The Villainess Returns with a System-Chapter 109: Brookwell Crossing Scandal

Mortimer Page—the most accomplished pamphleteer (journalist) of the Morning Gazette—sat across from the newest tool in his arsenal, the new typing machine, feeling at a loss for both letters and words, in a unique feeling of frustration that invaded his chest.

The middle-aged man was a veteran in many things in life—a rifleman in His Majesty’s army, a cannoneer, a medic, and then, after a close brush with death, a journalist, a novelist, and a self-proclaimed historian.

Mortimer’s life goal was to focus on the life of the regular man, the commoners, and the things unrelated to the arcane. He believed with every fibre of his being that, just as the Age of Saints came to an end, how the monsters disappeared from the modern world, and how the myths of the past were ground and shredded by the gears of the modern machine, he believed that magic has no future and knights will soon be outdated, outsmarted, and overpowered by something new.

Of course, no sane man would speak those beliefs out loud. Magic was embedded in the faith of the Seven Saints, and knights were part of the ruling class. However, this belief appeared in Mortimer’s choice of articles, as he was always uninterested in whether a new mage emerged, unlike his colleagues, and would rather focus on the affairs that are of interest in day-to-day life.

But as this typing machine entered his life when he was covering its emergence at the Moore Conglomerate Annual Party, he was pulling his hair every minute. Not only were his hands too inflexible to type for long hours, but he was also so used to the pen and paper that he almost had a brawl with the editor-in-chief, who ordered a typing machine for every employee with strict orders to "use" them.

"Finally, I rid myself of Mortimer’s senseless scribbles!" the editor-in-chief shouted as he unboxed the first machine and placed it with excitement on Mortimer’s desk with his two hands.

Since an executive order was passed down for all articles to be typed, Mortimer was agonising over the fact that he could no longer do as he liked, but even that was the least of his worries right now.

He just witnessed a career-defining moment, and with these inflexible hands, he had written all the notes that he gathered from the scene in less than an hour before the editors arrived.

Just where to begin?

The scale of destruction?

The number of police casualties?

The mystery of the White Furies?

The death of the children’s beloved, Mrs Becky?

Or the fact that an unauthorised Treasury Convoy was moving illegal goods across the city? ƒreewebɳovel.com

Brookwell Crossing is an important intersection in Archester, a place where all the double-decker bus carriages pass constantly, and the headquarters of the famous Brookwell Teahouse and Club is in that place, the most prestigious gathering spot for Elgard’s academia.

This was a scandal that could not be covered even with a sheet ten miles long and wide, a behemoth that exploded in the Capital of the Empire.

So... what happened in Brookwell Crossing?

"Scarce two hours into the day, and already Archester finds itself reeling from catastrophe. A most audacious act of villainy was committed upon an important intersection, where the Bloody Swan and the Devil Man laid siege to what, at first glance, appeared to be a Treasury Convoy of His Majesty’s coffers. Such a brazen affront ought to have been met with swift and merciless justice, yet no Royal Knights were to be found. Not a single one. Instead, those assigned to safeguard the convoy—the Royal Guard—were obliterated in a single, devastating blast, an explosion the constabulary estimates to have been no less than a ton of gunpowder.

A Treasury Convoy, bereft of its expected escort, ambushed by an unholy measure of volatile powder—who among us, dear readers, finds this circumstance anything less than peculiar? But the oddities do not end there.

Among the confirmed criminals at the scene was none other than Natasha Ivanov, the fugitive harlot of infamy, accused by House Moore of the attempted poisoning of Lady Saskia Moore and nine other noble dames of high society. Reports state that she possessed a most unnatural artifact, a sorcerous trinket rendering her impervious to musket fire and all manner of harm. But what, pray, was a wanted criminal doing aboard a Treasury Convoy?

A vexing question indeed. And one that His Majesty’s officials refuse to answer. What is certain, however, is that Natasha was ensconced within one of the convoy’s carriages, bound for some destination known only to those who now hold their tongues.

Now to the carnage itself. A most violent engagement erupted ere the constables even arrived, with the Bloody Swan and the Devil Man seeking to plunder the convoy’s spoils. Yet their plans were interrupted by the sudden emergence of Natasha Ivanov, and what followed was a ferocious contest between the rogue factions. As the fray intensified, new players entered the stage—those grim-faced warrior-women known as the White Furies, adorned with the same impervious enchantment as Natasha herself. It was they who turned the tide, wielding a strength beyond mortal measure, hurling the wreckage of carriages and stone alike at the police and their foes. Musket balls bounced harmlessly off their skin, and despair took hold among our beleaguered constables.

And then, a most astonishing turn. The Bloody Swan, in what can only be described as a devil’s gambit, turned her musket against the Furies themselves. And lo! One of them fell! A feat that defied all prior understanding, for no constabulary bullet had even scratched them. The surviving Furies, rattled by this unforeseen slaughter, fell back, erecting barricades of debris ere they resumed their onslaught, now wielding their monstrous strength with renewed savagery.

The constables who endured the bombardment bore witness to yet another chilling sight—Natasha Ivanov, risen from the wreckage, eyes ablaze with rage as she sought out the Swan. What transpired next is the subject of conflicting testimonies, but all agree that the Swan, through some devilish contrivance, took to the skies as if lifted by unseen hands. Whether by infernal magic or mechanical artifice, she ascended beyond Natasha’s reach, musket in hand, and loosed a single shot upon one of the toppled carriages.

That shot shattered the door to a carriage. And from within it came forth a horror out of the East.

Witnesses speak of a creature most dreadful—a beast of Longdi legend, its form likened to a lion yet adorned with black stripes, its flesh both scaled and furred, its claws keen enough to shear through steel. Those who know of such things named it the Imperial Tiger, or the Dragon Tiger, a divine terror of foreign lands. What purpose it served within that convoy remains a mystery, but its wrath was made manifest. It descended first upon Natasha Ivanov, rending her asunder ere turning its fury upon the White Furies.

Saint Florence’s mercy be upon those constables who yet held their muskets, for they emptied their charges into the creature, forcing its retreat. Yet though it was driven from the scene, it remains at large, prowling the streets of Archester as this is being written, an abomination loose in our midst.

The toll of this ghastly affair is beyond reckoning. Countless constables lie slain, their noble duty met with an end most unjust. The Royal Guards, too, perished in vain, their lives spent in service to a mystery that now festers in the dark. Of the White Furies, only half remain to lick their wounds, their unnatural gifts no longer sufficient to assure victory as they turned tail and escaped.

Yet it is not merely men who have been lost this night. Among the wreckage, a discovery most grievous was made—the cherished Mrs Becky, the innocent and beloved bird, last of its kind, was found lifeless amidst the carnage.

As for Natasha Ivanov, her mutilated remains have been taken into police custody. And yet, dear reader, note this well—no trace of her artifact was found. Whatever power made her impervious is now absent, vanished into the ether or the hands unknown. The same, indeed, can be said of the remaining carriages’ contents, which, when inquired upon, led only to curt refusals and the swift expulsion of all inquisitive pamphleteers from the scene.

A tragedy, a scandal, and a mystery all in one. And as of this hour, we are left with naught but questions.

Who permitted a Royal Treasury Convoy to traverse the city unescorted by knights? What manner of horrors are being ferried through our streets under the guise of state business? What action shall be taken against the Dragon-Tiger that now lurks in our alleys, an unseen menace to innocent lives? And for what reason, in God’s name, was Mrs Becky among the convoy’s cargo?

More pressing still—what sinister ties bound Natasha Ivanov to this convoy? What terrible truth spurred House Moore to scour every shadow in pursuit of her? And above all, what infernal alchemy granted those White Furies their unnatural resilience?

Who are the Bloody Swan and the Devil Man? Why did their weapons succeed where all others failed? What dreadful knowledge do they possess that remains hidden from the rest of us?

Who, dear reader, shall answer for this night’s horrors? Who bears the weight of these secrets?

The people of Archester demand the truth. And by all the Saints and the relentless pursuit of me and my fellow reporters, IT. SHALL. COME. OUT."

Mortimer Page looked at the report that he wrote and felt both agony in his hand and pride in his heart.

This story will either take his career to unprecedented heights or make the editor-in-chief so scared that it will be buried under a pile of forbidden reports.

Mortimer did not know the fate of his bold report, the report that would cause a stir in public opinion just as the Blackthorn epidemic was spreading through the city.

Luckily, he has a friend who owes him a big favour in the printing press, and if he pulls that string with him, he will get the report behind the editor-in-chief’s back. He just has to show another "watered-down" report to the editor-in-chief and pray nobody finds out.

A few hours later, that happened.

Mortimer’s report was on the front page, the most accomplished reporter in Archester delivered something legendary, and the gazettes were sold even to commoners that day.

The editor-in-chief had a big fight with Mortimer; the latter called him the "Idiotor-in-chief", which caused the former to fire him on the spot.

Then the constables arrived at the building, arrested everyone under the charge of rebellion, and started investigating. As everyone claimed innocence, Mortimer took the blame all by himself. He was led to the Tower of Archester, the infamous prison made for the worst of the worst.

After three days, the man was bailed out by a famous lawyer who stood for his defence and got him out of jail. While it seemed that he was now jobless, he was proud and walked out with his head held high.

Then, he met the employer of his lawyer, the true patron behind the scenes. Mortimer Page got a new job as the editor-in-chief of the new wild gazette that was invading the stalls like wildfire, ViTech’s Gossipurium.

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