Bank of Westminster

Chapter 25

Andre frowned. "God's Punishment Fire is nothing more than the wrath of the gods—what else could it be? Fern, stop grandstanding!"

The village chief on the altar nodded vigorously. "The will of the gods must not be blasphemed..."

Baron merely shook his head. "No. So-called God's Punishment Fire is neither the wrath of the gods nor a chastisement from them."

"If it's neither, what is it? A sorceress's spell? Or devils at work?"

Andre sneered. "We fought shoulder-to-shoulder with Lady Yalilan and saw neither sorceress nor devil."

"Because there has never been any god here, divine punishment is impossible."

Baron uttered something that made everyone present—Zod the drunkard and the dolt included—turn pale.

"Ah, an atheist. No wonder a Fern like you became a bounty hunter—you're an exile, a Lawbreaker driven from your homeland."

Adel barked to his men, "Seize him! Deliver him to the city lord and report we've caught an escaped convict from the border of Fern!"

You're right; I am an escaped convict. But the prison I broke out of wasn't the Duchy of Fern—it was Great Britannia.

Baron didn't move as several demon-hunters closed in. He simply spoke a single word.

"Phosphine. God's Punishment Fire burns because of phosphine."

"What?" No one seemed to have heard or understood.

Phosphine? What was that?

Yalilan and Andre instinctively furrowed their brows, suspecting Baron had invented the term to win the villagers' trust. If the villagers ever verified it, everything would collapse.

Was this just a stalling tactic?

Yalilan glanced discreetly at the dagger the chief held, then at the girl on the cross only a few paces away. The longer they delayed, the more danger the child faced.

Sure enough, a villager challenged, "What are you talking about? Who is this 'Phosphine' god? Show us proof!"

"L, stop talking and draw your sword," Macquire whispered urgently. "Andre's already targeting you. If you don't fight, Lady Yalilan will post a bounty too."

To Macquire and Zod, L had clearly lost his mind.

Baron ignored their warnings. Facing the chief and the unsheathed Yalilan, he said, "Grant me one chance. I will prove God's Punishment Fire is no divine wrath. If I fail..."

He pointed at the little girl on the cross. "Then I'll join her as an offering in this rite."

Macquire paled. Zod's eyes bulged. Yalilan's brows drew together; Andre scowled. Hunters and villagers stared, weapons lowered, exchanging bewildered glances.

"What sort of chance?" the chief asked, eyes narrowing.

The young man's voice carried iron confidence, forcing the chief to reconsider everything he had said.

"Simple," Baron replied calmly. "Take me to a place."

"What place? Planning to run, swindler?" a hunter shouted.

Baron stared at the chief. "There, I will use chemistry to explain the will of the gods."

Chemistry—a new term lately fashionable in Prol.

Andre's expression shifted. Could this Fern actually be an alchemist?

"Where to?" the chief asked.

Baron spoke the word. Everyone—villager and hunter alike—looked as though they'd seen a ghost. One of Andre's men burst into laughter. "That place? Is he joking?"

Zod and Macquire tensed. No doubt—L had lost his mind the moment he'd refused to draw his sword.

...

Gillian Duchy, Mondra Town, Wiesenmoor Village—the public latrine.

It was nothing more than a few rough planks divided into stalls above a deep cesspit. To keep the fumes from escaping, boards covered the pit too.

Yet the wind still carried a stench so rank it turned stomachs and sent noses into revolt.

The hunters clamped hands over their faces, recoiling. Andre lifted an eyebrow, pinching his nose as he sneered at Baron, whose face had gone pale. "You claim God's Punishment Fire was born here? The altar's a fair distance away..."

The chief, also covering his nose, gestured impatiently. "We've fulfilled your request. Explain the will of the gods. Fail, and this foul pit will be your blasphemous grave."

Buried in a cesspit—what a vile end.

The onlookers grinned, eager to witness the spectacle. For the sake of future boasting, they were ready to take part themselves.

Macquire watched Baron hemmed in by the crowd. "Zod, if L dies here..."

Zod took a grim swig. "Then the silver he owes us is gone."

Macquire: "?"

Amid the press of bodies, Baron exhaled. Just as he'd expected—peasant latrines in this world reeked as badly as those in medieval Europe.

Without centralized waste treatment, villages simply filled one pit, covered it with earth, and moved the entire shack elsewhere. Public latrines were scarce; people relieved themselves in streets, alleys, and riverbanks, turning towns into open sewers. Bacteria thrived—and so did plagues.

Over time, the phosphorus in excrement was broken down by bacteria into phosphine. Its ignition point was only 30–40 °C; in summer it could self-ignite. But this was late at night, and the temperature had dropped.

Baron glanced at the twin moons. Now it was in the gods' hands. If luck failed... He touched the twin revolvers at his hip. He could always run again.

Under the crowd's urging, Baron said quietly, "Andre, give me a torch."

Andre bristled at the command, but Yalilan handed over her own torch without hesitation.

Baron shot the pure-blood tigress a surprised glance. She spoke coolly, "If you fail, I can't protect you—you swore by the gods."

So that was it. From the start, the viscountess had never intended to honor the wager with the chief. If Baron succeeded, all would be well. If he failed, that was his bargain with the chief—what did it have to do with her?

Baron let his gaze linger on her shapely figure. She was right—she wasn't just a beautiful woman; she was a beautiful bandit.

He tossed the torch into the latrine.

Silence stretched. Yalilan shook her head with a sigh. Andre smirked. Zod and Macquire clenched their fists, sweat beading. Villagers rolled up sleeves, eager to pounce.

Then came a crack like firecrackers.

Blue-green flames leapt up from each stall, burning for a dozen seconds before winking out or drifting a short distance and fading. Though the flames lingered less than those in the forest, any hunter who had seen the sacred fire recognized them at once—perhaps even more fierce.

"A miracle... God's Punishment Fire!" A villager fell to his knees, praying frantically.

The chief's face turned ghastly in the flickering light. "This... this can't be..."

He looked at Baron, trembling. "How is it possible...?"

Yalilan, knowing the torch had triggered it, stared at Baron. "What power is this? Alchemy? Sorcery? A Forbidden Object?"

"The flame produced when phosphine meets air."

Bounty hunter L watched the last blue tongue of fire die away and smiled faintly, eyes deep as wells.

"This is the power of science, my esteemed Viscountess Yalilan."