The snowfall here was no less fierce than in London. The cold wind, carrying shards of ice, stabbed the faces of passers-by like knives.
Inside the underground boxing gym along the canal, the air was thick with the smell of cheap cigars, sweat, and dark-red blood.
"Bang!"
With a dull thud, a large, heavily tattooed man was slammed against the wooden railing by tremendous force. The thick rail snapped on the spot; the solidly built man tumbled from the stage like a torn sack, convulsed twice, and then lay completely still.
The gamblers and gangsters who had been eagerly betting around the boxing ring stared, as if their throats had been seized, at the young man in the black coat.
Even in the stifling heat that left everyone dripping with sweat, Russell had not even undone a single button of his coat, and his breathing remained perfectly steady. He casually took a clean handkerchief from his pocket, wiped the dust and slight grime from his fists, and tossed the handkerchief onto the face of the gym owner lying on the floor.
He was in a hurry.
Russell stepped down from the ring, his leather boots crunching over the blood-stained wood chips scattered across the floor, and walked straight toward the accountant whose face had already turned deathly pale with fear.
"The key to Safe Number Seven."
His voice was so flat and monotonous that the people around him unconsciously took two steps backward.
"Or I can dismantle this entire basement and find a private place for you myself."
With trembling hands, the accountant removed the sweat-damp brass key from around his neck and held it out with both hands.
Key in hand, Russell walked through the completely secured corridor and entered the secret room at the very back of the boxing gym. When he opened the safe, sure enough, it was piled high with scandal files capable of ruining high-ranking officials of the city hall.
This was the ninth Appled item he had obtained in Manchester.
It was also another component of the so-called "immortal terror system" that Milverton had described.
Russell carefully packed the documents into his leather briefcase, turned on his heel, and left the foul-smelling basement. As he stepped out of the boxing gym, the cold wind blowing along the Manchester Canal swept away every trace of the filth that had clung to him.
Russell stopped under a streetlamp and took out the memo covered in red crosses. The dim yellow light of the streetlamp swayed in the wind and snow, casting the young man's long, slender shadow. Under the weak light, he took out a pen and carefully drew a line through the address of the underground boxing gym written on the memo.
The red dots densely drawn on the paper were now almost completely covered by black ink.
Three days left until Christmas.
Through repeated infiltrations and brute-force assaults, the Appled that Milverton had praised as invincible as divine judgement had completely lost its mystery in Russell's eyes and had been reduced to nothing more than a commonplace, absurd joke.
There was no complex mechanical transmission system, no radio waves that transcended time, no magical power that would detonate every other node the moment a heart stopped beating.
It was nothing more than an enormous yet extremely cumbersome physical storage network.
Milverton had scattered those fatal letters, photographs, and promissory notes across various inconspicuous locations in northern England and stored them there. He had probably left some strict instructions with the old men at the agencies, the bank branch managers, or the gang leaders—for example, that they must receive a letter from him every month to confirm their safety, accept a specific half-crown, or send the deposited items to a major newspaper office.
In any case, such things could by no means be called a so-called "Dead Hand system."
This was merely one of the most basic layers of defence.
Yet as long as these conditions continued, Milverton possessed more than enough confidence to overturn the poker table in London.
The prerequisite, however, was that other people held an unshakable faith in that system.
Milverton had never needed to show the full picture of the box. He only needed to keep explaining to people how ingenious and terrifying it was. And whenever someone tried to challenge his authority, he would recount a few shady secrets about that person and falsely claim he had obtained them from Appled.
As a result, even Mycroft had been forced to remain wary and keep his distance.
Even with MI6's rapid operational capabilities, it would be difficult to locate every place where Milverton had hidden documents and recover them all without harming him. Unfortunately for them, Moriarty was able to accomplish what MI6 could not.
A thorough method might look a little crude, yet it was as powerful as flying bricks.
His blackmail rested on the deterrent effect established by the Pandora's box that was Appled. Once the true form of that Pandora's box was revealed, Milverton would become no different from a street rat.
Even if he held incriminating facts and stains capable of creating a sensation throughout Britain, he neither possessed nor could possess the means or ability to access such information at any time.
Of course, that was no problem for Milverton.
He was not only the King of Blackmail; he also wore another face—that of a media magnate.
Countless scandals of the aristocratic class piled up and were reported on a grand scale by the media across the whole of Britain. He needed neither evidence nor physical proof. To destroy someone, it was enough simply to have his newspaper offices simultaneously publish articles about that person.
Appled was the shield that protected his immortality; the news was the spear that made his blackmail invincible.
Even if it was only a rumour, even if it was only a blurred photograph—once it appeared on the front page of a major newspaper under the name Milverton, the social standing of a respected gentleman would be completely ruined.
That was Charles Morstan Milverton's true trump card.
Through fear and greed, he had linked together the basest gangs of the British Empire, the most established banks, and the noisiest newspaper printing houses. This method had succeeded for more than ten years.
That is, until he angered Moriarty.
Russell shifted the suitcase to his left hand and began walking toward the station.
Sheffield.
This was the final destination of his journey.
Compared with the clamour of Birmingham and the chaos of Manchester, this city famous for its steel and knives looked even colder and more austere in the snow.
On the system map, only three red dots remained.
The reason Milverton had hidden this information in these three cities was actually very easy to understand. If they encountered a tough opponent and ordinary deterrence failed, they would have to demonstrate something concrete. Therefore, these items had to be obtained from places he could reach quickly—locations that, taking London as the starting point, could be reached by train within a maximum of five hours. That had given Russell the opportunity to obtain them all at once.
Russell wasted no time. Like a tireless black ghost, he raced through the night of Sheffield.
The first red dot was a pawnshop that appeared to be operating legitimately but was in fact lending money to factory owners at exorbitant interest rates. The sturdy doorman did not even manage to touch Russell's clothes; his vision was stolen by the smoke of [Fog Array], and immediately afterwards a sharp, swift blow landed on the back of his neck, sending him collapsing weakly onto the snow.
Less than five minutes later, Russell emerged from the back room of the pawnshop. Inside his briefcase was a mortgage contract signed by a high-ranking naval officer in a casino.
The second red dot was an underground casino on the outskirts of the city, controlled by the local gang.
The situation here was a little more complicated.
When Russell pushed open the iron gate hidden deep in the alley, four black pistols were waiting for him.
"Don't move! Who the hell are you?!"
Even with four revolvers pointed at his head, Russell remained as calm as if he were merely gazing at the snowy night scenery of Sheffield. He did not even raise his hands; keeping his right hand in his coat pocket, he stared steadily at the four sturdy gang members in the dim corridor.
"Good evening, gentlemen."
Russell's voice was mild, even carrying an aristocratic resonance unique to London's West End, yet it sounded out of place in the underground passage filled with the smell of cheap tobacco and blood.
"I have come to collect the documents stored in your boss's safe. If you step aside right now and pretend you never saw me, I guarantee you will leave this casino tonight unharmed."
"Hah! Did you hear that? The pretty boy from London says he's going to let us go!"
The scar-faced man leading the group let out a vulgar laugh that echoed through the narrow corridor, as though he had just heard the funniest joke in the world. He took a step forward; the Webley revolver in his hand almost touched the tip of Russell's nose.
"Whoever you are, put the suitcase down, put both hands behind your head, and squat! Or I'll blow your head off right now!"
"What a pity."
Russell gave a small sigh. The voice carried a sense of helplessness at plans gone awry.
"I was looking forward to going again at Christmas."
Just as Scarface thought the other party was about to break and already rested his finger impatiently on the trigger, Russell moved.
There was no flashy cinematic starting motion, no wasted chatter. The movement was as forceful as a thunderclap.
The right hand that had been thrust into the coat pocket was drawn out at a speed that transcended human visual logic, leaving a blurred after-image in the confined space.
"Tch!"
Scarface could not even clearly catch the movement; he only felt a sharp pain in his wrist. The revolver was forcibly twisted by an irresistible divine force until the muzzle pointed straight at the ceiling.
"Bang!"
The gunshot rang through the corridor; the bullet tore a large chunk of rubble and dust from the ceiling. Almost at the same instant as the gunshot, Russell's left knee smashed into Scarface's abdomen like a heavy hammer. The tall man let out a powerless cry, his eyes nearly popping out; his entire body arched like a boiled shrimp and collapsed weakly to the ground.
Everything happened so quickly that the remaining three gang members did not even have time to recover from the first gunshot.
"Open."
Before Russell finished speaking, the brass probe had already left his hand and pierced the wrist of the man opposite. Blood sprayed; the man's five fingers instantly lost the strength to grip anything, and he could only watch helplessly as the pistol fell to the ground. At the same time, Russell's other hand had already seized the man's collar. Then a merciless shoulder throw was executed.
"Bang!"
A dull sound echoed through the night, followed by the sharp crack of breaking bone.
In less than ten seconds, three of the four had lost all ability to resist.
Russell looked up at the last one.
The remaining fourth man leaned against the damp brick wall; his legs seemed to tremble of their own accord. He could only watch helplessly as his three companions turned in the blink of an eye into figures writhing on the ground in agony. The chill that ran down his spine instantly covered the heavy smell of blood filling the corridor.
"Die! You monster!"
Driven by extreme terror, adrenaline forced him to pull the trigger.
"Bang!"
Orange flame erupted from the muzzle; an ear-splitting roar reverberated through the narrow underground passage, hurting people's eardrums. Yet Russell had already moved the instant before the man's finger applied force.
He made no exaggerated or clumsy evasive motion. Instead he pivoted on his upper body and stepped diagonally forward by a single centimetre, swaying his body slightly sideways like a willow branch in the wind. The scorching lead bullet grazed the edge of his black coat and embedded itself firmly in the load-bearing pillar behind him, raising a small plume of pungent wood splinters like smoke.
Russell used that half-step of distance without hesitation to close in stealthily and appeared before the thug like a ghost. The ruffian, trembling with fear, tried to pull the trigger again, yet no matter how hard he pressed, the trigger remained as immovable as if it had been welded.
Russell's left hand, clad in a black leather glove, firmly gripped the revolver's cylinder. With this type of double-action revolver, once the cylinder is jammed by external force and cannot rotate, the hammer will not fall at all.
"His marksmanship is terrible, and his hands are shaking far too much."
Russell's voice was very calm, as though he were giving a lesson to a beginner. Before the other could react, his right hand transformed into a cold, sharp knife-hand and precisely struck the thug's carotid sinus. The force was enough to knock out a wild boar in an instant. Before the thug could even let out a faint groan, his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed bonelessly to the ground.
Apart from the three unfortunate men still lying on the floor and barely breathing, the entire corridor was once again wrapped in deathly silence.
Russell withdrew his hand and casually tossed the disarmed Webley revolver onto the dusty ground. He lifted his foot and slowly stepped over the casually sprawled bodies. He had not killed them, because Moriarty's first murder was being reserved for that man named Milverton.
The man on the North Mountain plateau did not count… he had frozen to death.
He pushed open the mahogany door covered with iron plates at the far end of the corridor.
The casino boss was crouched behind a large desk, gripping a double-barrelled shotgun with trembling hands, the muzzle pointed at the door. Cold sweat streamed down his greasy face. He had heard everything happening outside. There was no other way out of this room.
Russell ignored the dark muzzle, walked straight to the desk, pulled out a chair, and sat down. He placed the leather briefcase on the table and lightly tapped the emerald-studded brass clasp with his knuckle.
"Take out the contents of the safe in the corner."
Russell's pitch-black eyes calmly regarded the gang leader in front of him, who looked ready to explode at any moment. The overwhelming sense of pressure radiating from him made the room feel colder than the blizzard outside.
"I have no time to waste with you in Sheffield. If you think your flamethrower is more effective than the four pistols of the men outside, go ahead and try. But I can assure you that if you pull the trigger and I do not die, the one who dies will be you."
The casino boss swallowed hard; under Moriarty's unshakable gaze, his mental defences finally collapsed completely. Crestfallen, he set down the shotgun, hurried to the corner and turned the dial lock.
Two minutes later a bundle of bribery records concerning several high-ranking officials of Whitehall was safely stored inside Russell's briefcase.
Russell fastened the clasp, lifted the suitcase, and without so much as another glance at the trembling man pushed open the door and vanished into the darkness of Sheffield's night.
On the system map, only one red dot representing Appled remained.
On the outskirts of Sheffield stood an old Catholic church built half a century earlier. This was a hiding place that matched Milverton's aesthetic sense perfectly. The ironic contrast of concealing evils that could cost countless lives right in front of the most sacred faith was exactly the kind of drama preferred by a man like him.
When Russell walked through the deep snow to the underground crypt behind the church, there was not a single guard. The dead do not reveal secrets, and heavy stone sarcophagi are far more resistant to the ravages of time and the prying eyes of thieves than bank vaults.
Following the precise coordinates indicated by the system, Russell stopped in front of a dusty, nameless niche. There was neither lock nor mechanism. He stretched out a gloved hand and forcefully pushed aside the stone slab that had blocked the view.
Inside the niche, a sealed, moisture-proof lead box lay quietly. When Russell opened the lid of the lead box and looked at the contents under the dim moonlight, even he could not help frowning.
These were not typical blackmail letters; they recorded multiple royal scandals.
If these ever came to light, the consequences would be enormous.
After thinking for a long time, Russell took a match from his pocket. In the flickering light of the flame, the purity and dignity of the royal family were completely guaranteed in that instant.
Russell brushed the dust from his hands, looked at the already full box, and let out a sigh mixed with contempt and fatigue.
With a click, the clasp closed.
The three days of fierce fighting that had covered most of northern England had finally come to an end.
The so-called Appled was nothing more than a castle in the air.
At that moment the hands of his pocket watch pointed to three o'clock in the morning.
Russell stepped out of the underground crypt and let the cold wind of Sheffield wash over him. His nerves had been stretched taut for two days and three nights.
Less than forty-eight hours remained until Christmas.
He looked up at the night sky covered in wind and snow.
"It's time to go back."