Mage? Magic Engineer!-Chapter 75 - 72: Nighttime Arrest

Floran was a man from the provinces. He had his younger brother, a shrewd and capable meat merchant, to thank for landing such a cushy job as a fisheries administrator after arriving in Valuva.

He and his brother were polar opposites—the older brother was tall and thin while the younger was short and stout; the older brother was taciturn and indecisive while the younger was outgoing and bold.

It was as if a god had split a mediocre man in two to create the two brothers. Clearly, the younger brother’s boldness and pioneering spirit had made him money. In this day and age, his portly figure was the very image of reliability, stability, and wealth, especially among the petty bourgeoisie.

Floran’s reticence and listlessness during the day, however, came across as idle and suspicious. He had no meat on his bones—neither fat nor muscle. Near the Valuva market, no mother would want her daughter to marry such an unreliable beanpole.

But it had to be said that both brothers possessed a courageous spirit. The younger brother applied his to pioneering the butchering and meat processing industry, starting from scratch as a butcher’s Apprentice to become the respectable owner of numerous butcher shops. The older brother’s boldness, however, was hidden beneath his daytime silence:

At night, when everyone assumed the bachelor was out carousing, Floran could often be found attending "activities" at a small club.

It was called a club, but it was really just a small room. Yet, everyone inside was a man of great ambition. They included small merchants, lawyers, and even a playwright from the theater.

Their social standing and income were roughly similar, and they all shared a common ideology: opposition to the privileges of the Nobility and the Priests. Some even dared to go a step further: opposition to His Majesty the King.

After the Green Wave Teahouse was raided, the club members found a hidden private house for their regular meetings. They were all talented, educated men who would share poetry, discuss how the new plays at the grand theater subtly criticized the Nobility, and boldly envision a new future for Valois.

Floran loved this feeling, even though he rarely spoke, lingering in the corner. Here, to himself, Floran was sacrosanct, intoxicated by grand ideals rather than surrounded by the stench of fish.

"That concludes Parliamentarian Edward’s speech. The Lower House then passed the bill with a strong majority..." A member finished reading from a small paper called the *Sea Messenger*, which regularly collected and printed the parliamentary debates from Istani.

Reading this paper was a regular part of the club’s meetings. The reader was impassioned, and the audience listened with solemn reverence, as if rehearsing for their own future endeavors.

Next came the part of the meeting that had started two sessions ago and which Floran had come to despise:

"Did you manage to buy any Shaleanna Mining Company stock?"

"It’s too hard to get! I bought public bonds instead. Today, Madam Amon wanted to withdraw her annuity to invest..."

"Let me tell you about a good opportunity. There’s a trading house on Du Peng Street that’s breaking up stocks for sale. You can buy and sell for as little as one livre. I see all the shop owners on the street love trading there..."

"Come on, you think you can invest with that little money..."

"No, no, no, you misunderstand me, my friend. Why can’t we open a trading house like that too? We have money, we have lawyers..."

Speculation. The madness and frenzy of the exchange had infected the club. The members were already predominantly merchants and lawyers, and the playwright often mingled with the elite. It was more accurate to say they were part of the fuel for the market’s fervor, and now, deigning to gather in this musty little room, they were making it just as feverish.

’This is even more unbearable than listening to them talk about women!’ Floran had never met any Nobility, but he had a nagging feeling that the men before him were starting to resemble the very figures they so vehemently criticized.

Besides him, two others in the club remained unmoved by the heated discussion:

One was the self-proclaimed student "Sleepyhead" Thor, a young man who was perpetually yawning.

The other was "Rock" Maxim, whose name meant "The Greatest" in the Jabber Language. This young lawyer, new to the Kingdom Capital, was resolute, upright, and stubborn. He often debated with the members, rigorously defeating or persuading them, and no one could sway him. He clearly had no interest in trading securities and was currently applying his stubbornness to peeling an orange.

"Gentlemen, you can discuss such moneymaking matters openly elsewhere. No one’s going to arrest you for it, are they? Why not just call it a night and go home to bed," Thor said with a yawn, reminding the group, mesmerized by the prospect of getting rich, that it was time to leave.

"I propose that from now on, the club does not discuss matters of speculation, unless it pertains to our great cause," Maxim also spoke up, orange juice dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Faced with "Rock," everyone nodded in agreement.

And so, the meeting for the day ended. To maintain secrecy, they left in pairs according to the rules, with a ten-minute interval between each group. Today, it was Thor and Floran’s turn to leave last.

"Just my luck..." Thor had barely finished speaking when a knock came at the door.

"Did someone forget something?" Floran moved to open the door but was stopped by Thor.

"Something’s wrong." "Sleepyhead’s" eyes were now completely alert. He placed his hand on the door, sensing something for a moment. Floran had no idea how Thor did it.

"Plainclothes cops. Three of them. Jump out the window."

"This is the second floor! We can use the curtains..." Before Floran could react, Thor grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the room. Just as Floran thought he was about to break a bone from the fall, his body suddenly felt light, and he landed steadily on the ground.

They were the last pair to leave. By now, night had fallen, and there were no carriages or pedestrians.

"They jumped out the window! After them!"

The sound of hurried footsteps came from the stairwell. Thor quickly gave instructions, "We’ll split up. The next meeting is canceled. We’ll use the old method to notify everyone of the new time and place."

After giving his instructions, Thor wiped a hand over his own face, changing his appearance, then swiped a hand across Floran’s face as well.

Floran shut his eyes involuntarily. When he opened them again, the other man had vanished.

’Huh?’ Floran froze for a second, then turned and ran for the main road. He clearly had no experience with this; tracking someone on a wide avenue was exceptionally easy for the cops. Every so often, a tall, thin figure would dart past under the dim glow of a kerosene streetlamp.

’I can lose them with my speed.’ That’s what Floran thought. He glanced back. ’Dammit, why are they all chasing me?’ The distance between the long-sedentary Mr. Fisheries Administrator and his pursuers seemed to be closing.

Suddenly, a carriage shot past at incredible speed. The driver wasn’t looking at the road at all, their wide-brimmed hat pulled down low. The horses were draped in thick flannel, and a pale, cold light flickered in the darkness around them. All four men—Floran and his three pursuers—noticed it at the same time and felt an inhuman, terrifying aura.

"Keep chasing, keep chasing." The plainclothes officers in charge of the arrest braced themselves, forcing themselves to ignore the ominous passerby and lock their focus back on the target.

But then, something strange happened. In an instant, a thick fog enveloped the avenue. The light from the kerosene lamps was weakened and diffused, and the ice-cold mist was bone-chilling against the pursuers’ skin. The three men shivered in unison as they watched the tall, thin figure ahead of them flicker and vanish.

They didn’t even think Floran had escaped. They thought some foul thing from the night had taken the poor man away.

As members of the Security Team, they had handled numerous reports of citizens disappearing in Valuva after being out at night or visiting the catacombs. These cases often went cold, with even the Church unable to find any leads. They never expected to run into something like that themselves.

Fortunately, the fog dispersed and nothing else happened. One of the three men began quietly reciting a prayer.

"What a mess. Let’s head back," the leader said, moving his right hand away from his waist and giving up the chase.

"Floran, what are you doing being chased by thugs? Don’t tell me you have gambling debts," Rorschach said from inside the carriage, motioning for Floran to sit down.

Rorschach had been passing by when he noticed a tall, thin man sprinting toward him, his figure somewhat familiar. He turned back to hinder the three pursuers and saw that the man being chased was none other than Mr. Fisheries Administrator.