Trafford's Trading Club

Chapter 1279: Hostility

Inside the Platinum Palace, Her Majesty the Queen held her beloved pet in her arms—but she didn’t look the least bit relaxed.

Because outside the palace, where peace should have reigned on such a night, a huge crowd had gathered—over a thousand people stood at the palace gates, protesting loudly.

And the number was still growing.

The riot police had been deployed; they formed a human barricade and prepared tear gas, water cannons, and pepper spray. Yet without orders, all they could do was stand ready with their shields.

The Prime Minister had been urgently summoned an hour ago. But he wasn’t the only one present—the true powerholders of Parliament were there too.

Whatever was being discussed in the center of power remained unknown to outsiders—especially the guards, whose only duty was to ensure safety and prevent anyone unauthorized from approaching.

“There are even more people now. At this rate, they won’t disperse by morning—there’ll only be more of them,” said the riot control commander, peering over the human wall at the restless crowd.

His companion shrugged. “Nothing we can do. There were multiple attacks in a row, and worse—they succeeded. The ones with headaches now are the intelligence folks. I bet they’re already arguing over next year’s intelligence budget.”

The commander said nothing but knew full well that such a large-scale protest couldn’t have been organized this quickly without coordination. It was unlikely spontaneous—probably the opposition Vipers were behind it.

He shook his head again. Ever since Britain’s farcical referendum months ago, the current government had been questioned nonstop...Suddenly, footsteps echoed. Both turned to look.

A woman in a black tailcoat approached—her features sharp and dignified, with a trace of Germanic blood in her refined face. Her golden hair was tied simply behind her head.

She carried a silver tray steadily in one hand, walking past them without a glance, her posture calm and graceful.

The companion gave a low whistle. “Who’s that lady? Why can she move around freely here?”

“You don’t know?” the commander replied casually. “She’s one of Her Majesty’s personal guards. Handles her daily affairs too. Name’s... Lancelot, I think?”

“Lancelot?” the companion blinked, glancing at her tall, striking figure—taller than most men.

Soon, she reached the meeting room where the Queen, the Prime Minister, and other senior officials were gathered.

She knocked.

“Excuse me.” She opened the door and stepped inside.

...

The atmosphere in the room was tense. The Queen sat silently, stroking her cat’s fur, lost in thought.

The Prime Minister stood by the window, quietly smoking.

When the woman entered, every gaze turned to her. But she ignored them, walked straight to the Queen, and set down the tray.

A glass of water, and a small dish with a few pills.

“Your Majesty, it’s time for your medicine.”

“Oh… alright.” The Queen nodded absentmindedly, glanced at the ministers, then swallowed the pills without another word.

The woman tidied up and turned to leave. The Queen’s lips moved slightly, but she stayed silent.

“Wait, Lancelot!” the Prime Minister called out just before she reached the door.

“Yes, Mr. Birmingham, what are your orders?” she asked politely, face expressionless.

“What do you think about these attacks?” the Prime Minister asked, his tone measured.

She replied calmly, “I’m sorry, Mr. Birmingham. I haven’t received any orders regarding that matter.”

“I’m asking for your opinion. Don’t tell me Mr. Perkins hasn’t contacted you.” The Prime Minister frowned. Damn puppet.

“Mr. Birmingham, my duty is solely to ensure Her Majesty’s safety. Mr. Perkins has not instructed me to take any action or shared any information. If you wish to know the Knight Bureau’s stance, you’d be better off calling Mr. Perkins directly—it would be more efficient.”

“He refuses to take my calls,” the Prime Minister sneered.

She only cast him a glance. “If there’s nothing else, then… I’ll excuse myself.”

“Wait, Lancelot,” said the Queen suddenly, under the uneasy eyes of the gathered officials. Reluctantly, she continued, “We received a letter secretly delivered from the attackers. I think… you should hear what it says.”

Lancelot’s expression shifted slightly, showing doubt.

The Queen gave a bitter smile. “They call themselves Doomsday Myth. Their demand is that we hand over all of Northern Ireland to them unconditionally, recognizing their independent rule over the region. If we refuse, they claim they’ll launch indiscriminate attacks like the one earlier—within the next month. The next attack will be in three days. Location unknown…”

This time, even she couldn’t remain completely calm.

...

...

In District Two of Foggy City, where old houses stood beside rising towers, a figure darted between buildings with agility, bouncing off walls and rooftops.

But just as the figure leapt past a building, a massive black net dropped from above—instantly ensnaring them.

Electric currents surged through the web, followed by a scream. The body fell, crashing into the alley below.

Several men in long black coats, each holding a metal rod, rushed forward.

They pulled up the ensnared figure—a young man, barely in his twenties, wearing a stained sweater. His bangs were wet with sweat, his body covered in bruises, foam at his lips, barely conscious.

Click—

The sound of a match striking.

Grand Knight Simpson lit a cigarette, then walked over and lifted the youth’s chin, studying his face before nodding slightly. “Good. The third one. How many left?”

One of the men reported, “According to the list we seized from the beastmen traffickers, there are still two unaccounted for. Sir, this is the tracker we found among their gear—one signal’s nearby, the other’s moving fast, possibly toward the first.”

Simpson glanced at the tracker, tapping it with his finger. “Then we’ll stop here for now… Community Center. Find the rest of those filthy creatures and drive them out. I hate the stench of beastmen. Makes it impossible to sleep at night.”

“Yes, sir!”

...

He was a genius.

Will was utterly stunned. You could always tell whether someone truly understood the guitar—and this boy clearly did.

From hesitant strumming to tentative solo notes… his movements were becoming his own. The delicate-looking youth was mimicking Will’s playing, his own rhythm forming.

Though he could only play the first section of the song smoothly—and stumbled through the rest—he kept trying again and again, each time improving.

His memory was astonishing. His fingers, unbelievably dexterous.

A genius. I’ve just found a true genius, Will thought.

Eventually, the boy stopped; he couldn’t play further. But soon, he started again—this time, more confidently.

Will was someone who liked sharing things with others—so he quickly thought of his two bandmates and wanted to tell them about this.

But the call just wouldn't get through — though in fact, it did connect, but no one answered.

Will shook his head. Those two were probably at a bar right now, chatting up girls. Then he suddenly thought of another friend he often exchanged ideas with about rock music—the same friend who had taught him that piece.

Will had once again heard this friend play The Original Scenery of the Hometown, and in that instant he felt like crying. That was the realm Will aspired to, and also why he firmly believed that music could convey emotions.

Beep—beep—beep!

“Will? Calling me at this hour—what’s up?” The call connected. The English on the other end wasn’t very fluent and carried a noticeable accent.

“Cheng! Do you know what? I’ve discovered a genius! You have no idea how unbelievable this kid is! I’m sure you’d love to meet him!” Will said excitedly.

“Well, I’d definitely like to meet him… are you planning to introduce us?” The tone was half-amused, half-resigned.

“Of course! Are you free tomorrow… oh, Cheng, hold on a second, someone’s here. I’ll call you later and tell you everything.”

With that, Will hung up.

…

At the same time, inside the Royal Conservatory of Music at Foggy City University.

“How strange.”

He chuckled, shook his head, set the phone down, and opened his laptop, starting a video call.

The screen lit up, and soon a family of three crowded into view. The child looked only recently born.

“Hey, let me see my godson! Hong Guan! You brat, stop hiding him! Look at him—he looks just like me!”

“Like you, my ass! If he looked like you, that’d be a disaster!”

“Hahaha!”

They laughed and chatted happily.

…

Someone really had come to the social service center—probably to seek help, like homeless people coming back for food.

Will glanced back at the boy holding the guitar, his expression focused. Smiling slightly, he gently closed the door to the room and stepped outside.

At the reception area, he didn’t see the homeless people he’d expected. Instead, he saw several men in black trench coats—no matter how he looked at them, they didn’t seem like people seeking help.

“Excuse me, is there something I can help you with?” Will walked over and asked.

“Besides you, is there anyone else here?” one of the men asked coldly.

“Who are you looking for?” Will frowned. His instincts told him these people meant trouble.

Then a man standing behind them suddenly spoke, “Ah, that smell… disgusting. He’s here. Do it.”

As soon as he finished speaking, the men in black coats nodded and walked straight past Will, barging into the center.

“Wait, you can’t go in there, this is private—”

Before Will could finish, one of the men stepped up and punched him hard in the abdomen. Will doubled over in pain, barely able to breathe. “You… what do you want…”

“We’re saving you, kid. Don’t you know how dangerous you are right now?” Simpson walked up slowly from behind, squatted in front of Will, and sneered. “At the same time, we’re here to take… that thing. Don’t worry, we won’t damage the place. Once we take him away, it’s over.”

As he spoke, Simpson tilted his head. One of his subordinates immediately understood, walked over, and roughly yanked Will up, dragging him forcefully into a nearby room.

“Let go of me! Let go! What are you doing?!”

The door slammed shut. Inside the room, Will was struck again, collapsing to the floor in agony, retching and unable to get back up.

At the same time, outside, two men in black coats dragged the delicate-looking boy out.

The boy struggled in terror, crying out incoherently, but in the end he was hauled before Simpson.

“Oh, little beast. Welcome to Foggy City… though you won’t be staying long,” Simpson said with a smile, sizing him up.

Suddenly, the boy struck back. His eyes flashed red as he broke free from the two men holding him and lunged straight at Simpson.

Simpson remained calm. At the instant the boy leapt forward, Simpson’s long leg shot up and came down like an axe, slamming into the boy.

Bang!

The boy crashed to the floor, spitting out a mouthful of blood. Simpson stepped on his back, his gaze icy.

A shadow suddenly flashed in from outside, moving with blinding speed past Simpson. In that same moment, the boy under Simpson’s foot vanished.

The subordinates immediately drew their weapons. On the reception counter of the social service center now stood a young girl, shielding the boy behind her.

Anger and hatred burned in her eyes as she stared down the knights before her.

Simpson slowly exhaled and brushed his cheek lightly with his hand. Three thin streaks of blood marked his face—left there when the girl had flashed past him.

“This is why I hate you filthy, lowly, ill-mannered mongrels,” Simpson said calmly, narrowing his eyes. “During the pursuit, two beastmen went berserk due to overstimulation. We had no choice but to kill them. Write the report that way.”

“…Yes.”