For London's night, to the gentlemen and ladies of high society, it meant crystal chandeliers in opera houses and champagne flowing in salons; but for the rats in the gutters, it presented an entirely different scene.

The glow of gas lamps was diluted into hazy yellow halos within the thick fog, and beyond those halos lay darkness capable of swallowing everything.

This was the White Church District, a massive, never-healing scar behind the glamorous face of the empire where the sun never sets.

Lin Jie moved like a shadow, hugging the walls as he swiftly navigated these boundaries between light and dark.

His breathing had already stabilized, but the wound on his right shoulder throbbed with a dull ache, each heartbeat bringing sharp stabs of pain that reminded him of the danger he had just experienced.

He knew those two pursuers would never give up easily.

Professionals like them would inevitably have their own "Eyes" in a mixed bag place like the White Church District.

The beggars scattered on street corners, the prostitutes, or the seemingly drunk bartenders in taverns—any one of them could betray his whereabouts in the next second for a few pennies to buy black bread.

He needed to quickly find a hiding place that could isolate him from the outside world.

Moving eastward, the streets grew narrower and muddier, the air increasingly pungent.

Beyond the lingering smell of coal smoke, it was mixed with the chemical odor from inferior tanning workshops, the bloody scent from slaughterhouses, and the nauseating stench of waste bubbling up from sewers due to failed drainage systems.

The buildings here showed no planning, resembling a pile of randomly stacked blocks leaning against each other, forming a solid yet rotting deformed whole.

This was the true face of the White Church District.

An independent kingdom built from poverty, crime, and despair.

Finally, he saw his destination, obtained for the price of one penny.

It was a cheap rental apartment building known as "11 Dorset Street."

It was notorious throughout the White Church District, privately called the "Rat's Nest" or "The Poor's Last Stop" by locals.

Its fame came not from having the cheapest rent, but from being the most chaotic and rule-free place.

Rumor had it that as long as you could afford the four-pence nightly "bed fee," even if you were a murderer wanted by Scotland Yard, the landlord here wouldn't ask any questions.

At the apartment entrance, several men in tattered clothes were gathered around a burning trash can for warmth, their murky eyes flickering with numb yet alert light.

Lin Jie pulled up his collar, doing his best to cover his Eastern features, and walked in quickly with his head down.

The ground floor of the apartment was one large dormitory room. Under the dim kerosene lamp light, dozens of indistinguishable shadows crowded onto double or even triple-layer simple bed frames, packed like sardines in a can.

Coughs, sleep-talking, and drunkards' snores rose and fell in succession.

A hunchbacked old man with a wrinkled face sat behind a crooked table, holding a money box in his arms.

He was the landlord here, known as "Old Mole."

His eyes, like two murky glass beads, quickly scanned every newcomer, assessing their value and potential danger.

Lin Jie walked up to him and placed several copper pennies on the table.

Old Mole didn't count them, just used his long, yellow fingernails to sweep the coins into the money box, then lifted his chin toward the lowest bunk in the farthest corner, right next to a leaking wall.

"Four hours. Get out when time's up."

Lin Jie nodded without speaking and went straight to his "bed." The so-called bed was just a wooden plank with a few dirty pieces of burlap.

He lay down, curled up facing the wall, using the bundle containing his gun and diary as a pillow.

He didn't remove his equally ragged clothes, ready at any moment to deal with unexpected situations.

In this environment, letting your guard down was equivalent to suicide. He could feel the malicious gazes directed at him from around.

Here, an obvious outsider, especially a seemingly weak and injured Easterner, was like fresh meat thrown into a pack of wolves.

Sure enough, before long, a tall man reeking of alcohol staggered over. He bent down, his strong alcohol breath hitting Lin Jie's face.

"Hey, yellow monkey," he said in heavily accented Irish English, "why don't you show everyone what you've got in your arms?"

Lin Jie kept his eyes closed and didn't move.

In situations like this, any sign of weakness would invite further bullying.

Seeing Lin Jie's lack of response, the drunkard's patience clearly ran out. He reached out with a rough, large hand, directly grabbing for Lin Jie's bundle.

Just as his fingertips were about to touch the bundle, Lin Jie's eyes snapped open, devoid of any emotion, like two pieces of quenched cold iron.

Simultaneously, his left hand, hidden in his sleeve all along, shot out like lightning, firmly gripping the wrist that was twice the size of his own.

At the same time, his right hand had already pressed silently against the drunkard's abdomen.

Through a layer of worn clothing, the drunkard could clearly feel a hard, cold, circular object.

It was a gun barrel.

The drunkenness and sneer on the drunkard's face instantly froze.

He looked down at the seemingly frail hand that held him like an iron clamp, then felt the lethal sensation against his stomach. Cold sweat immediately broke out on his forehead, sobering him up halfway.

He had seen guns before, but in a place like this, someone who could draw a weapon so decisively was definitely not someone to mess with.

Lin Jie still didn't speak, just watched him quietly with those cold eyes.

The two stood in confrontation for a full ten seconds.

The other tenants who had been ready to watch the show quietly averted their gazes. They understood—this new Easterner was a porcupine with spines.

In the end, it was the drunkard who backed down first.

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, then cautiously withdrew his hand, raising both hands to show he meant no harm.

"Hey, hey... brother, just a joke, don't take it seriously."

Only then did Lin Jie release his grip, his body relaxing again as he stared intently at the drunkard.

The drunkard retreated resentfully to his own bunk, not daring to look in this direction again.

A small disturbance was quelled in this silent manner. Lin Jie had successfully established his authority here for the first time.

He had proven to everyone that he wasn't someone to be trifled with.

Though temporarily safe, Lin Jie felt no sleepiness.

He knew very well this was only temporary—his pursuers would eventually find this place. He couldn't count on this "Rat's Nest" to protect him forever.

He needed information, needed to understand the environment he was in, and even more needed to find a breakthrough point for counterattack. His fingers gently rubbed the hard cover of the German diary through the cloth bundle.

It contained the secrets of another world and held the key to breaking his predicament. He had to decipher its contents quickly.

But in 1888 London, where could he find a translator who understood German, could keep secrets, and was trustworthy?

This problem troubled him more than evading pursuit.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself not to think about these things. Physical exhaustion washed over him like a tide, and the wound on his right shoulder began to inflame, throbbing with pain intermittently.

He needed rest, even a brief light sleep was better than keeping his nerves constantly taut.

Just before sinking into sleep, he heard a commotion outside the apartment and a woman's piercing scream.

But the sound was soon swallowed by the eternal noise of the White Church District, failing to cause even a ripple.

Lin Jie paid it no mind.

Here, death and screams were more common than black bread.

He didn't know that just moments ago, in some dark corner not far from the apartment where he was hiding, a terrifying legend that would soon shock all of London had quietly begun its prologue.