The child's father was still begging them dully: "Save him... please... save him..."
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