Chapter Twenty-Seven: Carol

The tremors in Dallas City gradually subsided. In the slums of Dallas, there stood a grand mansion, oddly out of place amid the poverty. The courtyard was thronged with people. The crowd, with their dark skin, were not Victorians but Gillians. Under the dim glow of lanterns, it was nearly impossible to distinguish faces; only when someone spoke did the flash of a broad, white smile reveal their presence.

In a particularly shadowy corner of the courtyard, two figures stood apart from everything around them, quietly whispering. They were Bill and Jera, who had narrowly escaped disaster at Andy’s coming-of-age ceremony.

That day, when Bill received Schmidt’s warning, he was skeptical, but he took Jera out to investigate—only to run into a City Guard scout sent to probe the Phillips estate. Jera had barely stepped forward to negotiate when an arrow struck her calf. Enraged, Bill dispatched the scout with a fireball, then fled with Jera in his arms before the main detachment of City Guards could surround them.

Jera cried and pleaded to return for her parents, but the encirclement was already tightening; there was no going back. If not for Schmidt’s later intervention, their escape might have failed altogether.

Yet, he had failed to protect Jera’s parents. This weighed heavily on Bill, making him feel he’d talked too big in recent days. So, ever since, he’d been exceedingly cautious and accommodating toward Jera, catering to her every whim. Even when she ignored him, Bill persisted in trying to please her.

Now, he was presenting her with a gift. “You've been saying you can't see clearly these past few days. Look at this—I made it using my alchemical research. I call them ‘spectacles.’ Once you put them on, they automatically adjust to your eyes, correcting your vision. But you mustn’t keep crying; if you blind yourself with tears, not even a sorcerer can help you.”

Jera turned to look at Bill. Though he was right beside her, she could only make out a hazy outline. She had shut herself off from the world these past days. After hearing of her parents’ deaths, she felt her world had collapsed. At first, she grieved endlessly. Then, hatred surged in her heart without end. She hated herself for lacking magical talent, for being powerless; she hated Bill for his cowardice, for not going back for her parents; she hated Andy—if not for his wretched ceremony, perhaps her parents would still be alive; she hated the City Guard and Viscount Colin, those executioners; she even hated Schmidt, who’d known the danger but hadn’t warned her parents, denying them a chance to escape.

She hated everything. The world became a dark blur. No longer could she be the willful girl sheltered under her parents’ wings.

Her vision grew increasingly dim, and panic set in—until Bill comforted her, leaving a sliver of light in her closed, darkened heart. Gradually, she moved past her panic, discovering that the blur sharpened her mind; thoughts came swiftly and clear, ideas flashing through her mind, often grasping the very heart of matters. She even sensed she could faintly foresee the course of coming events.

She put on the spectacles Bill handed her. The world brightened, shapes flickering before finally coming into focus. She felt as if she was seeing everything for the first time, so vivid and alive. With this newfound clarity, the hatred in her heart slowly faded—except for Viscount Colin. She would never forgive him.

He must die.

“Very nice! Thank you, Bill,” Jera said, turning to him with a smile he had not seen in days. Her hair was disheveled, her face unkempt, but to Bill, she seemed more enigmatic than ever, veiled in mystery. With the spectacles he’d specially crafted for her, she was the very embodiment of wisdom and enigma; her slight smile was dazzling. Bill gazed at her, utterly entranced.

After a long moment, Bill regained his senses. Glancing around to ensure none of the black-skinned Gillians in the courtyard were paying attention, he exhaled in relief and awkwardly grinned at Jera. “Heh… hey, do you think Schmidt is trustworthy? He saved us, sure, but he seems awfully close to the Gillians. I just have a bad feeling about him.”

Jera looked at Bill and sighed softly. “I didn’t expect you to use your head, Bill.” Seeing his awkward smile, she realized her words were a bit harsh and quickly changed the subject. “Everyone has their little secrets. It’s not just Schmidt—you do too, Bill.” He smiled even more awkwardly.

Jera pressed her hand to her forehead and went on, “If anyone’s hiding the most secrets, it’s probably Andy Charles.”

“What? Andy? That jinx—if not for him, your parents would never have been killed!” Bill’s agitation was clear, his voice rising enough that the Gillians in the courtyard glanced over.

Jera tugged gently at Bill’s sleeve and spoke quietly, “Keep your voice down. Ever since my parents tied our family’s fortunes to the Charles family and grew prosperous, our fates have been intertwined—when they prosper, so do we, and when they suffer, so do we. Blessings and misfortunes always go hand in hand. Please, Bill, don’t say such things again. And one more thing, very important—you must remember this: I have a strong feeling that crossing Andy will only end badly. This isn’t just a woman’s intuition—I don’t even know why I feel it, but you have to trust me.”

Seeing Jera’s seriousness, Bill nodded, though he was clearly unhappy. Pointing toward the mansion’s main hall, he changed the subject. “What do you think they’re talking about in there?”

“What else could it be? Plots and schemes, no doubt. We needn’t concern ourselves. As long as we stick with Schmidt, we’ll get our chance to deal with that old dog Colin and avenge my parents. That’s my sense of it, anyway.” Jera adjusted her spectacles, looking supremely confident. Bill, beside her, nodded blankly, not quite understanding but impressed all the same.

Inside, the atmosphere was quite different from the restless courtyard. The main hall was brightly lit, yet silent as the grave. On the table in the center, an array of seasonal fruits, nuts, and pastries sat untouched, the tea long since cold.

On one side sat Schmidt, having shed his disguise. An hour earlier, he had posed as a City Guard, using the hunt for fugitives as an excuse to provoke the Gillians. He had even been the first to draw blood, killing several people and inciting outrage among the Gillians, especially the radicals within the Gillian Brotherhood.

Schmidt had hoped that a little provocation would spark a major conflict between the Brotherhood and the City Guard. But the situation was forcibly contained, thanks to one man: Carol, known as “Mandrake,” one of the Brotherhood’s vice presidents—a burly, bearded Gillian, now sitting across from Schmidt, meticulously manicuring his nails.

Perhaps sensing Schmidt’s resentful gaze, Carol paused, shot him a coquettish glance, then stretched languidly, displaying a surprisingly graceful poise.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that! You’ll make me blush,” Carol purred, in a voice so sweet it was hard to believe it came from a towering, muscular, black-skinned man and not a sultry beauty.

Unperturbed by Schmidt’s reaction, Carol continued, “Let’s set aside whether tonight’s conflict was instigated. Even if the brothers want to teach the Victorians a lesson, the enemy is strong, and we are weak. We need a solid plan. Once weapons, armor, supplies, warhorses, and compensation for losses are involved, things get expensive. You want us to give people, gold, and strength with just a few words, but you’re not exactly anyone special to us.”

Speaking in that syrupy tone, Carol curled his thick fingers into a delicate pose, his muscular arms swaying with feigned frailty.

Schmidt fought back his discomfort, forcing a pained smile as he laid out the pros and cons. He explained that with Stein gravely injured and the Wizard’s Tower all but useless, and with reliable intelligence of chaos at the city lord’s mansion, the City Guard was distracted—now was the perfect moment to strike the inner city. He promised that if Carol acted, the Duchy’s support for the Brotherhood would double next year, and Carol himself would receive a small token of appreciation.

After nearly talking himself hoarse, Schmidt finally secured Carol’s agreement—on the condition that the Duchy’s side played their part. If they could unlock the inner city gates, Carol would unleash the full force of the Dallas Gillian Brotherhood upon the inner city.

“Then it’s settled!” Schmidt heaved a sigh of relief, feeling that a conversation with Carol was more exhausting than bedding a jaded courtesan. He quickly excused himself, citing preparations to be made.

“Oh, leaving already? Won’t you keep me company a little longer?” Carol simpered, propping his chin on one finger as he watched Schmidt’s retreat. Only when Schmidt had vanished did his voice change, booming with contempt, “Foolish mortal…”

Carol gazed into the waning moonlight outside and murmured, “Just wait. It won’t be long before my lord descends, sweeping through Doren like a storm…”

“Then, at last, the Gillians will know true glory!”