Trafford’s Trading Club

Chapter 1276: Chapter 3: The Knight’s Code

Nick pulled out the pocket watch from his pocket, checked the time, then opened the door and walked up the hallway.

Just as he was coming up, Gareth was folding a newspaper… He frowned, then glanced at the end of the corridor ahead.

Klein was dragging himself out of the room slowly, limping, his sword-free arm hanging completely down, his clothes torn in many places, his face dusty and smeared with blood.

“Report to Mr. Gareth, the target has been successfully suppressed. You were right, she is indeed an illegal witch.”

“A witch?” Nick frowned deeply, staring at Gareth, “Why a witch?”

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

Nick didn’t argue about the intelligence issue, but said angrily, “Knight Gareth, since she’s a witch, you shouldn’t have let Klein act alone! Every squire is a valuable asset to the agency, and as one of the Twelve Knights, you have an even greater duty to protect the safety of these young knights.”

Gareth lowered his head, as if too ashamed to look up due to Nick’s reprimand.

Klein, seeing this, although weak, hurriedly said, “Mr. Nick, please don’t blame Mr. Gareth, it was my request, it’s my fault!”

“Klein.” Nick said calmly, “Honesty should be a knight’s virtue.”

“I…”

“Okay, okay, I apologize.” Gareth suddenly lifted his head, “I’m sorry~~”

He had somehow put on that fake nose for pranks again.

“Gareth!!” Nick’s voice rose significantly.

Gareth was plastered against the wall, looking scared, with no trace of gentlemanly demeanor, smiling apologetically, “Hey, buddy, relax, haven’t you heard the story of lions pushing their cubs off cliffs?”

Thud——!

Suddenly Klein fell face down, his body flung forward onto the ground, losing consciousness.

…

When Klein woke up, he was in the medical room of the Round Table Organization, with an IV needle inserted into the back of his hand.

Gareth was sitting beside him, reading a small hardcover book, occasionally wiping away tears.

“Mr. Gareth is truly an emotional person.” Klein propped himself up forcefully.

“Awake?” Gareth seemed unconcerned about his emotional display being seen, just closed the book simply, “How are you feeling?”

“Like my bones were disassembled and pieced back together, whoever healed me must be a LEGO enthusiast.” Klein said wryly.

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

“How long was I unconscious?” Klein looked up and asked.

“Five hours.” Gareth said, “Three ribs broken, moderate fracture in the left arm, and considerable internal bleeding in the spleen. Oh, and you lost a decayed tooth… Congratulations, Klein, you survived an evil witch’s onslaught and completed the mission well.”

“I feel like I didn’t do well enough.” Klein wasn’t boastful at all; instead, he began discussing the shortcomings of the battle before he fainted with the experienced knight.

“…I shouldn’t have hesitated, then my arm might not have fractured… Mr. Gareth?”

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

This was probably a combination of a seemingly gentlemanly but lazy supervisor and a subordinate extremely serious about everything.

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

Gareth said, “Nick has already taken her into custody. She will be interrogated, and if she has committed murder, she will be punished.”

“Isn’t she the daughter from that family?”

“My earlier deduction should be correct.” Gareth said nonchalantly, “She stumbled upon a manuscript on witchcraft and misguidedly taught herself, leading her astray… This should not have a direct connection to the Witch Tribe of the Aegean. As for that household, the couple will be dealt with subsequently.”

Klein nodded, then looked around the medical room—it’s large, with ten beds, but only he was using one.

Of course, the usage rate here is generally low, after all, it’s the capital of Britain, and the Round Table Knights’ power here is very strong, so the probability of knights getting injured on a mission is relatively low.

“Outside, it seems quite quiet… is everyone out on missions?” Klein mused—his hearing was excellent, a natural talent.

“Well, I heard a few beastmen were lost.” Gareth suddenly took a pen from his chest, then pulled out a label and started writing.

“Beastmen?” Klein said with his mouth open, surprised.

Gareth said, “A group of beastmen captured illegally passed through the docks here via waterway. Our people received information and went to rescue them. During the mission, a few beastmen got lost… Considering their emotions at the time, they could cause a lot of destruction, so Mr. Pukins ordered that anyone without a mission should go out and search for the beastmen.”

Mr. Pukins isn’t a knight, but he commands the Fog Capital Knight Agency.

“Illegal capture…” Klein lowered his head, frowning slightly.

“The trafficking of beastmen has always existed.” Gareth said indifferently, “Especially those fanatics in the Magician’s Association; they particularly favor using beastmen for their experiments.”

“We can’t leave those missing beastmen outside… it’s too dangerous.” Klein said, about to get off the bed.

But Gareth stuck a note into Klein’s hand, “Alright, take this.”

“What is this?”

“It’s your leave of absence slip, of course.” Gareth smiled, “Knight Klein, for the next knight inheritance, I require you to refrain from any squire duties until you recover… Of course, you can still visit the agency; after all, the nurses here are quite enchanting, aren’t they?”

Ignoring Klein’s protests, Gareth patted his shoulder, “Rest well.”

The knight drew back the bedside curtain and left leisurely—a nurse walked in, holding some potion and pills.

She was an older black woman but wore bright red lipstick…

Mr. Gareth, you lied…

“Oh! You poor young thing, I’ll take good care of you! Come, I’ll help you undress and apply the medicine, sweetie.”

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

…

The weather was bright in the morning, but by afternoon nearing evening, the streets of Fog Capital were drizzling rain.

People wearing trench coats and carrying various types of umbrellas hustled through the streets.

A man with a black umbrella, donning a tan trench coat and a hat, stopped in front of a red building—he took a detour to the alley behind, descending via the side stairs.

It was a bar located underground, the door and walls covered in various graffiti by some unknown artist.

The bar was desolate, possibly because it was not yet open for business, as there were no other patrons besides the bartender wiping glasses.

“Strongbow.”

The man sat down and ordered a drink from the bartender.

The bartender seemed quite advanced in years, with a white beard, appearing to be around fifty, yet his demeanor was very refined.

“Strongbow,” the bartender slowly placed the drink the customer ordered and then turned back to his work.

The customer took small sips for a while before suddenly saying, “You know, compared to sunny days, I much prefer the constant rain.”

The bartender turned his head at these words, glanced back, but paid no mind.

The man continued, “Where the sun reaches, shadows are driven away… They are compressed bit by bit, like homeless wanderers. But real wanderers still have corners to curl up in or subway stations to shelter, while shadows just keep getting compressed; it’s only on overcast days that they can move freely.”

“The sun will weep for what you’ve said,” the bartender suddenly remarked.

He replied, “Then it’s best the sun never appears,”

The bartender frowned and turned directly, but the customer before him had already vanished, leaving only a spinning coin on the table.

Simultaneously, on the table beside the glass, words were written in moisture: Serpent.

The coin slowly stopped spinning.

…

…

The girl appeared very frail, like someone suffering long-term malnutrition—it was apparent in her scant clothing, wearing nothing but a dirty, worn-out dress.

It also had numerous tears.

In the alley, the girl hid from the rain… the rain had just stopped.

She was curled up under the eaves of someone else’s back door, holding a box of Chinese fried noodles that seemed to have been eaten but not finished and discarded.

The so-called Chinese fried noodles had already been altered by local entrepreneurs to suit local tastes… True Chinese would likely find them unpalatable.

Yet, seeing how the girl wolfed it down, she must have been really starving.

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

“Hey, look what I’ve found?”

Three punk-dressed youths now surrounded the doorway—confronting the girl.

“Poor little wildcat.”

There was a look in their eyes that would make a girl even more panicked—one of the youths produced a few bills, about to speak…

…

Klein finally emerged from the Round Table Organization’s medical room and mounted his beloved ride: a Harley-Davidson.

With a moderately fractured left arm, Klein could only cast it and sling it over his neck—thus, he was gently riding on the road, injured.

He didn’t live in the Round Table Organization’s dormitories; instead, he rented a small house by the river—a dangerous job but one with good pay and benefits for an apprentice knight.

The motorcycle suddenly came to a stop… the scene of a girl seemingly being bullied by some thugs burst into the corner of Klein’s vision—almost without thinking, he maneuvered his bike into the alley.

The brilliant motorcycle headlights stunned the youths—blinding them.

One youth was holding onto the ragged girl’s arm, appearing to pull her.

“Hey, friend, bullying a lady isn’t gentlemanly behavior,” Klein raised his protective visor, removed the key from his bike, and got down.

The youth holding the girl’s arm frowned—but let go of her arm.

Yet, another youth smirked and said mockingly, “Interrupting others suddenly isn’t gentlemanly behavior either, is it? Shouldn’t you take care of yourself first? Just out of the hospital?”

Klein frowned for a moment, then said calmly, “Please don’t trouble this lady any further, alright?”

“We’re not troubling her at all,” the leading youth shook his head, “Trust me, this isn’t a hero saving the damsel scenario. We only intended to help her because she looked pitiful.”

But Klein seemed to have assumed otherwise. He removed his helmet, hung it on the bike’s handlebars, and said in a laid-back manner, “Knight’s Code, Article Six: Never coerce a lady. Article Five: Always provide aid to ladies… leave!”

The three youths frowned, exchanged glances, and then the leader outright said, “And hand her over to you? Sorry, you’re not exactly a reputable person either.”

“Gentlemen, I would prefer you don’t regret this… truly,” Klein sighed and slowly approached.

Injured or not, dealing with a few young punks was manageable… he contemplated handling the situation smoothly—perhaps scaring them away would be for the best. After all, there was no concrete harm done to the lady; the police couldn’t charge them.

He even wished for a violent resolution.

But then he saw the leading youth reach into his pocket, likely to pull something out… Klein hesitated, suspecting a weapon, and resolved to act first.

He charged ahead—only to halt abruptly in place upon reaching the youth.

“So… Social worker ID?”

The youth sighed, “Yes, that’s my work badge. I merely intended to help this lady and take her back to the social worker center… have you misunderstood? If you still don’t believe it, you can call to verify… Moreover, here’s my identification card.”

“But… but you all…” Klein looked peculiarly at their attire.

Ear-pierced punk, dyed hair, black lips… claiming to be social workers?

“Is that strange? We just have this hobby and just returned from a performance…” The youth shrugged.

Now this was awkward…

“I am deeply sorry!!!!!!!”