The pitch-black steam tram glided silently through the gray mist-shrouded city. This was the hour when Old Dunling’s nocturnal fog reached its densest, visibility shrinking to less than ten meters. The ghost tram had been timed to depart precisely now, moving without a sound along the tracks of remote roads, skillfully evading all patrolling mounted police. It stopped and started, picking up numerous mysterious guests along the way, who settled into the luxurious carriage’s soundproof compartments—each private booth isolating its occupants from one another.
Eve stared out the window, met by impenetrable blackness. This was a steel canister sealing off the world, its enclosed space inducing a restless panic in her chest.
“Where exactly are you taking me?”
Regret began to gnaw at Eve. The detective across from her was not entirely trustworthy—she should have stayed on guard from the start.
They sat in a compartment of the carriage, Burton looking perfectly at ease as he drawled, “To Sabo’s ball.”
With that, he produced a mask and handed it to Eve.
“Sabo’s main business is smuggling. He has a band of Viking pirates in the North Sea who carry out raids, delivering looted goods to Raindona Port for him to fence.
“These are all contraband items, of course—ordinary folk can’t afford them, but the upper nobility is another story. That’s why he hosts regular ‘balls’—though in reality, they’re trade fairs where deals are made with cold hard cash.”
Eve felt her nerves steady slightly as she listened.
“Getting into these balls is no easy feat. I had to call in favors just to secure tickets.”
“Is that what the coin was for?” Eve asked, the unfamiliar currency still fresh in her mind—odd to see such a thing in the heart of the nation, and cause for caution.
“Precisely. They refer to it as the Butcher Coin, minted by Shrike, the ruler of the Lower District. The shrike bird is engraved on it.”
Burton went on to explain the intricate hierarchy of the Lower District. Where there were people, there were rules and classes—even in the grimmest, most lawless corners.
“To rule a district, you must first unify its currency. Everyone knows lion-stamped coins and banknotes are hard currency on the international stage, but in the Lower District, the Shrike’s coins are king. Each Butcher Coin is accepted as direct payment, and on the black market, it can be exchanged for any currency under the sun.
“Think of the entire Lower District as one massive casino, and the Butcher Coin as your gambling chip.”
As he spoke, Burton pulled out several more coins and pressed them into Eve’s hand—heavy, likely forged from some precious metal she couldn’t identify.
“Sabo is a cautious man. His business yields enormous profits, so everyone wants his head on a platter. Normally, he hides in a heavily guarded bunker, but he’ll be attending this ball—it’s our only chance to get close to him directly.
“He never reveals the ball’s location in advance. When a ball is held, couriers deliver letters to selected nobles, informing them of the tram stop, and everyone departs at midnight.”
Burton spoke as he fastened his own mask—a brass contraption with sparse gears decorating the edges, giving it a mechanical flourish.
“So we have no idea where we’re going?” Eve asked, slipping on her own mask, which featured feathers at the edges, making her resemble a sharp-eyed bird of prey. She glanced out the window again, met only by endless darkness.
“Correct.” Burton nodded.
“Despite his Viking roots, Sabo is far from reckless—some might say he’s overly cautious.”
In Eve’s mind, Vikings were synonymous with recklessness, believing that dying in battle was the highest honor, their souls carried to Valhalla by Valkyries to join the eternal feasting of gods and ancestors. In the ignorant days of centuries past, that belief had been unshakable, driving those fearless Vikings all the way to Old Dunling’s gates. But times had changed; endless barrages of artillery and war zeppelins laden with explosives had shaken such faith to its core, consigning the old ways to the grave.
“How do you know all this?” Eve asked suddenly, her teal-green eyes piercing through the slits of her mask as she studied Burton. Beneath that brass mask lay a man of unfathomable secrets—how did a detective come to possess Butcher Coins and such intimate knowledge of the underworld? He acted more like a gang lord than a solver of crimes.
This thought made Eve wary. For now, Burton was unarmed; she held the upper hand with the revolver strapped to her thigh.
Burton was silent for a moment, then gave a candid smile.
“Would you believe me if I said I have a very powerful friend who told me all this?”
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It was hard to imagine Shrike, ruler of the Lower District, acting as Burton’s ally—their social standings were worlds apart, one a shadowy emperor, the other an obscure detective.
“Truthfully, whether I answer your questions or not, you’ll always have doubts. We’re allies bound by nothing more than mutual interest—such alliances are the strongest, yet the most fragile. The moment our interests diverge, we’ll become mortal enemies.”
Burton spoke with a detached logic, unlike most people she knew.
“Eve, the Lower District is a casino, and life itself is a gamble. The only things you can control are yourself and the cards in your hand.
“Consider this our first wager: do you trust me? If yes, we proceed. If not, you still have time to walk away.”
He raised a single finger, emphasizing his point.
Eve was silent, torn. As a princess of the Phoenix family, she carried the weight of her noble birth—if Burton had ill intentions, she was walking into a den of wolves. But if she backed down now, her father would surely pull her from Suyalan Hall, deeming her unfit for the detective’s life she craved.
Choosing between safety and ambition, Eve didn’t hesitate.
“If you dare deceive me, I swear I’ll put a bullet through your skull.”
The girl spoke fiercely, then leaned back in her seat, waiting for their arrival. Her stubbornness was admirable; without her noble blood, she might have made an exceptional detective.
Burton said nothing more. So far, everything had gone smoother than expected—from the moment she accepted his invitation, he’d known her Phoenix pride would never allow her to back down.
From ashes, only phoenixes arose—never mere ground-dwelling fowl.
The carriage gave a gentle lurch, faint voices from neighboring compartments fading into silence. At last, a servant rapped on their door, announcing their arrival.
According to Burton’s plan, they were to pose as a new couple for the night. Eve had wondered why they couldn’t pass as a noblewoman and her manservant, but the eerie atmosphere of the evening silenced her protests—she let him lead her by the arm, playing her part.
White steam rose thickly, warming the air to a humid haze.
The modest platform was already crowded with guests, most clad in opulent attire and wearing elaborate masks. These were the night’s buyers—anonymous behind their disguises, though even if recognized, all would feign ignorance. The ball was a fantasy, and like all dreams, nothing that happened here was meant to be remembered afterward.
The lighting was dim, Eve’s surroundings a blur of gray mist and shadows. She knew they were in the Lower District but had no clue where exactly. Seeing the familiar silhouette of a zeppelin gliding through the clouds above brought her a flicker of comfort.
“If you don’t know what to say, stay silent. We’re supposed to be a new couple joining the fold. Sabo is wary of newcomers—one wrong word, and we’re compromised.”
Eve nodded, mute. Just then, a servant emerged, bowing deeply before leading the group toward the ball.
The path was a winding, twisting thing, lit only by dim lamps, with armed guards marching at the rear to prevent anyone from straying.
As they walked, Eve suddenly caught a strange, unsettling odor, followed by the flicker of more lights ahead.
A red carpet lay underfoot, but by its feeble glow, she could see the decay around them—ruined buildings, their walls crumbling, and in the shadows, faces that looked like shriveled husks, their skin stretched taut over bone, drawn to the light like specters.
Burton’s grip on her arm tightened, and Eve saw more as they advanced: the sickening stench of rot filled the air, something sticky and wet seemed to ooze along the ground, and faint, mournful cries echoed from the darkness.
Then, the massive iron gates ahead creaked open.
Light poured forth like a gateway to heaven, carrying with it the scent of wine, the lilt of song, the clatter of coins, and the lazy moans of indulgence, creating an atmosphere thick with restless energy. The guests around them gasped in awe, then hurried forward like devout pilgrims toward the paradise beyond.
Honeyed wine, rich cheeses, untold wealth, and beautiful faces—all the forbidden pleasures one could imagine awaited those brave enough to enter.
“Burton… what is this place?”
Eve stood rooted to the spot at the threshold, her mind reeling from the sensory assault. But instead of offering comfort, Burton leaned in, his voice a low whisper in her ear.
“Welcome to the dark underbelly of Old Dunling, Miss Eve Phoenix.”
