A saintess? She's just a bad woman.

Page 149

She deliberately kept the conversation in suspense, stopping at its most intriguing point to observe the noblewoman's reaction. Even though the latter didn't express a strong thirst for knowledge about the occult, the subtle rhythm of her cane tapping revealed her eagerness.

It was well hidden, but it didn't work on Saint Karina. A person skilled in reading people can always find traces of emotional fluctuations through subtle details; she just happens to have a keen sense of smell.

“You must share all the information about this game with me without reservation, unless you don’t want the remaining three-quarters.”

"Excuse me. The matter of the dead murdering the living also involves a occult concept—the vengeful spirit."

Several customers passed by, and Santa Karina deliberately lowered her voice, reducing the safe distance between them to half a meter. As long as there was no physical contact, their communication was considered civilized.

“A vengeful spirit… Some of my investigator friends who work in the long nights have mentioned similar cases to me. What is your basis for this? Such a deliberately conspicuous method of murder doesn’t seem like the work of a vengeful spirit at all.”

"Miss Williams, have you ever heard of the Sea Wraith?"

Saint Karina's tone of voice suddenly shifted to that of an urban legend narrator, or a host of a midnight radio show, whose program was thriller and horror, adding a chill to the night with bizarre and outlandish tales and waking listeners from their sleepiness.

Virginia nodded.

"I've heard a little about it. Long Night usually calls them 'water ghosts.' The concept of 'sea vengeful spirits' was proposed by a witch who works at Long Night. It's very difficult to pronounce in Victorian, so it hasn't become popular. The official term 'water ghosts' is still used. That's all I know. All of Long Night's case files and investigation materials are kept confidential. I don't have access to them."

They passed through the doors of the viewing gallery and walked up a row of ornate spiral staircases.

The brass-colored handrails, the smooth black stone slabs paving the staircase platform, and the intricate openwork carvings on the metal railings are not typical examples of crude craftsmanship.

As Virginia climbed the stairs, her pace slowed even more. Each step upwards was accompanied by a soft panting.

“Go on... Don’t worry, I won’t fall.”

Since that's the case, Saint Karina simply ignored her panting and withdrew her little bit of humanitarian spirit, which was insignificant in the other party's eyes.

"Sea spirits are vengeful souls trapped in the ocean. They had unfulfilled wishes or unvented hatred in life. They died at sea or on the coast and became sea-bound spirits. These sea-bound spirits possess great power, and the source of this power is the ocean. Although the times are moving forward and mankind has conquered the land and islands, it has never been able to conquer the sky and the sea."

Upon reaching the platform, Santa Karina stopped climbing and waited for Virginia to catch up.

The designer of the Avlov was a person with a great love for art, and reliefs, oil paintings, sculptures and other artworks can always be seen in the public areas of the ship's cabins.

The thick, hard brass-colored metal wall, which should have been a heavy, rough, and unshakeable presence, is transformed into a small art exhibition corner by these works of different styles and full of humanistic spirit, thus diluting the coldness brought by the industrial era.

The oil painting hanging in the middle became an excellent example for exploring the topic of sea ghosts. There were also real people in Victoria who were involved in the case, which was also the earliest case of a sea ghost murder that Victorians came into contact with.

The case is so old that it has been almost buried in the dust of time. Only a few people know about it through the records left from that time, that such a shocking case occurred before the most prosperous era of Victoria. Others are completely unaware of it.

The medieval era, so different from today's steam-powered, large-scale industrial age, is condensed into a narrow wooden picture frame.

Santa Karina pointed to the oil painting on the wall, "Do you know Ophelia?"

"A young girl drowning in the Thames is a common figure in many literary and theatrical works. The subject of the painting you're referring to is Ophelia. What's so special about this forgery?"

Both the painting technique and the frame are far inferior to the originals housed in the Victoria and Albert Museum.

"The topic we are discussing is not how well the painting was made, but the truth hidden behind it."

The girl, frozen in the paint frame, gazes at the person outside the frame with her clear and captivating light blue eyes, appearing innocent and touching, like a carefree fawn running through the forest.

"The real Ophelia was born in the year 231 of the Victorian calendar. She was the apple of the eye of the Minister of War at the time. She was innocent, naive, and a symbol of purity. Generally speaking, such a girl would become the object of others' covetousness or exploitation."

Virginia slowly moved to the landing in the stairwell, took out a silver pocket watch, and opened the cover.

“You’ve wasted five minutes and forty seconds in front of this picture. While Ophelia’s story may not be widely known, I’m not so ignorant as to be completely unaware of it. Miss Lina, your words sound like you’re showing off your knowledge.”

"Excuse me, but I have a disdain for people who flaunt their knowledge. You should put away your prejudice against ordinary people, my lady. Also, please don't interrupt me anymore."

Virginia's attitude displeased Santa Karina, and she thought of a famous line—"Can money really buy you anything?"

But in Victoria, money really can buy you anything. In fact, money can buy anything, anytime and anywhere.

The evil capitalists should be hung on mechanical streetlights.

Then, Virginia silently gestured for him to speak, her arrogant expression still showing no sign of resentment. She must have felt that her aristocratic dignity had been hurt by a commoner who didn't know his place.

"Let's set aside the background of the painting of Ophelia for now and get straight to the point. Ophelia, whose emotions were toyed with, could not get the understanding of her father and brothers, her mother died early, and she had no one to confide in about her grief. On a dark and stormy night, she drowned in the Thames River and became the first sea vengeful spirit recorded in history."

Santa Karina spoke with great familiarity about the painting "Ophelia" and the case that occurred that year, as if she were a witness to the case herself.

She knows a great deal, she is incredibly knowledgeable, and her vast knowledge reserves mean that Santa Karina has no worries about running out of words or appearing embarrassed when she is put in a difficult position.

"Ophelia, now a sea vengeful spirit, first and foremost seeks revenge on those who wronged or harmed her in the past. A vengeful spirit is a vengeful spirit largely depends on the treatment it received in its previous life. If it had received good treatment and had a happy and fulfilling life, it would not have continued to linger in the human world and would have gone to the underworld long ago to board the ferry of the River Styx and enter the next cycle of reincarnation."

"Hmm...then what?"

Virginia leaned against the stair railing, patiently listening to her recount a brand-new theory. The realm of mysticism was infinitely vast, far beyond the reach of ordinary people; yet this poorly dressed traveler could speak eloquently about it—perhaps it was best enjoyed as an appetizer.

"First was the lover who betrayed the innocent girl Ophelia, committing the crime of starting a relationship and then abandoning her. His name is too ancient to be found now, but the name recorded in 'The Strange Tales of Victoria' is Lyles. This young man named Lyles is a true swindler, just as his name suggests. Before his previous lover's body was even cold, he couldn't wait to turn his attention to his next target—the daughter of the Chancellor of the Exchequer."

The eyes in the oil painting behind it seemed to move slightly, blinking and sending a flirtatious glance. Then, pale blue eyes released a viscous, scarlet liquid, making the paint on the painting smudge.

When Virginia looked at it again, she found that the painting hadn't changed at all. That must be the unique illusion of someone who listens to urban legends.

She needed a cigarette made from sage to calm her mind, dispel her anxieties, and gain a brief moment of pleasure and absolute peace. But when she reached for the metal box in her pocket, she popped open the lid and found it empty.

Her personal supplies were almost gone, and going back to the waiting area to get them would be too much trouble. Asking a crew member to get them for her was certainly a good idea, but Virginia didn't like strangers in her room, so unless she got them herself, there was no other solution.

Oh well, I won't die if I occasionally relieve my pain without relying on external aids.

Saint Karina's voice entered my ears with a magical power that drew me in, like... a witch's seductive whisper.

Legend has it that witches all have black hair, and black is considered an ominous color in some places. This woman before me, so engrossed in discussing the occult, might very well be a witch in disguise, even though she has white hair.

"The Chancellor of the Exchequer's daughter was equally naive and much luckier than Ophelia. Even when she and Lyles entered into marriage, in the presence of priests and others, into what was then the largest church in the capital, Niacal—and importantly, the church was right across the Thames—she was still fortunate enough to be married."

The groom, dressed in his finest attire, was behaving strangely that day. His gait was like that of a lifeless machine, each step accompanied by a stutter. Under the watchful eyes of hundreds, he approached the silver-lanced knight, drew his sword from the knight's waist, and, with the same stammering motion, walked to the stained-glass dome. Bathed in sunlight refracted into more than a dozen colors, he used his sharp sword to sever his own head, impaling it on the blade like a skewer. He then knelt on the ground, ending his sinful life.

The scene was very immersive; the imagery came from the corner of the brain, and as the silver tongue moved, the corresponding images appeared on its own, transforming the images into language to achieve the purpose of communication.

"Doesn't it look just like a murder scene we've seen?"

"It's somewhat similar. Ophelia has been dead for 504 years. Is it possible that she could climb onto this ship and kill a mounted police officer she has no grudge against, Miss Lina?"

Virginia grabbed her cane and continued laboriously climbing the steps.

"The story is good; it's suitable for publication as a suspenseful horror novel, and it might sell very well. There's still an hour until lunchtime, so you'd better hurry and see Mrs. George Fremont. It's very impolite to disturb someone's lunch, especially a widow who has just lost her husband."

The "wonderful" story came to an abrupt end, with some parts of Saint Karina's story still unanalyzed.

The young lady had no patience to listen to her rambling on any longer. Did she expect a ready-made outline to be laid out in front of her?

Partnering with someone like that is no fun, and there won't be another chance anyway. She had to endure it because the other person was undeniably beautiful.

Forbearance!

Leaving aside the theory of copycats for now, the killer of George Fremont was either a copycat, a sea ghost, or a sea ghost with the identity of a copycat.

After several twists and turns, navigating through maze-like corridors with monotonous design styles, Virginia remembered the route, like a silent guiding machine, leading people according to a fixed procedure.

The deceased's wife, Madame Fremont, and daughter stayed in room 1919 in Section B of First Class, which was a less desirable class than Section A where Santa Karina stayed. The room was not as spacious, and the amenities were only moderately luxurious. It was suitable for people who couldn't afford a Section A ticket but didn't want to compromise on economy class.

Virginia put down her cane and knocked on the door three times.

"Who?"

A tired young woman's voice came from inside the door.

"Police officer, I have something to ask you."

Upon hearing that the person entering was a train police officer, there was a rustling sound of slippers scraping against the carpet. The door was only opened a crack and was still chained, behind which were a pair of vigilant golden eyes. The person who opened the door was a girl of about fifteen or sixteen years old, with thin cheeks, delicate features, some freckles and bruises on her face, and a piece of gauze on her forehead, with a few streaks of bright red hidden through the gaps in the white gauze.

"Please let me see your identification."

The girl looked like a frightened rabbit; all her calmness and composure were masks to ensure her own safety, and she wasn't hiding her true emotions well enough.

Saint Karina had no identification, nor could she create a fake one out of thin air. Virginia, on the other hand, remained relatively calm and actually pulled out a black-covered police ID with a golden griffin design from her pocket. Inside was a card with a black and white photograph, which had been treated with anti-counterfeiting measures.

"The person next to me is a temporary assistant and doesn't have any identification. We will only ask questions related to the case and won't interfere in other aspects, so please rest assured."

The girl hesitated, but the woman lying on the bed sat up and said in a hoarse voice:

"Let them in."

The door chain was removed, and Virginia limped into the room first, before Santa Karina finally took her first step, her legs aching and numb from standing. She had been standing for too long in the painting exhibition area, causing poor blood circulation in her legs.

The room in Block B had a plain gray fabric sofa. Having nowhere else to sit, they occupied both sides of the sofa.

The moment her body touched the sofa, Santa Karina knew what to do.

“I won’t beat around the bush, madam. Please let me see your husband’s belongings.”

249. Demon Eye True Knowledge Eye

The woman leaned against the pillow, wearing a simple light purple nightgown. Her face was haggard, and her long golden hair was disheveled, as if she had just gotten out of bed.

She was Eleanor Fremont, the wife of the deceased George Fremont. A full-time housewife in her early forties, she appeared older than her peers, perhaps due to the stress of daily life and the accumulation of unpleasant things. She looked to be over 50.

Although it may be offensive to say this, Madame Fremont was not good-looking at all. She was not even a "middle-aged woman with lingering charm" and was far below average.

Her face was rather long, with slightly prominent cheekbones. Bright silver strands could be faintly seen among her golden hair. Her skin had long lost collagen, becoming loose and wrinkled.

The deceased himself, on the contrary, appeared to have been handsome in his youth.

The combination of their genes produced a neutralizing effect, resulting in a daughter who was of above-average appearance.

The observation of the person's appearance was related to the case. Saint Karina inadvertently glimpsed the skin of Madame Fremont's small arm hidden under the blanket; it was pale and covered with severe bruises.

If you accidentally fall or bump into a hard object, the injured area should be the joint, not the forearm. Large, striking bruises of the same color can also be seen on the shoulder under the dress.

George Fremont had a drinking problem, and excessive drinking could easily cause him to lose his temper and violently assault those around him. The girl who answered the door was their daughter, and the injuries on her face confirmed that domestic violence had indeed occurred, and that it happened on this ship.

Mrs. Fremont looked at her daughter and said in a weak voice, "Betty, go and get your father's belongings so the two officers can take a look."

"Ok."

Betty Fremont walked to the corner of the room and dragged her worn-out suitcase next to the sofa. This suitcase was similar to Santa Karina's, but with more storage space, enough to hold more luggage.

The girl turned the mechanical lock on the roller and opened the box. The contents were ordinary, mostly items commonly found on middle-aged men—a pocket watch, metal-rimmed glasses, a wallet, and some clothing.

"Do you mind if I pick it up?"

"Of course not, please feel free to do as you please."

Mrs. Fremont's expression was calm, but her eyes were red and swollen, with bloodshot eyes, indicating that she had shed many tears.

Santa Karina picked up the glasses and put them on her face.

The moment she took the newspaper from the crew member, she discovered something even more interesting than the headline. Having regained her tenth-tier strength, her Demonic Eye of True Consciousness had been awakened once more; upon touching an object, her eyes could immerse themselves in observing recent events around that object.

A slightly overweight middle-aged gentleman was reading a newspaper at a round wooden table when a waitress carrying coffee was bumped into by two unruly children running in the corridor, accidentally spilling coffee on the newspaper and the customer.

The waitress looked nervous, but fortunately the middle-aged gentleman was a tolerant and kind person. He did not blame the waitress for her mistake. Instead, he handed her his handkerchief to wipe the coffee stains off her body and asked her if she had been burned by the hot coffee and if she needed to go to the ship's health room to see a doctor.

After the waiter watched the gentleman leave, the newspaper soaked in coffee was put back in its place, and the effective shot ended.

The ability to touch an object and rewind to its past is simply amazing. Saint Karina didn't know what surprises awaited her next, but she decided to make good use of it and complete this detective game to pass the time.

The deceased's glasses are like another pair of eyes at the crime scene. Wearing them is like watching an immersive 3D movie, and the effect is even more realistic than the movie, seamlessly entering the deceased's perspective.

The background is a room in first class, section B. George Fremont didn't share a room with his wife and daughter; he lived alone in the adjacent room, B1920. It was shortly after midnight when there was a knock on his door. He was just about to go to sleep when he went to the door.

"Who is it...? What brings you here so late?"

The middle-aged man's tone was impatient and slightly drunk.

A young woman's soft voice came from outside the door.

"Sir, I live next door to you. I'm a little scared to be alone at night. Could you keep me company for a chat? Just ten minutes is fine. I promise I'll leave your room after ten minutes."

Young women who stay up late at night often come to your door as a classic scam. Some people, however, have malicious intentions and think they can take advantage of the darkness to achieve some unseemly goals.

Hearing that it was a young woman speaking, and with such a pleasant voice, George Fremont immediately lowered his guard and removed the door chain.

The door was the last line of defense against danger, and standing outside was not a young and beautiful woman, but a steam-powered knight armor displayed at the entrance of the first-class lounge.

"What...is this?"

George Fremont, drunk and disoriented, rubbed his eyes. Standing before him was indeed a light steam-powered knight's armor, a sword in hand, pressing closer.

Armored figures faced off inside the room, while a thick wall of water rose at the doorway, sealing off the interior from the outside, making it airtight. George Fremont tried to shout, but found himself unable to utter a single syllable, as if he had lost his voice.

The armored figure moved with heavy steps, its movements somewhat mechanical.

George Fremont was, after all, a worldly man who had faced danger alone. He carried a gun with him on his travels. He first rolled on the ground to dodge the sword, then took out the gun from under his pillow and fired at the armor.

Six gunshots rang out, all the bullets striking the armor, leaving only a few scratches. The replica armor was made of the same material as the real steam knight armor; items forged from D43 steel are virtually indestructible, and ordinary attacks are unlikely to cause it to crack.

Unable to subdue the armored suit and unable to call for help, George Fremont decided to escape through the window. Outside was a corridor leading to the upper deck; if he could reach open space, the sluggish armored suit wouldn't be able to catch him.

The idea was good, but reality is often crueler. The water wall that sealed the door also blocked the window, preventing him from touching any hope of survival. Several hands extended from the crystal-clear water wall, binding George's hands and legs, and he was completely suppressed by a mysterious force.

His face was contorted and grotesque with fear, and he couldn't utter a sound. Humanity was as insignificant as an ant before an unspeakable power.