Chapter 108: The Yellow Peril Runs Rampant—A Quest to Understand One’s True Heart

Not long ago, a torrential downpour had aided Victor in easily shaking off his pursuers. Entering the sewers, he had assumed he would soon vanish without a trace. However, when the sewage backflow surged through the passage, even Batman could not resist the overwhelming force of the relentless "yellow tide." Just before being completely submerged, he managed to find refuge on higher ground. Yet, the boy found himself trapped underground, unable to leave until the floodwaters receded that evening.

When he staggered and pushed open the door of the safe house, Anguran was nowhere to be found. Changing into dry, ordinary clothes, Victor felt uneasy without his sword and armor. Seizing the remaining hours before nightfall, he ventured into Satellite Town to purchase a simple horse and a steel sword. Though inferior to his previous gear, they were better than nothing.

Back inside, he lit a fire and boiled water. Though physically exhausted, his mind was sharp. Sitting by the hearth, Victor began his customary self-reflection.

He did not blame the elven scout’s reckless bite; at that moment, he must have been on the verge of a mental breakdown. Otherwise, the subtle magic of mind probing would not have allowed Kyra such easy access to his memories.

Moreover, his death was inevitable. The Squirrel Gang had bloodied the bank, and the city guards would never let him escape hanging.

Whether or not he had arrived on the scene with the Rose Knight would not change the outcome. Taler would inevitably come calling afterward. In that case, he would be acting in the shadows while Taler was in the open, lacking the satisfaction of turning the tables and striking back.

When donning the mask, he truly felt free—the most liberated version of himself.

Recalling his provocations toward the Royal Guard on the second floor, putting on the Bat Suit was like slipping on “Gage’s Invisible Ring.” When one need not bear responsibility for their actions, his true self was remarkably uninhibited.

If caution and planning were merely disguises born from weakness, then what kind of man would he become one day, when wielding the vast power of the “Miraculous Alchemy”?

The incessant sound of slaughter echoed in his mind, its volume rising in tandem with his murderous intent. The stronger his urge to kill, the clearer the sound became. What would happen if he truly acted on it?

In pursuit of his true self, gaining insight into his own nature, Victor unwittingly completed his first genuine meditation that very night.

---

Ten days after the bank heist, the Phantom Troupe’s residence in Vigima housed three uninvited guests in the underground alchemy chamber: Intelligence Director Taler, the King’s Hand Vernon Roche, and the Blue-clad Iron Guard’s adjutant, Vice.

Standing before the leather-bound portrait of “The King’s Glory,” Roche, cigar clenched between his teeth, gently traced its embossed surface. “To hang this painting usually signifies loyalty to Temeria, for even the mighty ‘Pure White’ Rafard must honor the throne and not overstep its bounds.”

Taler’s injuries had mostly healed, but his speech still carried a slight nasal twang. “Yet I do not believe Victor is such a man. I stand by my original judgment—he was a key player in the bank heist.”

“Is this truly not due to personal grudges?” Roche asked.

At these words, Vice could no longer restrain a stifled chuckle. Rarely did she get the chance to kick someone when they were down. The noble circles had widely publicized Taler’s private grievances and accusations against the poet, crafting tales no less imaginative than those of common folk. Some exaggerated versions even crowned Taler with one scandalous cap after another.

Most knew the stories were false, yet most also delighted in them.

Taler scowled and retorted, “We have worked together for so long—do I not deserve your trust?”

Roche exhaled a plume of cigar smoke. “Believing you holds no meaning. Without a mission, the Iron Guard would never leave the King’s side. And honestly, if this rumor hadn’t amused the King, you wouldn’t have escaped so easily.

“Many minor nobles died in the bank; multiple intelligence directors perishing alongside them would not be surprising.”

The bald man sighed, his monocle glinting with firelight. “I tell you this to ensure at least someone believes the truth… Hm? Strange.” Taler, walking to the bookshelf, suddenly appeared suspicious.

“What is it?” Roche asked.

“Some papers are missing from the shelf. I recall the title was ‘Records on the Effects of Herbal Reagents on the Human Body’—Azurel.”

“Are you sure? Haven’t you had someone guarding this place all along?”

“Yes, but a few people still have free access.”

Roche blinked. “Who has been here?”

“Captain Jacques, Sergeant Vincent, the Rose and Lily Knights, and the city guard squad leader Jesoro,” Taler answered without hesitation.

“Are you certain that paper was here before?”

“I’m quite sure.”

Roche took a long drag from his cigar, slowly exhaling rings of smoke.

---

Lindenwell, nestled in the heart of Wellen, was an unremarkable village. Yet it was home to Fergus Gram, a renowned armor-smith celebrated throughout Wellen and respectfully known as “Master Fergus.”

After staying quietly in the village tavern for two days, Anguran, the Phantom Troupe’s chief enforcer and master of narration, finally grew restless. With little intelligence to gather in the small village, she soon sought out “Fergus’s Forge.”

Looking at the earthen walls and thatched roof, the young woman could not fathom how such a celebrated master could live in such poverty.

From afar, Fergus Gram appeared to be the dwarf with a black beard and hair, sporting a ruddy nose and a headscarf, pacing about but never standing by the anvil.

By the anvil was his assistant, surprisingly a human woman several years older than Anguran. She had a healthy complexion, a full figure, and strong arms. Her golden hair was braided thickly, adorned with Skellige-style earrings and necklace. Her face bore faint freckles.

Having observed enough, Anguran weighed her well-filled purse and swaggered into Fergus’s forge.

---

At that moment, the autumn wind grew sharp and cold at the edge of Lindenwell. A lone rider on a lean horse approached from the east. The rider’s attire was distinctive: not the usual short jacket and breeches, but a long black leather coat.

His face shaded by sunglasses, head topped with a bowler hat, Victor was dressed in a high-quality “Van Helsing” imitation outfit. Since leaving Vigima more than ten days ago, he had been following Anguran along the routes through Bancohan, Todras, and Lechi, but had yet to catch up at the meeting point of Lindenwell. That girl was truly obedient—when told to run, she ran swiftly.

The chosen route was deliberate, designed to avoid the village of Lower Walen, whose residents were famed across the land for their exquisite lacework and craftsmanship.

But for Victor, who had seen spoilers from a time traveler, the local faith in the three “Ladies of the Forest” was unforgettable, even across lifetimes. Before becoming a master of Miraculous Alchemy, he had no intention of setting foot near the southern Wellen swamplands.

Entering Lindenwell, Victor stopped at the bulletin board, tossing a coin playfully in his hand. Soon, a farmer approached with a flattering smile, asking if he needed any assistance.