Steampunk: Sixth Era Epic
Chapter 1083: The Slum Inn

Chapter 1083: Chapter 1083: The Slum Inn

The Vampire Kind residing in Huntington City mostly engage in vineyard or winery businesses and related industries. The Church naturally knows about their existence, but as long as they do not feed on human blood, the Church tacitly agrees to let them cohabit with humans locally.

The clan member Mr. Benhart mentioned is the Broker Orlen Wilson, who lives in the west of the city and introduces local wineries to foreign wine merchants. This Mr. Wilson is himself a Three Ring Sorcerer, aged 34, skilled in Divination but still unmarried.

His relationship with Mr. Benhart is not particularly close, but for business reasons, he visits Mr. Benhart’s manor during every holiday.

"This spring, he traveled to the New World to visit friends and accidentally acquired a rather troublesome Relic — a Dagger. The Pantanal Voodoo Society somehow found out about this and wanted to buy the Relic, but Wilson didn’t want to sell it to them, so he reached out to me, hoping that I would keep the Relic."

Mr. Benhart said, not only is he powerful, but he also holds a Viscount title in Carsonrick, so the Pantanal Voodoo Society wouldn’t dare to target a noble of his standing.

The carriage quickly took the two to the Red Wine Alley where Mr. Wilson resides, an area which is also the largest red wine trade hub east of Huntington City.

Mr. Wilson lives alone at number 20 on Red Wine Alley, in a three-story building without an attic. Mr. Benhart informed Shard that Mr. Wilson uses the first floor as his office and the upper floors as his residence.

The two got off the carriage, chatting and joking, but after Mr. Benhart knocked on the door, there was no response for quite some time.

"Could it be that he’s not home?"

Shard, dressed quite properly in a black woolen coat and holding a cane, asked the Vampire Viscount, who frowned slightly:

"Wilson personally invited me here. We agreed to meet at ten thirty in the morning."

"It’s now ten thirty-one."

Shard provided a more precise time:

"Could it be he suddenly encountered something and went out? Let’s ask the neighbors."

The two separately questioned the neighbors on both sides, but none of them had seen Mr. Wilson today. However, a little boy selling newspapers across from number 20, after Shard bought a newspaper, told him that about half an hour ago, a man entered the house but left shortly afterward.

The boy didn’t recognize the owner of the house, and from his description, Shard and Mr. Benhart couldn’t determine who might have entered half an hour before.

But Mr. Benhart already felt somewhat embarrassed. He had specially invited Shard, a friend he hadn’t seen in a long time, to visit, only to be stuck outside unable to enter, making him feel quite humiliated.

"Wait a moment."

Standing on the doorstep of number 20, Mr. Benhart pricked his finger with a fine needle, squeezed out a drop of blood, and smeared it on the door crack. That drop of blood then seeped into the door like it was alive.

"Let me see exactly what he’s up to."

The middle-aged Viscount hummed softly, then half-closed his eyes, seemingly concentrating on controlling that drop of blood.

Shard unfolded the newspaper in his hand to read local news, but before he finished the front page concerning the United Kingdom of Carsonrick Treasury Department’s report on this year’s economic growth, Mr. Benhart suddenly said:

"Oh, it seems we have encountered some unexpected situation."

"What happened?"

"To be precise, Wilson might be dead."

Shard looked at Mr. Benhart in amazement:

"Then let’s go in and take a look."

He tapped the lock, and with a click, the lock sprang open.

Mr. Benhart let out a deep sigh:

"I didn’t anticipate this at all. I hope it doesn’t inconvenience you."

"Of course not, rather, I’m just interested in getting a closer look at the Pantanal Voodoo Society."

As they pushed open the door and entered the room, Mr. Benhart led Shard directly to the office on the first floor. In the windowless room, the walls were splattered with blood, and the corpse of an unfamiliar man Shard hadn’t seen before lay sprawled on the floor. Judging by the amount of blood, even a Vampire Kind couldn’t have survived.

Shard stood at the door surveying the scene, while Mr. Benhart crouched down intending to examine the corpse but suddenly stood up and stepped back several paces:

"Careful!"

Bloody vines began to grow madly from the corpse, and in just a few seconds, the entire body was engulfed as if by a nest of snakes. They quickly crawled towards the door where the two men stood, their writhing appearance was unlike any plant.

"It’s the Pantanar Voodoo Society, those damn bastards!"

Mr. Benhart cursed unbecomingly and asked Shard to step back, then snapped his fingers sharply—

Pop~

The splattering blood around them exploded like liquid bombs with a muffled sound, the splashing hot blood stained the vines, and the eerie blood-red flames immediately ignited:

"Blood Flame. The vines summoned by the Circle Sorcerers of the Pantanal Voodoo Society are mostly unusually afraid of fire."

Mr. Benhart explained, and only after the vines were gradually burned away by the blood-red flames did he and Shard approach the corpse again.

Vines sprouted from the corpse, greatly reducing the body’s integrity. Shard didn’t want to use any adjectives to describe the corpse, as it would very much affect his appetite and sleep quality.

However, when Shard and Mr. Benhart tried to turn the corpse over, they both paused for a moment:

"Hmm?"

Shard heard the sound in his ear, while Mr. Benhart realized something:

"A false corpse?"

It was Shard who first uttered this sentence, and Mr. Benhart nodded immediately:

"Indeed it’s fake, truly impressive, this is our race’s unique Arcane Technique ’Blood-Colored Doppelganger.’ Except for members of the same clan, very few people can see through this substitute body at a glance."

"If he really mastered Divination, he might indeed have foreseen such a threat in advance."

Shard nodded, and in front of Shard, Mr. Benhart unabashedly dabbed some blood with his finger and then popped it into his mouth.

The middle-aged Vampire Kind gentleman squinted slightly, stood up after cleaning his finger:

"Detective, let’s leave here first, Wilson was indeed attacked. The Pantanal Voodoo Society killed him and took that Relic. But he left me a message in his blood, he’s now hiding, let’s go meet him, at least find out what happened."

"Okay."

Shard nodded:

"It’s certainly best that this gentleman isn’t dead, but the Voodoo Society truly strikes ruthlessly."

"How much sanity could those who seek Power from Subspace Evil Objects have? Besides, they were originally a group of natives from the Great Swamp Area... I don’t mean to look down on country folks... you get my point."

Mr. Benhart put on gloves, and Shard asked again:

"Where is Mr. Wilson hiding? Is it far from here? If convenient, we can have lunch together; I even brought some wine for you."

Mr. Benhart smiled:

"Not far, at the Blood Rose Inn in the city. He’s hiding there, perfectly safe."

The Blood Rose Inn is near the Huntington City Train Station, but it’s not on the main road; it’s tucked away in a small alley. After passing by the short wall plastered with wanted posters, through the clothes drying in the alley, and crossing the muddy ground, they finally saw the inn deep in the alley.

If one were to say that the "Pink Rose Tavern" Shard visited in Coldwater Port City was the type of small inn that would certainly offer illicit services at a glance, then the "Blood Rose Inn" hidden deep in Huntington City alleys would be the place where you know at a glance it is an absolutely proper inn.

With a wooden brick structure, it didn’t occupy a large area; on the side of the first floor, there was even a chicken coop and pigsty. Rude men were noisily chattering in slang at the tavern, and the peeling wall paint showed just how old this place was. An outdated double-swing wooden door served as the entrance, and inside, the decor was so sparse it felt like it had traveled back four or five decades.

This inn, even if it operated at least one illegal business, probably wouldn’t be in such a shabby state.

But thankfully, the tables and chairs were relatively clean, and the tavern on the first floor provided decent service. The tavern was filled with the smell of fermented food and alcohol, and it was so poor that it didn’t even have gas lamps, only very old hanging kerosene lamps. The walls were messily adorned with anchors, rusty swords, and strange ornaments; it was an inn for the poor in the slums, serving those who didn’t have money.

Fearing to disturb the now perhaps still anxious Mr. Wilson, Mr. Benhart instructed Shard to wait on the first floor while he went upstairs alone to find his clan member staying in Room 302.

Thus, with the newspaper under his arm, Shard ordered a pint of rye beer from the old barkeep, then sat at a relatively quiet table against the wall, and under the somewhat dim kerosene lamp, continued to read the news he hadn’t finished earlier.

The lampshade of that kerosene lamp probably needed a wash.

Mr. Benhart hurried up the stairs, worried, watching the creaking steps, concerned they might collapse at any moment. At the corner of the second floor beneath a painting that resembled abstract graffiti, he brushed past a middle-aged man with a very short haircut, just barely stubbly.

The man had dark skin, extremely droopy eyelids, and was wrapped in an uncommon brown old-fashioned robe, like those typically worn by people from desert regions.

Mr. Benhart merely felt the man was odd but just brushed past him. The man in the brown old robe, holding his slightly curled notebook, headed towards the first floor.