Westminster Bank

Chapter 23: Chapter 20: Lemon Soda, With Ice.

In the National Banquet Hall of Buckingham Palace, deep within Inner London, the patriarchs and elders of several great Knight Clans sat around a circular table.

At the head of the table was Cosso Lancelot, Patriarch of the Lancelot Family, former Knight Order Leader of the Lion Eye Knight Order, and a Silver Knight.

He said in a low voice, "The fire in the Dragon Metro affected King’s Cross Station on the Outer Side. Her Majesty the Queen sent someone to contact the London Tower, hoping we can provide a fitting response."

The patriarchs and elders present remained silent. The so-called response was nothing more than one thing—compensation.

And getting money from this group of Old Race, who were more miserly than even Blood Race vampires, was a near-impossible task.

But then, Pence, an Elder from the Hestia Family seated in a lower position than the Lancelot Patriarch, suddenly spoke up. "My Hestia Family is willing to take full responsibility for the Dragon Metro incident! So long as you all agree to petition the Holy Hall to deploy the Griffin Knight Order on the Outer Side!"

The Griffin Knight Order was one of the Six Holy Knights and was primarily managed by the Hestia Family.

"Agreed!" freewebnovel.cσ๓

"No objections!"

"I’m in favor!"

"..." fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm

Pence, who had prepared a whole speech, was momentarily silent. But then he burst out laughing, raised his wine glass to the silent patriarchs of the Frank and Lancelot families, and made a guarantee:

"I swear on the honor of the Griffin Knights, the Law Judge Baron Constantin will be utterly consumed by the Divine Punishment Fire!"

"Baron Constantin," the Frank Family Head downed his drink, his voice laced with the pain of his son’s death as he gritted his teeth. "I want him and his family to pay the price."

...

November 19, 1987. 3:04 AM.

He had about forty hours left until the death decreed by the Judgment.

A neighborhood in Birmingham, on the Outer Side.

Baron took a bite of his croissant and tossed a newspaper into a trash can. After confirming no pedestrians were watching him, he stepped into a public phone booth and dialed the number Bagins had left for him—one the Law Enforcers hadn’t discovered.

"Hello, who is this?"

Don Quixote’s voice came from the other end. Recognizing Baron’s voice, he exclaimed in surprise, "Mr. Constantine, you’re actually still alive!"

’Don’t tell me,’ Baron thought silently, ’you all sent me to Buckingham Palace last night because you thought I had decided to go meet my death?’

Realizing his slip of the tongue, Don Quixote stammered, "I’ll go get Mr. Bagins," and scurried away. A moment later, Bagins picked up the phone.

"Kid, you made quite a ruckus last night. Security in all of Inner London has been beefed up several times over because of you. The patrolling Knights have even upgraded their mounts from lions to Silver Lions."

"Mr. Bagins, this isn’t the time for jokes. I need your help."

Baron gave him the short version of his current situation. He needed to find Freya on the Outer Side before those chaotic Law Enforcement Organizations found him.

The other end was silent for a moment, then said, "Freya is at the Giant Stone Bar in the Lambeth District. A griffin will be dispatched to your phone booth to pick you up...

Also, don’t use your [Promise]. I hear they’ve gone to the Wizards at the London Tower. Those hacks will use divination to find you in no time."

"Did you also find Freya through divination? The Wizard kind?" Baron asked curiously. He remembered Lawrence mentioning that Bagins seemed to be a Druid.

"Bullshit! I’m a goddamn Druid, a noble Druid, you hear me? Second Law! Completely different from those man-made Third Professional Laws!"

It was as if Baron’s words had touched his Reverse Scale; Bagins exploded on the other end of the line.

"Mr. Bagins..."

"What else?"

Baron smiled. "Thank you."

The line went dead. Baron heard a piercing cry from the sky.

A griffin landed slowly outside the phone booth, ruffling its wings as it paced restlessly.

A sign hung around its neck: "Griffin Transport No. 506." Below that was the company slogan—[For Travel on the Outer Side, Choose British Griffin].

...

The griffin landed on a deserted stretch of the Thames Riverfront.

Baron jumped off the griffin’s back and was about to leave when the creature caught his sleeve in its beak.

Huh?

Baron looked on in confusion as the griffin raised and then lowered its head, its sharp beak tapping a sign on its chest that he hadn’t noticed before—"Single trip, ten pounds."

Baron was silent. ’So Bagins had called him a cash-on-delivery ride.’

...

Baron once again took the trench coat that could [Block] his appearance from his Holding Ring and put it on. He bought a newspaper on the roadside and, pretending to be a commuter rushing to work, hurried toward his destination.

He stopped in front of an open-air bar with a sign depicting a giant stone.

...

"Sir, what can I get for you?" the bartender asked.

The young customer was dressed in a black overcoat. He had black hair and black eyes. Though his features were soft, his brow was sharp, giving his handsome face a cold, intense air.

The bartender couldn’t help but steal a few more glances at the young customer. He thought the customer’s eyes were very beautiful; though they were as black as ink, they held the faintest hint of gold.

"The same as that lady," Baron said, pointing to a slender figure in the corner.

"One hundred and twenty-eight pounds."

Baron, who had been about to pay, flinched. He thought he must have misheard.

"It’s an Amarone Wine from Veneto, Italy. It’s from the land of Romeo and Juliet’s tragic love story," the bartender said with a smile.

’A tragedy shouldn’t be for sale.’

Baron was silent for a moment, then made a swift decision. "Just give me a lemon soda. With ice."

The bartender was taken aback but maintained his professional composure. "Would you like to add a shot of something to that lemon soda?"

"No thanks, a can will be fine."

Baron took the canned soda from the counter and sat down in the corner, opposite the girl. She was his former fiancée, Freyja Lancelot, a woman he’d briefly met—and then taken hostage—on the Dragon Metro.

Baron pulled down his collar and got straight to the point. "I didn’t kill your brother. And I had no choice but to take you hostage on the subway before..."

"I know," the beautiful, very young blonde girl said with a faint smile.

"And besides, I’m not powerful enough to kill a—wait, you know?"

This completely upended the appeal Baron had so carefully prepared.

’His thoughts were in a total mess. For a moment there, he’d even considered opening with a rousing patriotic ballad to prove his sincerity. Of course, this being the United Kingdom, Handel’s *Messiah* would probably be more appropriate.’

Even though he was overjoyed, he couldn’t stop himself from asking, "Why?"

’Why do you believe me so easily?’

Freya took a sip from her glass, her cheek resting in her hand. Her face was slightly flushed from the alcohol.

"Because you’re sitting in the exact spot where my brother was stabbed to death. If you were the murderer, you absolutely would not be sitting here so calmly, chatting and laughing so casually with the dead man’s sister—the same ex-fiancée who broke off her engagement to you."

’I’ll pass on "chatting and laughing." I think "narrowly escaped death" is a better fit for me.’

’Also, criminal psychology says that some psychopathic killers love to return to the scene of the crime, disguised as an onlooker, to admire their own handiwork.’

Of course, Baron knew better than to say something so tactless.

Baron gathered his thoughts. He was about to say, ’Since you know I’m innocent, Miss Freya, could you please go to the Prole Court and get that dumbass Judge to lift the [Time Death Judgment] on me...’

But just then, the bar’s swinging doors creaked open, and an unprecedented sense of crisis washed over Baron.

Freya didn’t speak either, her gaze flickering toward the man who had just entered.

She was about to take a drink when the young man from across the table grabbed her hand. A searing heat radiated from his rough palm.

The girl’s expression changed, only to see that the young man’s face was graver than ever before.

Baron looked directly into the girl’s beautiful amber eyes and said, word by word, "Run with me. That man is here to kill you."

He watched the man sit at the bar and look around. In the brilliant, colored lights of the bar, he suddenly recognized the man’s face—it was Chief Steward No. 2, the one Jack had knocked unconscious!

His motive for being here was all too clear.

The Chief Steward spotted Baron as well. He took the drink the bartender handed him, raised it to Baron in a toast, and downed it in one gulp.

An icy chill shot up from the soles of Baron’s feet and spread through his entire body, so cold it felt like ice was forming in his veins. He couldn’t help but shiver.

After everything he’d been through, he understood only one thing.

If things kept developing like this, the fog surrounding him would only grow thicker, until he was completely lost within it.

’Damn it!’