The sudden fog thickened rapidly before their eyes.
The middle-aged officer driving the carriage had no choice but to turn the lantern to its highest brightness and even light a spare one, yet it was useless. The dense fog obscured everything, making it impossible to see the road ahead.
The carriage, which had been moving swiftly, slowed to a crawl.
Fortunately, they were already at the entrance of Guta Street.
Their destination, No. 13 Guta Street, was not far away.
The officer carefully guided the carriage forward, but trouble still found them.
Neigh!
With a sharp cry, the horse stumbled. The carriage wobbled violently before coming to a complete stop.
The driver immediately grabbed a lantern and jumped down to check on the horse.
"Tucker, what's wrong?"
Swart's voice came from inside the carriage.
"Captain, the fog's too thick I didn't notice a dip in the road. The horse's hoof is injured."
"We'll have to walk from here."
Straightening up after his inspection, the officer spoke helplessly toward the carriage.
After saying that, he prepared to approach and illuminate Swart's way. Even though a lantern was still hanging on the carriage, he wouldn't miss a chance to earn favor with Swart.
More importantly, he hoped that by being attentive, Swart would overlook the fact that the horse was injured—a minor issue.
Even if it meant the horse would likely be sold off to the butcher.
As he pondered how best to feign innocence, the officer failed to notice the danger behind him.
The moment he stepped forward, a large hand emerged from the fog, clamping over his mouth. A gleaming dagger slashed across his throat.
His body shuddered. A desperate struggle flickered through his eyes before the light in them dimmed completely.
By the time the attacker silently lowered his lifeless body to the ground, there was no breath left in him.
The assassin, now covered in blood, didn't seem to care. Without hesitation, he strode openly toward the carriage.
The fog would conceal him—his features, the bloodstains—everything.
And the moment the carriage door opened, he would strike.
Only the target needed to stay alive.
The rest?
All of them had to die.
This job was easy for him.
Including this one, he had already done it four times before.
He was practically an expert.
As for them being police?
That was never his concern.
"Damn it!"
Swart cursed under his breath at his officer's report. His face was dark, not because he minded walking, even if he had just had his shoes freely polished that afternoon.
Right now, all he felt was unease.
Swart knew better than anyone—when that man was involved, nothing was ever normal.
Everything was deadly.
Breathe. Steady yourself.
Taking two deep breaths, he forced his emotions into check, then signaled one of his subordinates to exit first.
The officer hesitated, clearly sensing something was wrong. But facing Swart's command, he dared not refuse.
He raised a hand, reaching for the carriage door—
Only to be stopped.
Goethe, who had somehow unshackled himself, raised a finger to his lips, signaling for silence. Then, in one swift motion, he snatched the revolver from Swart's waist and fired through the carriage door.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three consecutive gunshots.
Outside, a body collapsed onto the ground.
"Are you insane?!"
Swart gasped, thinking Goethe had just shot their driver.
But Goethe paid him no mind. He kicked open the carriage door and flung his coat outside.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Gunfire erupted from within the mist.
The coat, caught mid-air, jerked and twisted under the force of bullets, fluttering like a bat in the night wind before finally dropping to the ground in tatters.
Swart and his two officers flinched instinctively, shrinking back.
Almost reflexively, Swart turned to ask Goethe what to do next—
Only to realize that Goethe was gone.
At the same time, the carriage door on the opposite side had been silently pushed open.
Clearly, while the attackers were distracted by the coat, Goethe had already slipped out the other side.
Seeing this, Swart's two subordinates immediately lunged for the same door, shoving at each other in their panic to escape.
The officer whom Goethe had held at gunpoint earlier, realizing that Swart also intended to flee through that exit, didn't hesitate—he kicked Swart straight in the face.
The sheriff recoiled, covering his face, while Swart's two subordinates, realizing they were at a stalemate, leaped off the carriage almost simultaneously.
But before they could steady themselves—
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Blood sprayed into the air as more than five bullets tore through their bodies.
Their limbs convulsed violently, as if electrocuted, before they collapsed into a pool of blood, lifeless.
Witnessing this, Swart, who had just been cursing in fury, immediately clamped a hand over his mouth, forcing himself into silence. Trembling, he curled up beneath the carriage seat.
"What do I do? What do I do?"
"Am I about to die young?"
"I knew getting involved in that lord's affairs would bring disaster!"
The sheriff huddled there, shaking uncontrollably. His mind had turned to mush, leaving him unable to think. His body moved purely on instinct, hiding.
In contrast, Goethe, who had rolled off the carriage, remained eerily clear-headed.
The instant the scent of blood hit him through the carriage door, his mind snapped into razor-sharp focus.
Now, crouched against the wall, he let his eyes adjust to the thick fog, carefully memorizing the locations where gunfire had flashed earlier.
Yet, he did not fire.
Instead, keeping his gaze locked on the source of the gunfire, he moved cautiously and silently, creeping toward a nearby building.
Never fight in unfamiliar territory.
He had learned that lesson the hard way back home nearly losing his life. That near-death experience taught him exactly what he needed to do in this situation—
Get back to No. 13 Guta Street!
The dense fog obscured his vision, yet his enemies seemed unaffected.
Clearly, they were accustomed to fighting in this kind of environment.
They might even have some kind of aid that allowed them to see through the fog as if it weren't there.
As for him?
Even after straining to adjust, his vision was still heavily impaired.
In this situation, his marksmanship wouldn't be enough to secure victory.
But once he reached No. 13 Guta Street, things would change.
That was Goethe's home.
He had nearly nineteen years of memories of that place.
There—
He would have the advantage!