Extreme Cold Era: Shelter Don't Keep Waste-Chapter 897 - 126

Perfikot stood quietly at the floor-to-ceiling window of the penthouse suite in the Marsel Hotel, her cold fingertips gently resting on the carved window frame.

The city at dusk was shrouded in smoke, the tall, steel bodies of the Steam Knights standing like statues at every street corner. The steam cores on their bodies rotated slowly, emitting wisps of white mist, yet they maintained a silent posture, never truly engaging in suppression.

The actual enforcement of suppression came from the local Empire garrison.

The faces of these soldiers were full of repressed anger—the assassination of the Empire Regent, the mining revolt, one after another, had long stretched their nerves to the limit.

Now facing the resistance of the French, this pent-up fury finally found an outlet for release.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Perfikot took in the chaos of the entire city: In the distant streets, soldiers roughly kicked open the doors of civilian homes; in the nearby square, several ragged civilians were pinned onto the cobblestone ground, enduring whipping; further on the horizon, threads of black smoke rose from buildings in different directions.

Even through the thick glass, the heart-wrenching cries and pleas were clearly audible.

The Countess's lips tautened into a cold, hard line.

She was not stone-hearted—after all, those wailing on the streets were living people.

But at this moment, she had to bury this instinctive compassion deep in the darkest corner of her heart.

This was not only a necessary response to the assassination but also a practical consideration: She needed the city, needed the entire French region to completely submit in order to gather enough resources and absolute obedience for the Floating City plan.

"This is a necessary sacrifice..." Perfikot murmured softly, unconsciously rubbing the cold window glass with her fingertips.

As she pondered, a particularly sharp scream suddenly erupted outside the window.

A team of soldiers was dragging a young man toward the center of the square, his legs trailing horrifying blood marks on the rough cobblestone ground.

Perfikot instinctively closed her eyes, her long eyelashes casting shadows over her pale cheeks.

"Madam, should I close the blinds?" The attendant behind her asked cautiously.

Perfikot slowly shook her head and reopened her ice lake-like serene heterochromic eyes: "No need! As rulers, we must face the price of our choices."

Her voice was light, yet with an undeniable resolve.

Just then, a rush of footsteps broke the silence of the room.

The deputy of the local garrison commander approached Perfikot quickly, saluting with a slightly tense voice and reporting: "Regent, the mining revolt has been quelled. The garrison executed twelve leading miners, while the rest were escorted back to the mines under armed guard."

Perfikot turned around, candlelight leaping in her heterochromatic eyes, reflecting a cold light: "Has the attendant's background been clarified?"

"It has been confirmed that he is indeed a local of Marsel." The deputy respectfully handed over a parchment document, "But our investigation found several suspicious aspects in his recent activities."

Perfikot took the document, her slender fingers gently caressing the ink on the surface. Her gaze suddenly stopped on a record from three days ago — a small tavern in the southern city called "Rusty Nail," where the attendant lingered for an unusually long four hours.

The document's margins also noted the tavern owner's covert connections with several members of the French resistance organization.

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In the dark and damp depths of the mine, Jiang Bo'Er curled up in a narrow shaft, his back pressed against the cold rock wall.

The faint glow of a kerosene lamp flickered in the moist air, illuminating his paper-pale face and bloodshot eyes.

The air was filled with the pungent smell of coal dust and a faint scent of blood, with the distant clatter of metal friction and the hiss of steam machines releasing pressure faintly audible.

The old miner beside him was hunched over, his wrinkled face covered in coal dust.

He spoke in a hoarse whisper: "Renault was taken by them, he probably already..."

His words choked off midway, his calloused hands trembling unconsciously, coal dust trickling down from his grizzled hair.

Jiang Bo'Er did not reply, only clenching his fists tightly, his nails digging deep into his palms, yet feeling no pain.

"Is that secret passage still usable?" After a long time, Jiang Bo'Er finally asked in a low voice, his eyes fixed on the flickering firelight at the end of the shaft.

The old miner shook his head, coal dust falling with his movements: "Barely, but it's too dangerous! The Victorians have intensified patrols at all exits, with two fully armed soldiers at each entrance." He licked his cracked lips, lowering his voice further, "They even have those damned hounds, those beasts can sniff out even a mouse's scent."

A trace of determination flashed in Jiang Bo'Er's eyes as he carefully pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. On it, routes were sketched in charcoal, with several key positions marked with guard shift times.

"This must be delivered to the 'Rusty Nail' tavern," he said through clenched teeth, his voice carrying a sense of desperate resolve, "This is the last chance. By noon tomorrow, it must reach Old Charlie."

As Jiang Bo'Er ventured through the intricate underground passageways, an unexpected guest arrived at the "Rusty Nail" tavern in the southern part of the city.