The Shadow of Great Britain
Chapter 111 - 111 71 The Last Voice of the Thief General

111: Chapter 71: The Last Voice of the Thief General 111: Chapter 71: The Last Voice of the Thief General On the deck of the Black Thorn, five or six sailors surrounded Arthur with curved swords, but they looked at each other, none daring to step forward.

Arthur took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood off his sword.

He tossed the handkerchief aside and asked, “Where is Fred?”

At his words, the sailors exchanged looks; none spoke, but all glanced towards the wooden door leading to the ship’s hold.

Arthur nodded slightly, “Good.”

As he spoke, a volley of musket fire erupted from behind him, courtesy of the sniggering marines offering their firepower support.

Through the thick white smoke, Arthur’s footsteps moved past one body after another, while on either side of the deck, members of the Black Thorn’s crew knelt down, clasping their hands over their heads, disarmed.

Arthur approached the cabin door, not bothering to push it open with his hands but instead drawing the two flintlock pistols from his waist and firing rapidly at the wooden door.

With two bangs, the door was suddenly riddled with two small holes.

Immediately following, there was a thud from inside, the sound of a head hitting the ground.

Arthur bent down to peer through the holes and saw the body of a pirate with blood trickling from his mouth, still clutching a gun.

Gently pushing the door open, a foul stench hit him, a sour mixture of sweat and urine.

He lightly touched the handrail with one hand and stepped down the Black Thorn’s companion ladder.

Illuminated by the dim light of an oil lamp and a gaping hole torn by a cannonball, he gradually made out his surroundings.

This was a wooden mezzanine, and below this would probably be where the slaves were held.

Although the air was foul, the space was not very crowded.

Across from Arthur was a desk with several chairs, and on the desk stood a wooden sign: Blackpool Detective Agency.

Arthur exhaled lightly: “It seems this is the furniture that Fred took away?”

He quickly scanned the area, confirming there was no one else before planning to pursue Fred to the level below.

However, before he could move, a muffled ‘mmph mmph mmph’ sounded from a corner of the room.

He frowned, backing his sword and slowly approached until he realized halfway there that the source of the noise was a curly-haired, fat man bound and gagged with cloth, stuffed under the desk.

The fat man also noticed Arthur, staring blankly at him for a moment before frantically nodding at him, gesturing for Arthur to remove the cloth in his mouth.

As Arthur observed this spectacle and began to remove the gag, he could not help but ask sarcastically, “So, what should I call you?

A gentleman from France, are you Friday or Robinson?”

The moment the white cloth was removed from the fat man’s mouth, he gasped for air and exclaimed emotionally, “Merde!

Con!”

Arthur wiped the sweat from his face and asked, “Sorry, sir.

I don’t quite understand French; could you translate that for me?”

The fat man didn’t refuse Arthur’s request, replying promptly in fluent English, “Fuck his mother’s cunt!”

“Phew…”

Arthur raised an eyebrow and exhaled, “Straight to Master level, no wonder the French Government wants you dead.

Perhaps they are jealous of your civility; France does not allow a man of your refinement.

But sir, even if you don’t wish to tell me your name, could you tell me where Fred went?”

Upon hearing this, the fat man seemed to suddenly remember something and cried out, “Watch your head!”

At those words, Arthur quickly looked up, only now noticing the narrow space above the mezzanine.

Fred was hunched over in the confined area, holding two flintlock pistols aimed at Arthur and cursing loudly.

“Damn it!

You’re quick on my tail, boy!

I had just come down to get these guns, and here you are!”

With two bangs, Fred decisively pulled the trigger.

In desperation, Arthur kicked a drawer of the desk.

The desk tipped over, shielding Arthur and the fatty from the bullets, but also trapping them underneath.

Seeing this, Fred threw down his pistols, and apart from jumping down, he decided to go for a crushing leap onto Arthur and the fat man.

But by then, Arthur had already rolled to the other side.

With a thundering crash, Fred slammed down; the cabin filled with dust, the desk shattered to pieces.

While Arthur avoided the blow, the French fat man bore the brunt of both the desk and Fred’s hefty 200-plus-pound force.

The fat man’s face suddenly turned white, his eyes bulged as if he were about to draw his last breath.

Fred himself was shocked by this sight.

Patting the fat man’s cheek, he comforted, “My darling, you’ve got to stay strong.

Surely this insignificant weight isn’t too much for you?

Where has all that fat gone?

Damn it!

At least you can’t die here; I’m still counting on you for the bounty.”

The fat man was insulted or simply caught his breath again, and he cursed loudly, “If you don’t get off me right now, I’ll bite my tongue and kill myself!”

Fred, finally relieved to hear him still so full of energy cursing people, quickly nodded, “Alright, alright!

As long as you stay alive, I’ll listen to anything you say.”

Fred got up from the office desk and drew his saber from his waist, licking his dry, shriveled lips.

“Kid, I know you can fight, but what of it?

Being in the Royal Navy, isn’t it all for nothing?

The Navy Department only pays you so little each month, what the hell are you risking your life for?

Listen to me, if you join me, I’ll take you into big business.”

Arthur carefully sized up Fred’s face, always feeling it looked somewhat familiar, and then, suddenly, the corners of his mouth twitched, and he asked with a smile.

“Mr.

Fred, have you forgotten me?

I’m not the one to sell my life for the Royal Navy.

On the contrary, I’ve wanted your life for quite a long time.”

Upon hearing this, Fred’s eyes narrowed slightly as he stared at Arthur’s face and slowly remembered.

“Ah!

Police Superintendent Arthur Hastings.

Yes, yes, yes, it’s my lack of recognition.

How could I forget you?

We indeed met before, right at the Greenwich Police District station, that time when I was taking a dump at the shop.

Dammit!

Clemens’s pursuit was tight enough, was it really necessary to report just those dirty little secrets of his to Scotland Yard and trouble such an important person like you to personally come all this way?”

Arthur said with a smile, “Mr.

Fred, it seems you’re not very knowledgeable about the power relations at Scotland Yard.

Inspector Clemens and I are not from the same faction; he would love to see me dead, and I would love to see him dead too.

We can’t piss in the same pot.”

Fred, hunched over and holding a knife, circled around the office desk with Arthur, savoring his words and said with a grin.

“In that case, we might have the chance to cooperate?

What do you want, money, or evidence of Clemens’s wrongdoing?

I know plenty, Superintendent Hastings, you understand, people like me need to have lots of information to stay alive.”

Arthur nodded slightly, “Indeed, it is because you have so much information.

Therefore, I can’t take your money or evidence; I can only take… your life!”

Fred and Arthur both stepped forward at almost the same time, and they fought fiercely with their swords, but neither gained an advantage.

Just as they separated, Fred took the chance when Arthur was changing his stance and slashed his saber toward Arthur’s armpit.

Arthur, in turn, swiftly twisted his wrist, abruptly changing the direction of his blade, and aimed the point of his sword at Fred’s extended wrist.

Although Fred’s reaction was quick, the instant he retracted his saber, Arthur’s sword still managed to slash open a cut across the back of his hand.

Fred glanced at his bleeding hand, his curled ears twitched slightly, and with a sinister smile, he asked, “Not bad!

Who taught you that swordsmanship?

I’ve fought with quite a few Scotland Yard cops, but none were as tough as you!”

“Oh?” Arthur slowly moved his feet, eyes locked on Fred without leaving his side, “Who have you fought with?”

“Quite a lot of them, like your subordinate Jones, but he’s no good.

Among the Scotland Yard police, apart from you, only Wilcox has some real strength.”

Arthur asked with a smile, “How did your match with Wilcox turn out?

To be honest, I’ve fought him too.”

Fred smirked, revealing his golden teeth, “It wasn’t a big deal; although Wilcox is a bully who’s afraid of the tough, he was rather lucky.

If he hadn’t knelt down and begged for mercy, I might have taken his life.”

“Is that so?” Arthur asked, “My view is different from yours, I think Wilcox’s luck wasn’t so good.”

“Why?”

Arthur inhaled slightly, “Because before he could beg for mercy, I took his life!”

Fred was taken aback by this revelation and almost in an instant, Arthur’s sword point was nearly at his face.

Fortunately, his footwork didn’t falter, and a smart step to the side helped him avoid the attack.

And after he sidestepped, what was exposed in front of him was Arthur’s side profile.

He laughed heartily and slashed his saber toward Arthur’s right shoulder, “It seems today you’re just as unlucky as Wilcox!”

However, the Red Devil, witnessing this, couldn’t help but guffaw and shouted, “Arthur, that dumbass fell for it, quick, use that move, defense into counterattack!”

Arthur was lighter than Fred, which meant he had faster speed and greater agility.

The leg that trailed behind him suddenly stepped up half a step, his left shoulder pressed against Fred’s armpit, followed by his lifted left hand grabbing the tendons on Fred’s right wrist.

Fred felt his right hand go numb, and the arm holding the saber involuntarily plummeted, but it was this very action that allowed Arthur’s stepping left foot to trap the blade tip.

A sound followed, as the sword pierced through skin and flesh, and Fred’s left palm, now missing two fingers, slightly trembled.

He frowned, his golden teeth chattering, “Damn it, I…

I just illegally sold some slaves, it wasn’t any big business.

You…

you little bastard…

you say, why the hell did you have to do this?”

A thud was heard as Fred’s body heavily hit the ground.

In a cloud of dust, Arthur sheathed his sword, looking down at Fred twitching on the ground, barely alive, preparing to turn and leave.

However, amidst the dust, he suddenly noticed Fred slowly stretching out that three-fingered hand.

The remaining thumb and little finger on the palm retracted sharply, leaving only one middle finger extended.

London’s notorious thief general, Fred, left his last words in this world.

“You…

you motherfucking show-off!”