Anger returned to the station and found nothing amiss. Even the note on his desk about the old Vicar Theatre at 23 Riverbank Street was gone. So, nothing worth noting.

  Hendrick came running first thing. "Inspector, at the Viscount's townhouse, since half past five this morning, carriages have been coming and going. Many private ones. I followed a few halfway, all heading for the Royal Necropolis. Sergeant Miller told me to leave it, said 'they've been spoken for upstairs'."

  Arthur... It seemed Lorenzo knew something. Anger set aside the brawl dispute report he'd just received and headed for the Royal Necropolis alone.

  He offered some excuse about assisting with crowd control. No one dared stop him. A single glance told him forty or fifty people had already gathered in the necropolis.

  The most conspicuous was Viscount Arthur, standing by the freshly turned earth before his family crypt, surrounded by a few men. Faces Anger had never seen. While no aristocrat himself, Anger was a frequent enough presence on the beat in Londinium to know most of its players. Yet many faces here were unfamiliar. The Viscount stood encircled.

  Anger made his way down the gravel path. The sound of his approach made a few heads turn. A bank representative he recognised gave a slight, stiff nod. "Inspector. Didn't expect to see you here."

  "Official business." Anger's gaze settled on the Viscount. "My condolences, Mr. Arthur. But this gathering today..."

  The Viscount looked up, weariness etched on his face. "Inspector Hastings," he replied simply. "It's an arrangement between the family and the bank. They said Elizabeth's... repose required a public Requiem. I could not refuse."

  "A Requiem? Wasn't one already held? What is this, an encore?"

  "Respect for the departed," the bank representative interjected smoothly. "The late Viscountess's passing involves certain... unresolved financial matters. As the primary creditor, the bank has a duty to ensure the rites comply with the relevant clauses. A final courtesy."

  Anger looked at him. "What kind of clause requires execution at a graveside?"

  The representative's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Commercial confidentiality, Inspector. But rest assured, everything is within the bounds of law and Parish sanction."

  Then, a figure at the edge of the crowd caught Anger's eye.

  The man stood in the shadow of a gnarled oak, a good twenty yards from the main group. He wore a silver mask covering only the upper half of his face. His hands were folded before him. His attire bore unfamiliar insignia.

  A mysterious mourner. When did he arrive? How did he get in?

  "Gentlemen." A Parish priest, holding a heavy tome, raised his voice. "Please gather closer to the crypt. The Requiem is about to begin."

  The crowd shifted. Anger moved with the flow, closer to the crypt, but positioned himself where he could still observe the whole scene.

  Beside the open crypt, on a temporary wooden dais, rested an unburied coffin. All materials looked exceedingly fine. The lid was sealed shut, but from each corner, a thin copper tube extended, connected to four iron boxes draped in black cloth beneath the platform.

  Anger held back, allowing a gap between himself and the main group.

  "May her soul find peace, as the wealth of the faithful returns to deserving hands. Earthly debts cleared, that Heaven's ledger may open..."

  The priest's liturgy sounded... off. And the bank representatives present weren't merely observers. One held a leather portfolio, jotting notes. Another kept glancing at a pocket watch.

  Precisely because Anger stood apart, the dissonance was so stark. At such a supposedly sacred moment, these capitalists were still tallying, recording information about the attendees.

  He blinked. Suddenly, he noticed a faint, phosphorescent seepage from the coffin's seams. No one else seemed to pay it any mind.

  The priest turned a page. "Thus we pray: may the departed rest, and may the living receive enlightenment..."

  Suddenly, a hissing sound came from the copper tubes on the coffin. Anger's hand went instinctively to his holster.

  The crowd leaned forward almost as one, listening intently.

  ******

  Not until the priest uttered the final word—"Amen."

  Just as the trailing echo still vibrated in the morning mist, Anger caught the anomaly. Something was silently emerging from the gaps in the coffin. A tiny flying insect, the size of a grain of rice, with a silverygrey torso, was crawling out from within. Anger watched as the little insect shook its wings and quietly took flight. The crowd remained still, standing in silence; no one else seemed to notice anything emerging from the side.

  Anger focused his gaze. The mechanical wasp was strikingly similar—almost indistinguishable—from the kind that had flown from the puppet theatre's severed head. His eyes had still detected the emergence of this aberrant individual. A faint, colored haze clung to the mechanical wasp's body. It was skulking along the roots of the grass blades, crawling with precision toward the ankle of a target.

  Then came the second. And the third. Intermittently, more small mechanical wasps kept crawling out from the side. From a distance, Anger watched as the first wasp reached the left ankle of the wool merchant. He did not call out directly; it wasn't the time for rash speech. He wanted to see what would happen. His hand merely pressed down hard on his gun.

  The mechanical wasp climbed onto the man's leather shoe and slipped into the gap of his trouser leg. The wool merchant's body gave a slight shudder, and his eyes began to glaze over.

  "I..." the wool merchant began, "I see the rose window... the long banquet table..."

  One of the bank representatives stepped forward, opening a folder. "Mr. Fowler, regarding your previously appliedfor noble status certification and the corresponding asset consolidation plan... it is now ready for signing. Do you affirm all the terms and conditions?"

  The wool merchant took the proffered pen. His hand shook, but a grin had already split his face to the ears. Without even glancing at the document—at least twenty pages long—he flipped directly to the last page and signed his name.

  "Affirmed," he mumbled. "All affirmed. I shall be a Count."

  As the second wasp crawled toward the right calf of a baronet's second son, the young man also shivered, his eyes rapidly glazing over with detachment. He pulled the family heirloom ruby ring from his finger and dropped it into the collection box held out by a bank representative.

  "Donated. All donated," his voice brimmed with rapturous glee. "What are these, once I'm reborn a Marquis?"

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  Anger counted.

  The third wasp stole toward a silk importer.

  The fourth crawled toward a coal mine shareholder.

  The fifth...

  Each time a mechanical wasp stung its target, a bank representative would step forward to present documents. The signing process never seemed to take more than ten seconds. The parish priest chanted prayers loudly nearby. "Behold! The vanity of greed! The splendor of this world is but mist and lightning! Only through piety—" Anger saw the priest's gaze flick toward the bank representative as he uttered the word 'piety'.

  The bank representative drew a bulging envelope from his folder and handed it over directly. The priest took it, his fingers giving it a subtle squeeze before tucking it into an inner pocket of his black robes.

  The priest then continued, "—may true deliverance be found."

  It was at that moment Anger spotted a mechanical wasp off its designated course. Having emerged from the side seam of the coffin, it did not dive into the grass but instead flew low, heading straight in his direction.

  It hovered three feet in front of Anger, its multifaceted glass eyes fixed on his forehead. The sting at the tip of its abdomen extended. Anger took half a step back. His boot heel crushed a dry twig. The sound made the bank representative turn his head.

  "Detective. Please maintain silence. The rite is still in progress."

  The sting shot out.

  Anger jerked his head to the side, dodging the first strike. The metal barb grazed his temple, leaving a searing, burning line. The mechanical wasp pivoted sharply in midair, its compound eyes locking onto his right eye. The second thrust came even faster.

  Anger acted. He drew his gun, aiming at the side of the coffin—the area most densely clustered with silvery mycelium and the swarming wasps.

  "Detective!" the bank representative saw him and barked sharply. "What are you doing?"

  "Neutralizing a threat."

  ******

  His index finger squeezed the trigger. Before the mechanical bee could launch its third strike, the gunshot exploded. The bullet tore into the side of the coffin.

  A piercing shriek erupted from within the casket. The mycelial network, which had been seeping from the seams, burst forth—rather like milk splashing across grass. A pity no one else could see this spectacle.

  Then, with the barrel of his gun, he directly knocked down the mechanical bee that had been hovering midair, poised to attack him. It clattered to the ground. The light in its compound eyes flickered and died instantly. Its entire body split open from within with a crack, scattering into pieces.

  The chain reaction began.

  All the remaining mechanical bees, whether still stealthily moving or already embedded in their targets, froze simultaneously. The microbees that had crawled up trouser legs and calves dropped off their victims one by one. The ecstatic expressions on the stung faces solidified, then twisted into blank confusion.

  The bank representative nearly dropped his folder.

  The coffin began to shudder violently. Thudding impacts sounded from within as the lid was struck from the inside. The four blackclothcovered iron boxes connected by copper pipes exploded one after another, their lids flying off to disgorge massive swarms. Thousands of bees took to the air, flying in chaotic patterns, their compound eyes now flashing with a distinct, disordered red light.

  "Run!"

  Someone shouted first. The crowd erupted into panic.

  The minor nobles and wealthy merchants who had been quietly signing documents moments ago were now terrified out of their wits by the outofcontrol swarm. A wool merchant fled, covering his head. The second son of a baronet slipped on the damp grass, flailing his coat at approaching bees only to be stung three times on the neck, unleashing a wretched scream.

  Amid the chaos, the parish priest frantically crossed himself over his chest, muttering exorcism prayers. The swarm paid him no mind. One bee landed on his shoulder, its stinger piercing through his cassock. The priest screamed, swatting at it, causing envelopes to slip from his inner pocket and scatter banknotes across the ground.

  Angers holstered his gun. He saw Lord Arthur slumped at the graveside edge, head in his hands. The mysterious mourner still stood beneath the distant tree, utterly unmoved by the pandemonium.

  Then Angers witnessed the filthiest transaction.

  In the height of the chaos, the bank representative pulled a small metal case from his suit jacket and strode briskly towards the Viscount. The swarm naturally parted around him.

  The representative knelt before the Viscount, opening the case. "Sign this debthedging agreement. Only then is the transaction complete. Your title and at least a third of your assets can be preserved."

  The Viscount looked up, eyes bloodshot. "You... you planned this all along."

  Ignoring him, the representative shoved a pen into his hand. "Sign. Wait for the swarm to go fully berserk, turn this whole affair into an uncontrollable scene, make everyone here mad... and this will be recorded as a tragic accident. Do you want the bank to initiate an insurance claim? Or be declared mentally unfit and packed off to a sanatorium? Choose."

  Angers charged towards them.

  But the swarm blocked his path. Dozens of rogue mechanical bees darted wildly before him, launching indiscriminate attacks on anyone who drew near.

  Just then, the mysterious mourner under the tree moved.

  He raised his right hand and made a simple gesture. Every single mechanical bee simultaneously turned towards him.

  The mourner lowered his hand, turned, and strode with measured steps deeper into the cemetery. The swarm, buzzing, trailed after him in an orderly retinue, gradually departing the scene.

  By the time Angers reached the Viscount, the representative had already snapped the metal case shut.

  "Detective. Your timing is impeccable," the representative said, rising and straightening his suit lapel. "A minor hiccup in the proceedings. Fortunately, no casualties. The bank will handle the aftermath appropriately."

  Angers fixed him with a stare. "What did the Viscount just sign?"

  The representative blinked. "Oh, nothing of consequence. Medical research samples. The late Viscountess voluntarily donated them to the Vinter Biological Foundation for the study of rare diseases. All perfectly legal. Notarized documents."

  "Bollocks," Angers said.

  "Mind your language, Detective. Under what capacity are you intervening now? Criminal investigation? Civil dispute? My apologies, but no crime has been committed here. Furthermore, your discharge of a firearm in a public space constitutes destruction of private property and incitement of public panic. Should we commence a tally of liabilities—"

  The Viscount staggered to his feet, grabbing Angers' arm. "Enough, Detective Hastings. Enough." His eyes were pools of utter despair.

  Angers took a deep breath. He looked back at the representative. "Those microbees. I want samples."

  The representative shrugged. "What microbees? This is a cemetery. Come the season, they're everywhere. Feel free to catch a few. Study them to your heart's content."

  The mechanical bee Angers had swatted down was already gone—likely scooped up and disposed of by other bank personnel while he was rushing over.

  "Detective," the representative said smoothly, "a word of advice. Don't delve too deeply into... the murky waters of commerce. 'Accidents' can so easily lead to misunderstandings."

  With that, he turned towards the coffin, which still emitted a faint wisp of smoke. Other representatives and bodyguards began clearing the scene, collecting scattered document fragments and jewelry, helping the stung to their feet.

  As for those who had been stung... their eyes had cleared, but their faces were uniformly blank, even tinged with fear.

  ******

  Just as Anger Hastings was about to give up, a faint melody drifted from the direction where the mourning figure had disappeared.

  The song seemed to float from deep within the cemetery. Hastings strained to listen but caught only a few scattered words. Meanwhile, his logbook etched the title of the song: "Hymn of Silence" — a fragment chanted by a mysterious mourner, an ancient melody, a vigilkeeper’s prayer. The complete hymn could be learned from The AshGuild of Forged Scars, a secret society that revered debt as sacred covenant. But now, he had no time to flip through the log.

  Hastings tried to follow the sound, but as he took a step—Oh!—a noble child, who had been part of the ceremony, was somehow weeping and running toward the edge of the crowd. The child bumped into a noblewoman—she had appeared there unnoticed, standing before an angel statue. The child clung to her leg.

  The lady looked down at the child, her face showing pity. She gently freed herself from the child’s embrace and, as she turned to leave, a ring slipped from her and rolled right to Hastings’ feet.

  Hastings bent to pick up the ring, intending to return it to the lady. But the moment he touched it, a strange vision seized him:

  A rotting wooden sign reading "The Weeping Mine." Deep in a dark shaft, claw marks covered the walls. At the center, an identical wedding ring was embedded, and a woman’s shrill cry echoed: "Answer me… Marry me… Dig the gold… Dead in three days."

  The vision faded quickly. Hastings looked down at the ring in his hand—inside the band, a name was engraved: Bethany.

  He glanced up. The woman was already far away. He clenched the ring in his hand and was about to call out to her—but what he saw was the back of a Lolitagothic girl holding an umbrella. Where was the noblewoman?

  Hastings did not call out. He simply watched the girl’s retreating figure.

  Around him, the bank representatives had finished their work and were gathering around the Viscount to depart. The parish priest, supported by several attendants, was also heading toward a carriage.

  The crowd gradually dispersed. The cemetery returned to silence, leaving only the damaged coffin smoldering faintly.

  Hastings tucked the ring into his pocket, straightened his police uniform collar, and pulled out his diary. He read the strange information now recorded there:

  The VigilKeepers… The AshGuild of Forged Scars… Could this be related to that “ForgedScar scholar” the Viscount mentioned last time?