Lord of the Mysteries — Extra: An Ordinary Person’s Daily Life P3

An Ordinary Person’s Daily Life (3)

In an instant, every hair on Barton’s body stood on end.

Although he could not be certain that what he had smelled was blood, his slightly unusual spiritual intuition told him that this was indeed the scent of blood.

Did something unfortunate happen to Vernal? Just like what happened to the archaeological team I was once part of? No, there aren’t any bloodstains left on this envelope at all. How could it be giving off the smell of blood? After a brief moment of extreme terror, Barton shot to his feet.

As an ordinary person facing such a matter, he had only one instinctive reaction.

That was to call the police!

Holding the envelope, Barton had just left his seat when he suddenly remembered something.

The Loen Antiquities Collection and Preservation Foundation had clear internal regulations on how similar situations should be handled: if a project displayed phenomena that were terrifying or impossible to understand, immediately halt everything and report it to the Compliance Department. They would be responsible for the follow-up.

Barton had never quite understood why they had to go to the Compliance Department. In his understanding, it was a department for handling clauses and reviewing whether projects had any violations. It had nothing to do with confronting unknown dangers.

However, when Miss Audrey Hall, the founder of the Foundation, had reviewed the internal working regulations, she had not made many changes. She had only added this one clause. Because of that, the higher-ups were unwilling to argue with her over it.

Obviously, I would much rather look for the head of security… Barton muttered as he left his office and walked all the way to the Compliance Department at the end of the corridor.

Knock, knock, knock. He worked hard to calm himself and, with gentlemanly courtesy, knocked three times.

“Please come in.” A rather ordinary voice came from inside.

To be frank, Barton knew almost nothing about his colleagues in the Compliance Department. He only knew that they were cold, ruthless, and swift in action, having rooted out one internal parasite after another who had attempted to swindle the Foundation’s support.

Taking a deep breath, Barton turned the handle and pushed open the door.

In his imagination, the Compliance Department ought to work in an exceptionally gloomy environment, with everyone maintaining silence and occasionally exchanging a few quiet words that decided the fate of a project and the person responsible for it. Yet the first things to enter his eyes were bright sunlight, vividly colored furnishings, and an airy, spacious layout.

“What is it?” An employee of the Compliance Department came forward to greet him. He had black hair and brown eyes, and there was nothing distinctive about his appearance.

He wore a heavy black woolen coat, as though he was not very capable of enduring East Chester’s cold, damp winter climate.

In addition, Barton noticed that this Compliance Department employee had a Backlund accent. Either he had been born there, or he had lived there for a very long time.

Not so cold, mechanical, and difficult to get along with. He even makes one feel close to him… As such thoughts flashed through Barton’s mind, he said urgently, “One of our partners seems to have run into trouble!

“The letter he sent only had an envelope and no contents, and it also carries a little scent of blood.”

The Compliance Department employee’s expression did not change. He nodded lightly.

“Let me see the envelope.”

Barton immediately handed over the “letter” from the archaeologist Vernal.

Only then did he notice that he had been somewhat impolite just now, and hurriedly asked, “Sorry. How should I address you?”

The Compliance Department employee held the envelope up to the sunlight and examined it carefully. While doing so, he answered casually, “Pacheco Dawn, deputy supervisor of the Compliance Department and a senior solicitor. You can just call me Pacheco.”

Before Barton could respond, Pacheco lowered his arm, his expression growing a little more serious.

“There is indeed something abnormal about it.

“Preliminary judgment: this letter came from the Clough Hotel in the city. I stayed there for a period of time before, so I know they like to print a lavender castle pattern on their special envelopes and writing paper.”

“Do we need to call the police?” Barton blurted.

Pacheco shook his head.

“Not for now. Let’s go to the scene and confirm the situation first.

“We’ll need you to provide some assistance. I don’t know that partner of yours.”

“…All right. I’ll go with you.” Barton answered with some hesitation.

After leaving the Loen Antiquities Collection and Preservation Foundation and boarding a hired carriage, Barton found the silence rather awkward. He took the initiative to ask, “Pacheco, are you from Backlund?”

“No.” Pacheco shook his head. “I’m from Midseashire. I merely lived in Backlund for close to fifteen years.”

“Why did you leave Backlund? I heard it is the most suitable city for a solicitor to grow,” Barton asked casually.

Pacheco smiled.

“But it is also filled with competition.

“All right, that was a joke. I was once the private solicitor and business partner of the steam automobile magnate Framy Cage. Later, when he invested in and established the Backlund Bicycle Company, I also began serving as the company’s legal adviser.”

Barton immediately understood.

“Miss Audrey owns a large amount of shares in that company, so you came to know her through that?”

“Yes.” Pacheco sighed. “During the previous war, Framy unfortunately passed away, and his industries fell into dispute among many parties. As his friend, I helped his widow and children secure a considerable share, and because of that, I offended some people. That made my situation in Backlund difficult. Fortunately, at that time, Miss Audrey extended an olive branch and invited me to East Chester County to work at the Foundation as deputy supervisor of the Compliance Department.”

Seeing that Pacheco was even willing to tell him such things, Barton increasingly felt that the other man was approachable.

Somewhat puzzled, he asked, “Why would they target you? You were only fulfilling the responsibilities of a friend and a solicitor.

“Those people should have aimed at Framy Cage’s widow and children instead.”

Pacheco laughed self-mockingly.

“I used some rather improper methods.

“Besides, Framy’s widow and children have other friends looking after them.”

As they chatted idly, the hired carriage arrived in the central district of Stoen, at the Clough Hotel.

The hotel was very well located. The district it occupied was scenic and exceptionally quiet, while the city’s most bustling streets could be reached in just ten minutes on foot.

Entering the hotel and finding the owner, Pacheco asked directly, “We’re here to find a friend named Vernal.”

Through their earlier conversation, he already had a rough grasp of the target’s situation.

The owner frowned in confusion.

“If I remember correctly, there shouldn’t be any guest named Vernal staying here.”

Hearing this, Barton hurriedly added, “He is a little taller than me, looks quite sturdy, always has a very red nose, and often smells of alcohol…”

He described Vernal’s appearance in detail.

The owner thought for a moment and looked toward the attendant beside him.

“There is such a guest,” the attendant immediately answered. “He is staying in Room 309.”

Under the attendant’s guidance, Barton and Pacheco arrived outside Vernal’s room and knocked on the wooden door.

The knocking echoed, but there was no movement at all from inside.

Just as Barton was preparing to suggest calling the police again, Pacheco suddenly bent down and picked up a small tuft of soft white hair from the crack at the bottom of the door.

No, it was not hair. It was closer to the condensation of mist.

As Pacheco’s fingers touched it, it dispersed, merging into the surrounding air.

At the same time, Barton, whose spiritual intuition was slightly different from ordinary people’s, vaguely heard a faint and ethereal male voice:

“Tamara… Tamara…”