The Divine Armor of the Old Century（Book 1）

Chapter 115

The pitch-black carriage came to a slow halt before a grand mansion, its opulence strikingly apparent through the window as Lloyd surveyed the scene from within. His meticulous selection had singled out a baron named Abel. Despite his ineptitude, Abel led an enviably luxurious life in Old Dunling, thanks to the wealth left by his merchant forebears.

Lloyd's interest in Abel stemmed from the baron's scandalous private life. Reports revealed multiple wives and countless lovers, but it wasn't mere debauchery that had caught Lloyd's attention—it was the fate of these women. Intelligence from Burlow indicated that Abel had frequently dealt with Hughes, procuring numerous Gaulinalo refugees from the south at suspiciously low costs. Contrary to expected discrimination, some of these refugees became Abel's wives, but most didn't live long after.

Lloyd's mind raced, weaving a narrative worthy of a lengthy tale. If Abel were indeed the next target of a vengeful demon, the pieces fell into place. A tragic story unfolded: a poor girl, seeking a new life in Old Dunling, was crushed under the baron's oppressive power, prompting her lover to embrace dark forces in a bid for revenge. A classic love story with a supernatural twist, yet disturbingly plausible.

"Baron Abel's financial state has been declining. He clings to his lavish lifestyle but can't afford the high fees, so most of his servants are those refugees," Burlow said dispassionately. This shadowy side of Inlwig even weighed on him.

"There must be others hiring refugees as well," Lloyd mused.

"Indeed. But the pressing reason is that Baron Abel's latest wife recently died. If this demon's story is as you suspect—a tale of tragic love—it surely revolves around her."

"A beloved woman, dead under mysterious circumstances... that could certainly drive someone to become a demon. We should talk to the baron before jumping to conclusions."

Lloyd pushed open the carriage door and strode out. The might of the Purification Agency lay behind him, making entry into a baron's home a trivial task. Burlow led the way, unmasked for once; his true face was less memorable than the mask he typically wore, making him blend in like an anonymous commoner despite his real identity as the ruler of the Lower District.

Joey followed, and the trio pushed through the mansion's iron gates. The desolate state of Abel's estate matched Burlow's intel—empty, neglected, overgrown with weeds. The baron's dwindling funds were evidently spent on personal indulgences rather than upkeep.

"Do you think he'll cooperate?" Lloyd asked suddenly.

Though he hadn't yet seen Baron Abel, Lloyd's imagination painted an unsavory picture. His grip tightened on his Winchester, ready for anything. Over his career, he'd encountered all sorts—good and bad, adults and children, men in skirts, women in ties, and many oddities besides. One universal truth, however, was fear: the fear of death transcended all.

Perceiving Lloyd's latent hostility, Burlow reassured him. "He'll cooperate. Many of Old Dunling's nobles would do as we ask if necessary."

Lloyd's skeptical glance didn't faze Burlow. The power dynamics in Inlwig were clear: while nobles ruled in name, true control rested with Queen Victoria and her agents. Records of noble indiscretions in the Lower District were meticulously kept by Burlow, serving as leverage or evidence as needed.

"If Baron Abel wishes to keep his title, he had better cooperate," Burlow said with a chilling smile. Inlwig's nobility might appear to govern, but real power was firmly in the queen's hands.

Lloyd gave Burlow a sidelong look, reflecting on the murky world of politics and gaining new insight into the state's machinery. Behind the Purification Agency stood the might of Inlwig, a nation with unparalleled industrial prowess, hiding even darker secrets yet to be revealed.

Pushing through yet another grand door, they met no resistance. The air reeked of wealth and excess, so thick it was nearly nauseating. "Looks like the baron is even more indulgent than we thought... how enviable," Lloyd remarked, eyeing the pale bodies strewn across carpets and sofas.

Burlow's sidelong glance and subsequent cough conveyed his disapproval. The fire in the hearth had long gone out, leaving only embers. Old Dunling's winter was harsh, and these bodies, draped in blankets, seemed to have slept here all night, drunk beyond sense.

The loud cough failed to rouse them. Frustrated, Lloyd raised his Winchester and fired. The thunderous shot jolted everyone awake. The girls, bleary-eyed and disoriented, screamed at the sight of the black-clad intruders and fled.

"What's going on?" a man grumbled, lazily rising from behind the sofa. Cold steel against his forehead quickly sobered him up. Lloyd's expression of disgust was unmistakable.

"Baron Abel?" he asked.

Abel nodded vigorously, not even bothering to pull up his trousers.