“Is this thing really worth fifty francs?”
Vivian pressed her face against the glass jar, her eyes bulging like a deep-sea fish about to swallow it whole.
There was nothing inside the jar except a swirl of white mist.
The Bandage Vendor was a bizarre figure wrapped head to toe in bandages, exposing only a lipless mouth.
“This is ‘Napoleon’s Sigh,’ miss,” the Bandage Vendor croaked.
“On the night of the Battle of Waterloo, it was the Emperor’s last sigh inside his tent. Take a breath, and you’ll gain the ambition to rule Europe… or maybe cure your asthma, if luck’s on your side.”
“And if it doesn’t work?”
“Then just consider it a donation to France’s historical spirit.”
“Pah.”
Ever since they entered this so-called “Miracle Alley,” she’d already seen, within ten minutes, people selling “Louis XIV’s Foot Bath Water,” “Last Sight of the Beheaded,” and a “Self-writing Love Letter Quill” (which, incidentally, only wrote lewd jokes).
“Let’s go, Princess,” Cicero called, tapping his cane impatiently against the ground.
He looked thoroughly displeased, exceedingly so.
Ever since Vivian had labeled him as the “vicious servant who bullies his unfortunate master,” the thieves, tricksters, and desperados had all started looking at him with… respect?
Yes, respect.
Here in Miracle Alley, a servant who could reduce their master to tears was often regarded as a true force to be reckoned with.
Just a moment ago, a poison vendor even tried to hand Cicero a business card, asking if he wanted to wholesale some “Butler’s Happy Powder.”
“I’m coming, I’m coming, stop rushing me already.”
Vivian cast one last, longing glance at the next-door barbecue stand, where a Mutant Chicken with three wings was being roasted.
It smelled amazing.
“Get that look off your face. The person we’re looking for is just ahead.”
Cicero turned and pointed his cane at a ramshackle building.
It was a two-story shack pieced together entirely from pipes, gears, and tin sheets.
By the door hung a gigantic mechanical arm, clutching a constantly spinning prosthetic eye.
The sign above was scrawled with wobbly letters: [Blind Old Man’s Pawnshop — We take anything but a conscience].
“If you need technical appraisal in the Black Market,” Cicero said as he pushed open the iron door, which let out a blood-curdling screech.
“The Blind Old Man is your only choice.”
The moment they stepped in, a dense wave of tobacco smoke hit them.
“Cough, cough, cough!” Vivian waved her hand, trying to swat away the blue haze.
The place was a mess, littered with spare parts everywhere.
Half a steam locomotive dangled from the ceiling, piles of unknown mechanical limbs cluttered the corners, and the counter was covered with all sorts of lenses, clockwork springs, and dried-up lubricant cans.
And in the very center of this junk, half a man floated.
It was an old fellow with a wild white beard, but only the upper half of his body remained.
From the waist down, he was welded to a brass base that belched steam. There were no wheels beneath, only jet nozzles that let him hover like a human air-cushion boat.
“Who’s there?”
The old man was holding a precision Screwdriver, repairing something that looked like an explosive alarm clock.
He spun around, the base blasting a gust of air that sent two scraps of paper flying.
“Oh, isn’t this the noble Judge?”
The Blind Old Man squinted his sightless, white eyes, then donned a pair of thick, microscope-like goggles.
“What is it? Has the Church finally recognized my talent and decided to make me the Pope?”
Cicero pinched his nose with a handkerchief, giving a disdainful sidestep to avoid a mechanical tentacle that stretched toward him.
“I have something I want you to look at.”
“I knew it. No one comes for nothing.” The Blind Old Man snorted, floating over to the counter.
“Show me. But I’ll warn you, if it’s some common antique watch, I’ll stick this Screwdriver up your nose.”
Vivian took the gear, carefully wrapped in a handkerchief, from her pocket and set it on the table.
The Golden Gear glimmered in the dim light.
The Blind Old Man pushed his goggles up absentmindedly and leaned in.
“Let’s see what junk you’ve… hmm?”
His movements froze, as if someone had hit pause on a videotape.
Behind those thick lenses, his eyes suddenly went wide.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
“Clack.”
The Screwdriver fell from the Blind Old Man’s hand and hit the floor.
“This is…”
His voice trembled. It was the kind of trembling that comes from pure, abject terror.
“This is… that woman’s…”
“Which woman?” Vivian leaned in, sharp as ever. “A rich lady?”
The Blind Old Man jerked his head up, his face drained of all color.
“You… you want to get me killed!!” he shrieked, so loud that the locomotive chunk hanging from the ceiling rattled.
“I’m out! I’m not looking! Take it away! Get it away!”
The Blind Old Man flailed wildly, the steam vents under his base shooting off in all directions, turning him into a runaway top crashing behind the counter.
“Calm down.” Cicero frowned. “It’s just a gear.”
“Just a gear? Ha! Ha! Ha!”
The Blind Old Man let out a hysterical laugh, then suddenly lunged for the wall behind the counter.
There was a big red button there, marked with a skull.
“If you brought Death in here, then let’s all die together!”
“Hey! Aren’t you being a bit extreme?!” Vivian cried out.
The Blind Old Man’s hand was just about to slap down on the button.
Cicero’s eyes flashed coldly, about to raise his cane.
But someone moved faster.
“That’s my gold!” Vivian roared, her voice filled with the instinct to defend her property.
She didn’t care if the shop exploded, but what if that pure gold gear got melted in the blast?
Her body acted before her mind—her sprinting skills, honed from past supermarket egg sales, erupted forth.
Vivian vaulted over the counter, and just as the Blind Old Man’s hand was a mere 0.01 centimeters from the button, she slid in—
She noticed, at the very bottom of the Blind Old Man’s pack, a pin with a small note beside it: [For Maintenance Only].
“Come down from there!” Vivian grabbed the pin and yanked it out with all the might of a carrot-pulling contest.
“Psssssssst!!!” An ear-splitting rush of gas echoed through the shop.
“AAAAAAAHHH—” The steam base, thrown out of balance, turned into a runaway balloon.
“Whoosh!”
The Blind Old Man took off.
He zigzagged around the cramped shop, bouncing about like a headless fly.
“Thud!”
He crashed into the ceiling.
“Bang!”
He knocked over a shelf, sending mechanical limbs clattering everywhere.
“Help! My valve! My backside!” the Blind Old Man wailed as he spun through the air.
Cicero stood in place, elegantly sidestepping a flying wrench. He ducked his head slightly, letting the old man whistle past just above him.
The Blind Old Man’s screams mingled with the hissing steam: “Plururururu—”
Finally, when the last wisp of steam was spent—
“Plop.”
The Blind Old Man flopped onto a ceiling beam like a wet rag, his brass base still hissing faintly.
He hung there, like a strip of air-dried meat.
At last, the room quieted.
Only the mechanical eye on the counter continued spinning, “click, click.”
Vivian dusted herself off and tossed away a loose nut that had fallen into her collar.
“Alright, can we have a calm conversation now?”
She looked up at the Blind Old Man hanging from the beam. He rolled his eyes back, clearly fainted.
Five minutes later.
The Blind Old Man was tied to a chair, looking as if he’d lost the will to live.
Vivian stood beside him, wielding an enormous wrench like an enforcer.
“Talk,” Cicero said, seated across from him in the only clean chair, rolling the gear in his hand.
“Where did this come from?”
The Blind Old Man trembled, staring at the gear as if it were a poisonous snake.
“That… that’s Madame Elodie’s handiwork.”
“Elodie?” Vivian thought the name sounded familiar. “Isn’t that your old flame?”
“Ow!” Cicero tapped her head with his cane.
“She vanished after 1793. Everyone thought she was dead. But there’s always been a rumor.” The Blind Old Man gulped, lowering his voice.
“Rumor has it, deep inside Monmartre Heights, there’s an Invisible Workshop.”
“Invisible?” Cicero narrowed his eyes.
“Yes. It’s a place with Erased Physical Coordinates. Only with a gear like this can you find the entrance.”
He pointed at the gear.
“See the Iris of Reverse Growth engraved on it? That’s her mark.”
“This ended up inside the councilman’s body.”
“Because it’s… it’s ‘fuel.'”
“Madame Elodie… she wasn’t making dolls.” His voice rasped.
“She was God-making.”
“God-making?” Vivian was stunned. “With what? Gears and steam?”
“With ‘Memory’.” The Blind Old Man began to laugh, a laugh more painful than crying.
“With the Memory of those past eras that refuse to die… That councilman, there must be more parts inside him. He’s a chosen Sacrificial Offering.”
“She’s collecting Old Dynasty Ghosts and stuffing them into Steel Shells.”
“She’s trying… to resurrect that woman who lost her head.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop by ten degrees.
Vivian shivered.
“Where’s that Workshop?” Cicero stood, clearly having heard enough.
“I… I don’t know the exact location.” The Blind Old Man shook his head desperately. “But I know who’s in charge of transporting the parts.”
“Who?”
“Deepest part of the Black Market. The Art Dealer who sells ‘Nightmare.’ He’s got the Map.”
Cicero nodded and slipped the gear back into his pocket.
“Let’s go, Detective. We have a new target.”
“Wait.” The Blind Old Man suddenly called out.
“You can’t just leave me! Now that I’ve told you this secret, the people of ‘Twilight’ will come for my life!”
“That’s your problem.”