The Divine Armor of the Old Century（Book 1）

Chapter 1

He was ruthless—a few sharp gunshots split the night, and the bodies of those thugs collapsed before Lloyd's feet. The echo of violence scattered the people on the street; screams faded into distance until only Lloyd and the carriage driver remained beneath the flickering lamplight.

"Mr. Holmes?"

The driver's voice trembled slightly, perhaps from age, perhaps from what he had just witnessed. His vision was dim, yet his marksmanship moments ago had been unnervingly precise—enough to make one doubt that he was merely a driver.

"It's me," Lloyd replied.

He glanced briefly at the crest emblazoned on the carriage door, then stepped aboard without hesitation. Instead of entering the cabin, he took a seat beside the driver up front.

"What were those people?" he asked, eyes narrowing toward the fallen corpses.

"Stowaways," the driver said, snapping the reins. The carriage lurched forward, wheels cutting through the wet, uneven road. "There's been more of them lately—most are criminals. They think the Old Dunlin slums will give them a new life, but they don't realize that to begin anew, one must first bury the past. They still think like thugs. That's why we've had so much trouble."

"And Berrow doesn't deal with this?"

"The lord's been busy. Two gangs are about to go to war over territory. He's mediating. There's profit tied to both sides—industries too valuable to burn. He doesn't care who wins, only that the factories survive. Those men's lives aren't worth nearly as much."

Lloyd exhaled a quiet sigh. "That does sound like his style."

The driver smiled faintly. "Next time, Mr. Holmes, send word before you come. I'll fetch you myself. Might spare us all some... unnecessary gunfire."

"Noted," Lloyd murmured.

Moments later, the carriage slowed. Before them, behind layers of ruined stone and shadow, loomed what could only be described as a hidden castle—a grotesque monument cobbled together from rubble, hung with torn banners and twisted iron, like the unfinished dream of some mad sculptor.

Lloyd stepped down, removed his hat, and bowed slightly to the driver. A small, almost mechanical gesture—something drilled into him long ago in etiquette class. He no longer remembered which occasions demanded it; it had simply become part of him.

He turned toward the half-open gates. The moment he crossed the threshold, the truth of the undercity revealed itself before him.

Unlike the crumbling streets above, this place glowed with opulence. It was as if he had walked from a slum into a platinum palace.

Though it was late October and the chill crept through the night, a heavy, almost feverish heat met him inside—not just in the air, but beneath the skin.

The space was far larger than it appeared from outside. Paintings of old masters lined the pale golden walls; marble floors reflected every passing silhouette. Masked attendants carried trays of wine between gambling tables, where laughter and despair blended into the same melody.

From a dais at the center, a woman's voice drifted through the air, low and distant, the kind of song that made even cynics forget themselves.

Around them, ornate iron cages burned with fragrant incense. The scent was sweet—pleasant even—but laced with subtle stimulants. The hesitant became reckless; hesitation turned to hunger. Here, ruin and ecstasy wore the same mask.

This was the true face of the lower city: a paradise of rot and gold.

Unlike the upper districts, this place answered to no law. It was a haven for the wealthy to launder their sins. The gambling was only a façade—beneath it, fortunes shifted hands unseen. The daily sum of illicit trade here would dwarf the treasury of any noble house. And still, the lords came—seeking thrill, seeking oblivion.