Trafford's Trading Club

Chapter 1274: The Knight’s Code

After taking his pocket watch from his coat and checking the time, Nick opened the door and walked up the corridor.

Just as he arrived, Gareth was folding his newspaper. He frowned slightly, then glanced toward the far end of the hallway.

Klein was dragging himself out of the room, limping badly. One arm—the one not holding his sword—hung completely limp. His clothes were torn in several places, his face smeared with dust and streaked with blood.

“Reporting to Mr. Gareth: the target has been successfully suppressed. You were right—she was indeed an illegal witch.”

“A witch?” Nick frowned deeply and stared at Gareth. “Why a witch?”

Gareth shrugged, half-smiling. “My friend, it’s obvious your intelligence work went wrong somewhere this time.”

Nick did not argue about the intelligence itself. Instead, he said angrily, “Knight Gareth, since it was a witch, you should never have let Klein act alone! Every apprentice knight is a valuable asset of the organization. As one of the Twelve Knights, you have an even greater duty to protect the safety of these young knights.”

Gareth lowered his head, looking as though he were too ashamed to lift it under Nick’s reproach.

Despite his weakness, Klein hurriedly said, “Mr. Nick, please don’t blame Mr. Gareth. This was my request. I was the one at fault!”

“Klein,” Nick said calmly, “honesty is the virtue a knight should possess.”“I—”

“All right, all right, I apologize.” Gareth suddenly lifted his head. “Sorry~~”

At some point, he had once again put on that ridiculous fake nose.

“Gareth!!” Nick’s voice rose sharply.

Gareth flattened himself against the wall, smiling placatingly, without the slightest trace of gentlemanly dignity. “Hey, buddy, relax. Haven’t you heard the story about lions pushing their cubs off a cliff?”

Thud—

Klein suddenly collapsed face-first onto the floor. He had completely lost consciousness.

…

When Klein woke up, he was lying in the medical ward of the Round Table organization, an IV needle still inserted into the back of his hand.

Gareth was sitting beside him, holding a small, finely bound book, occasionally wiping away tears.

“Mr. Gareth, you really are an emotional person,” Klein said as he struggled to prop himself up.

“You’re awake,” Gareth said, apparently unconcerned about being seen in such a state. He simply closed the book. “How do you feel?”

“Like my bones were taken apart and then reassembled,” Klein said with a bitter smile. “Whoever treated me must be a master Lego enthusiast.”

“Kid, I like your sense of humor,” Gareth said.

“How long was I unconscious?” Klein asked.

“Five hours,” Gareth replied. “Three broken ribs, a moderate fracture in your left arm, significant internal bleeding in the spleen, and you also lost a decayed tooth… Congratulations, Klein. You survived the suppression of an evil witch and completed the mission well.”

“I don’t think I did well enough,” Klein said, without a trace of pride. He began discussing the flaws in his performance before losing consciousness with the experienced knight.

“…I shouldn’t have hesitated. If I hadn’t, my arm might not have been broken… Mr. Gareth?”

“Oh… sorry, where were you up to?” Gareth yawned—he was actually nodding off.

This was probably the classic pairing of a gentlemanly but lazy superior and an overly serious subordinate.

“By the way, Mr. Gareth, what happened to the witch afterward?”

“She’s been taken into custody by Nick,” Gareth said. “She’ll be interrogated next. If she’s responsible for any deaths, she’ll be punished.”

“Wasn’t she the daughter of that household?”

“My earlier judgment was probably correct,” Gareth said casually. “She obtained a witchcraft manuscript by accident and went astray due to improper self-study. She likely has no direct connection to the Aegean witch clans. As for the homeowners, someone will handle the aftermath.”

Klein nodded, then looked around the ward in confusion. It was large, with ten beds, yet only his was occupied.

Normally, usage was low anyway. This was the capital of Britannia, and the Knight of the Round Table organization was very strong here, so injuries during missions were relatively rare.

“It’s very quiet outside… Are they all on missions?” Klein mused. His hearing was excellent—an innate talent.

“Mm. I heard a few beastmen went missing,” Gareth said, pulling a fountain pen from his chest and writing something on a label.

“Beastmen?” Klein exclaimed.

“A group of illegally captured beastmen was transported through the docks via waterways,” Gareth explained. “Our people moved to rescue them after receiving the tip. During the operation, several beastmen went missing. Given their emotional state at the time, they could cause serious damage, so Mr. Perkins ordered that anyone without an active mission join the search.”

Mr. Perkins was not a knight, but he commanded the Foggy City knight organization.

“Illegally captured…” Klein frowned slightly.

“The trade in beastmen has always existed,” Gareth said calmly. “Especially among certain extremists in the Magicians’ Association, who love using beastmen for their research.”

“We can’t let those missing beastmen roam freely—it’s too dangerous,” Klein said, trying to get out of bed.

Gareth stuffed a slip of paper into his hand. “Enough. Here—this is for you.”

“What is it?”

“Your leave approval,” Gareth smiled. “Knight Klein, for the sake of the upcoming knightly inheritance trial, I order you not to continue apprentice duties until you’ve fully recovered. Of course, you can still come to headquarters—after all, the nurses here are quite charming, aren’t they?”

Ignoring Klein’s protests, Gareth patted his shoulder. “Get some good rest.”

He pulled the curtain shut and left in a carefree manner. Moments later, a nurse entered, holding medicine and pills.

She was an older Black woman, still wearing bright red lipstick.

Mr. Gareth, you lied…

“Oh! Poor young man, how pitiful. I’ll take very good care of you! Come, let me take off your clothes and apply the medicine, sweetheart.”

“I—I’ll do it myself! Ma’am, please don’t—don’t touch there…”

…

The morning had been clear, but by late afternoon, a light rain fell over Foggy City.

People in trench coats, holding all kinds of umbrellas, moved through the streets.

A man holding a black umbrella, wearing a khaki trench coat and a hat, stopped in front of a red building. He went around to the back alley and descended the side stairs.

A bar located underground—its door and walls were covered in graffiti of all kinds.

The bar was deserted, perhaps not yet open. Aside from the bartender polishing glasses, there were no other patrons.

“Strongbow.”

The man sat down and ordered a drink.

The bartender was older, with a white beard, around fifty, but carried himself with great elegance.

“Strongbow.” The bartender placed the drink down slowly, then turned back to his work.

After sipping for a while, the man suddenly said, “You know, compared to clear weather, I much prefer continuous rain.”

The bartender glanced back at him but said nothing.

He continued to speak to himself: “Wherever sunlight reaches, shadows are driven away… compressed bit by bit, like homeless drifters. But real drifters can still curl up in a corner or a subway station. Shadows can only keep being compressed—only on overcast days do they get a chance to roam freely.”

“The sunlight would cry if it heard you say that,” the bartender said suddenly.

“Then just let the sunlight stop appearing,” he replied.

The bartender frowned and turned around—but the customer was already gone. On the table, there was only a coin spinning in place.

Beside the glass, words written wetly in alcohol gleamed on the tabletop: Serpent.

The coin slowly came to a stop.

…

…

The girl looked extremely frail, as if she had been malnourished for a long time. She was dressed very lightly, wearing only a skirt that was already filthy and torn in several places.

In the alley, she had been sheltering from the rain… which had just stopped.

She was curled up under the eaves of someone’s back door. In her hands was a box of Chinese fried noodles that had clearly been eaten from and then discarded before being finished.

They were called Chinese fried noodles, but most recipes had long been altered to suit local tastes—real Chinese people probably wouldn’t be used to them.

The way the girl wolfed them down showed she was truly starving.

She seemed afraid of something, nervously glancing around from time to time, her helplessness plain to see… along with the cold brought by the rainy, overcast weather.

“Hey, look what I found?”

Three punk-dressed youths had gathered at the back door, surrounding the girl.

“A poor little stray kitten.”

Their gazes only made her more frightened. One of them even pulled out a few banknotes, about to speak…

…

Klein eventually left the Round Table organization’s medical wing and mounted his beloved motorcycle: a Harley-Davidson.

With a moderate fracture in his left arm, it was encased in plaster and strapped around his neck with bandages. Even so, he rode slowly along the road.

He didn’t live in the organization’s dorms, but rented a small house by the river. Apprentice knights had dangerous jobs, but correspondingly good pay and benefits.

The motorcycle came to a sudden stop.

The scene of a girl seemingly being harassed by a few thugs entered Klein’s peripheral vision. Without a second thought, he swung the bike around and rode straight into the alley.

The bright headlight stabbed into the youths’ eyes, making them recoil.

One of them was gripping the ragged girl’s arm, clearly tugging at her.

“Hey, gentlemen, bullying a lady isn’t very gentlemanly,” Klein said, lifting his visor, pulling the key from the bike, and stepping down.

The youth holding the girl frowned, but released her arm.

Another one sneered coldly. “And suddenly butting into other people’s business like this is gentlemanly? You should worry about yourself first. Just out of the hospital?”

Klein frowned slightly, then said calmly, “Please stop bothering this lady, all right?”

“We’re not bothering her,” the apparent leader shook his head. “Believe me, this isn’t some damsel-in-distress act. We just thought she was pitiful and wanted to help her.”

But Klein seemed unconvinced. He removed his helmet, hung it on the handlebars, and said evenly, “Knight’s Code, Article Six: never coerce a lady. Article Five: always offer a lady assistance… Get lost.”

The three youths frowned and exchanged looks. Then the leader said, “And hand her over to you? Sorry, you’re not exactly someone we can identify either.”

“Gentlemen, I don’t want you to regret this… truly,” Klein sighed and stepped forward.

Even injured, dealing with a few youths would be easy enough. He was thinking about how best to handle this—scaring them off might be enough. After all, they hadn’t actually harmed the girl, and the police couldn’t charge them.

He didn’t even want this to end violently.

But then the leader reached into his jacket, as if to pull something out. Klein’s heart skipped—thinking it was a weapon, he prepared to strike first.

He rushed forward—then stopped dead in his tracks.

“A… a social worker ID?”

The youth sighed. “Yes, my work badge. I just saw that this lady was in trouble and planned to take her back to the social services center… Did you misunderstand something? If you still don’t believe me, you can call to check. And this is my personal ID.”

“B-but you…” Klein stared at their outfits.

Punk earrings, dyed hair, black lipstick… and they were telling him they were social workers??

“Is that strange?” the youth shrugged. “We just have these hobbies, and we just came back from a performance…”

This was awkward.

“I’m terribly sorry!!!!”

(End of Chapter)