Daytime in Igwynt, Lower City, White Pearl Street.
Despite its luxurious-sounding name, White Pearl Street, located in the lower city, is far from a hub for selling jewelry and luxury goods.
This street exudes an aged atmosphere, lined with shops dealing in secondhand goods, antiques, appraisal services, scrap, and pawnshops. Citizens of Igwynt often bring slightly valuable but unneeded items here to pawn for some quick cash. Meanwhile, opportunists scour the street, hoping to strike gold with a hidden treasure that could make them rich overnight.
White Pearl Street does not enjoy a stellar reputation in Igwynt. This is not just because it’s a gathering place for idlers dreaming of sudden wealth, but also because of its close ties with various gangs due to the nature of its businesses.
Many people in dire straits have pawned away all their possessions here for quick cash. To prevent defaulters from shirking their obligations, most shops are backed by gang protection.
The presence of gangs, the congregation of opportunists, the booming pawn business, and the proliferation of loan sharks have turned White Pearl Street into a breeding ground for financial ruin. Beneath its seemingly calm surface, an undercurrent of silent violence flows.
At this moment, Dorothy stood by the street, dressed in a plain white dress, her long white hair tied back. She wore a large hat and carried a small bag as she silently observed the street before her.
The dim street had only a few pedestrians. Dust coated the shop windows and signs. Many storefronts displayed various old crafts, vases, pottery, gold and silver jewelry, and an array of unidentifiable contraptions. Some shops lacked even signs, their doors shut tight, with entry allowed only through side doors. Others sold peculiar trinkets on roadside stalls. The passersby either looked sullen or shifty, and the number of vagrants was double that of other lower city streets.
After scanning the scene before her, Dorothy frowned slightly and thought to herself.
Dorothy sighed inwardly. Based on the intel she’d obtained from No. 22 Elmwood Street, there was supposed to be a stronghold hidden on this street. Dorothy wanted to uncover it, but she was unsure where to begin.
After cramming a week’s worth of coursework in half a day, Dorothy had immediately asked Aldrich for another week off. Every morning, after bidding farewell to Gregor and pretending to go to school, she took a carriage here, fully dedicating herself to her anti-cult mission.
Having spent a considerable amount of money with Aldrich, Dorothy felt a deep sense of poverty. After much deliberation, she decided that hunting down members of the Eucharist would be the fastest way to earn money. Thus, she focused on locating the stronghold on this street.
However, this proved challenging—not because she couldn’t find suspicious people, but because everyone on this street seemed suspicious!
For three days, Dorothy had searched the street using small animal corpse marionettes. During this time, she tailed several shady-looking individuals with the marionettes. But they all turned out to be either gamblers planning to borrow money after losing or loan sharks. Three days passed, and Dorothy found no clues about the Crimson Eucharist.
“Ugh… Not a single lead…”
Standing at the street corner, Dorothy sighed deeply. Frustrated, she decided to leave White Pearl Street and found a random café to enjoy a sugary coffee.
Sitting at her table, she sipped her coffee while brainstorming ways to track the Crimson Eucharist. When no ideas came to mind, she picked up a newspaper from the table to ease her mood.
As she unfolded the paper, a bold headline caught her eye.
Burton Veil Case Remains Unsolved: Igwynt Police Under Fire. Social Critic Stanley Warns Delays Could Stoke Public Fear.
“Wow… This case is still trending? It’s been days, and they’re still reporting on it. Don’t you have other news to cover?” Dorothy inwardly scoffed as she read the paper.
Suddenly, an idea flashed in her mind. Her eyes lit up.
“Hmm… Maybe I could… use this…”
As she thought, Dorothy opened her bag and rummaged through it until she pulled out a worn pocket watch.
Opening the watch, she examined its inner cover, where a name was engraved: Burton Veil.
Dorothy had taken this from the Burton’s house. Besides cash and confidential documents, she had also grabbed some seemingly valuable knick-knacks, pocket watch, which she had found in a desk drawer. Originally, she planned to pawn these items for cash when the opportunity arose, but she hesitated, fearing it might draw too much attention.
“Looks like now… I can afford to draw some attention.”
Gazing at the pocket watch in her hand, Dorothy resolved to act.
Noon in Igwynt, Lower City, White Pearl Street.
Pawnshops dotted White Pearl Street, catering to the financial desperation of many. Most pawnshops here, backed by gangs, also moonlighted as loan shark operations, profiting from the desires of society’s most vulnerable.
Corey was one such individual. His pawnshop, Corey’s Pawn, was one of the largest on White Pearl Street. With ample capital and quick transactions, many desperate individuals came to him for loans or to pawn items.
Unlike his competitors, Corey treated pawning as secondary; his primary business was high-interest lending.
Inside Corey’s Pawn, Corey—a bald, middle-aged man in a shirt and trousers—sat behind the counter, smoking and reviewing his clients’ debts, while a burly assistant stood nearby.
“Hmph… That broke gambler Dunn owes me 12 pounds now? If he doesn’t pay soon, he’ll have to work in the mines. I’d rather not have to take more fingers…”
“Brooke… Check on Dunn. If he doesn’t pay, gather the boys in a couple of days and collect.”
“Yes, boss,” the assistant replied, leaving the shop as Corey returned to his ledgers.
Not long after the assistant left, the shop door creaked open. Corey looked up to see a man in a trench coat, hat, and scarf covering the lower half of his face enter the shop.
The man scanned the shop’s displays before approaching the counter and placing an object on it.
“I’d like to pawn this. Name your price,” the man said coldly.
“Ah, a customer. One moment,” Corey replied with a sly smile.
He donned his glasses and picked up the item—a pocket watch.
As Corey examined it, he noted:
“Decent craftsmanship, functional, well-maintained despite its age… Probably worth about 3 pounds.”
However, his words were different.
“Hmm… Your watch is pretty worn, and the face is scratched—hardly sellable. I’d say it’s worth 1 pound at best… Wait, what’s this engraving?”
Noticing the engraving, Corey inspected it closely.
“Burton Veil… Burton Veil!?”
Suddenly, Corey realized the name matched the one all over the papers—the murdered noble, along with his household. His heart raced as he looked up at the customer.
What he saw was the cold barrel of a gun pointed at him and a pair of icy, merciless eyes.