The rain in this foggy city always carries an indelible greasiness.
It's not the sweet rain falling from the clouds, but the cold sweat expelled by this massive industrial machine. Raindrops drip from the gargoyles of the steeple church, gathering into winding, murky streams on the black cobblestone streets, reflecting the dim, ambiguous glow of the gaslights.
Number 13 Blackwood Street.
The flames in the fireplace flicker with blue flames, occasionally crackling softly—the final confession of the lowly evil spirits used as fuel.
Shen Qingqiu leans languidly against the chaise longue, toying with a pocket watch she'd brought from the train. A Scottish wool blanket covers her, and Seventeen kneels beside her, meticulously trimming her rounded nails with a small silver file.
His movements are unbelievably gentle.
The "Xingtian Grip," which had once crushed nascent souls and blasted trains, was now encased in a pristine white cotton glove, steadily cradling her fingertips as if supporting the only faith in the world.
"Dong—Dong—" The distant clock tower struck eleven.
Almost simultaneously, there was a rapid knocking on the heavy iron door downstairs.
"So late." Shen Qingqiu lazily lifted her eyelids, her golden eyes gleaming in the shadows of her eyelashes. "It seems our first guest has arrived reeking of blood." Seventeen paused his work, lowered his head, and placed a light kiss on her perfectly manicured fingertips.
"I'll go open the door, Master."
...Standing outside was Gregson, a senior inspector from Scotland Yard.
This usually imposing inspector looked like a drowned rat. His trench coat was soaked, water dripped from his hat brim, and his stubble-covered face was etched with anxiety and terror.
"Shen… Earl Shen." Gregson looked at the elegant yet aloof Eastern butler before him, who seemed to have stepped out of an oil painting, and subconsciously removed his hat, clutching it awkwardly in his hand.
"I'm so sorry to disturb you so late. But… that demon has appeared again."
"Come in and talk." Seventeen stepped aside, making an impeccable "please" gesture.
In the living room, Shen Qingqiu didn't get up. She merely used a folding fan to cover half her face, revealing only a pair of eyes that seemed to be smiling but weren't, as she looked at the intruder.
"Detective, if it's just because of a few mice stealing bread, you don't need to come to me."
"No, it's not mice." Gregson trembled as he pulled a stack of rain-soaked photographs from his pocket and spread them on the coffee table.
"It's 'Jack'… Jack the Ripper."
"But he's changed. He's no longer just a killer… he's… creating." Shen Qingqiu's gaze swept over the photographs.
Even though she was used to the mountains of corpses and seas of blood in the cultivation world, the scenes in the photographs still made her narrow her eyes slightly.
The deceased were all young and beautiful women.
Flower girls, opera dancers, textile factory workers.
They died peacefully, as if simply asleep. But their chest cavities had been meticulously dissected, their hearts, lungs, even intestines completely gone.
In their place were not empty cavities.
They were filled with brass gears, springs, pistons, and connecting rods.
In the black and white photographs, those metal parts seemed to still reflect light, creating a nauseating contrast with the surrounding pale skin.
"The forensic doctor said… the mechanisms inside their bodies were still functioning when the bodies were found," Gregson's voice was hoarse from gagging. "It's like… someone tried to turn them into dolls."
"Prepare the car." Shen Qingqiu closed her folding fan and stood up. Her deep red velvet dress left blood-like streaks on the carpet.
"I have to see this grotesque 'artwork' for myself."
…The carriage weaved through the rain and stopped in front of the morgue in the East District.
The air was thick with the smell of formaldehyde and rotting seaweed.
Seventeen opened a long-handled black umbrella, stepped out first, and then reached out to take Shen Qingqiu's lace-gloved hand.
His umbrella was always slightly tilted, shielding him from all the wind and rain, even though the shoulders of his expensive tuxedo were already soaked.
Inside the morgue, the air was biting cold.
Lying on the autopsy table was the latest victim—a little match girl.
She looked no more than fifteen or sixteen years old, her face still bearing the innocence of childhood. Now, her chest had been ripped open, revealing the world within.
Shen Qingqiu approached, without a mask, and without showing any disgust.
She activated **[Overclocking Vision]**.
Buzz— In her eyes, the corpse shed its flesh and blood, transforming into a collection of lines and data.
"Exquisite…absolutely exquisite." Shen Qingqiu stretched out her finger, tracing the meshing patterns of the gears in the air.
This wasn't just haphazard stacking.
The killer possessed masterful mechanical skill. He had connected the girl's nerve endings with extremely fine silver wires, attempting to use a wind-up mechanism to power the dead body.
"He's trying to 'resurrect'." Shen Qingqiu said softly, her voice echoing in the empty morgue, carrying a chill.
"Resurrect?" Gregson's eyes widened. "With gears?"
"In this insane city, if gods are made of steam, why can't humans be made of wind-up mechanisms?"
Shen Qingqiu smiled mockingly.
She looked at the mechanical core that had replaced the heart.
It was a fist-sized brass sphere, its surface engraved with intricate patterns. Although it had stopped rotating, it still exuded an eerie beauty.
"Seventeen." Shen Qingqiu called out.
"Present." Seventeen stood behind her, his cold gaze sweeping over the corpse.
As a true "Mechanical Ascendant," as someone possessing a top-tier core reactor, he looked at the pile of scrap metal before him with nothing but the contempt of a higher-dimensional being.
"Remove that core." Seventeen stepped forward.
He didn't use a scalpel.
His white-gloved right hand suddenly produced an extremely thin laser blade from the tip of his index finger (the micro-manipulation mode of the Xing Tian Grip).
*Sizzle—* A slight cutting sound.
The brass heart was perfectly removed, held in his palm.
"Trash." Seventeen commented.
"Crude workmanship, kinetic energy conversion rate less than 5%. This thing would struggle even to power a mouse."
"But there's something on it." Shen Qingqiu pointed to the bottom of the brass heart.
Seventeen flipped it over.
In the dim gaslight, a tiny yet exquisitely crafted emblem was clearly engraved in that spot:
[A crossed wrench and scepter, entwined with thorns.]
"This is…" Detective Gregson leaned closer to look, his face instantly turning deathly pale, and he took three steps back. "This…this is the inner court emblem of the 'Mechanical Evangelical Church'!"
"Shh." Shen Qingqiu raised her index finger to her lips, gesturing for silence.
"Detective, some things, if said aloud, could cost you your head."
She took the mechanical heart, still dripping with corpse oil, as if it were an apple.
Her golden pupils narrowed slightly; her gaze pierced through the metal sphere, seeing a fragment of residual image (information readout).
[Flashback] A stormy night.
A tall figure draped in a black raincoat, carrying a silver surgical case.
He hummed a hymn, pressing the girl down in the muddy alley.
"Don't be afraid, child… God will grant you eternal life…"
"Flesh and blood are weak, machinery ascends…"
The man removed his gloves, revealing a pair of unusually dexterous hands covered in burn scars.
And within his sleeve, a glimpse of a red priest's robe was faintly visible.
"Snap." The image cut off.
Shen Qingqiu tossed the mechanical heart back onto the tray, making a crisp clinking sound.
"Interesting." She took out a silk handkerchief and slowly wiped her fingers.
"I initially thought he was a deranged serial killer, but it turns out he's a mad charlatan who wants to be a creator."
She turned and looked out at the dark, rainy night.
The rain poured down harder, as if to engulf the sinful city.
"Seventeen."
"Master."
"It seems our first dance in the Fog City has already chosen a partner." Excitement gleamed in Shen Qingqiu's eyes, the thrill of a hunter spotting their prime prey.
"A cardinal skilled in mechanical modification, with a church background, and who even dares to challenge the forbidden zone of life?" Seventeen stood in the shadows, a faint red light flashing in the eye behind his monocle.
He bowed slightly, his voice low and elegant, incongruous with the bloody atmosphere of the morgue:
"Just give the order."
"Whether you're a bishop or a god, I will… dismantle you into scrap metal."
Shen Qingqiu smiled.
She walked up to Seventeen and reached out to straighten his slightly damp collar.
"No rush."
"Killing is too crude."
She took a mint from Seventeen's pocket (he had prepared it specifically to cover the smell of machine oil on his clothes), unwrapped it, and fed it to him.
"We will make his most prized 'mechanical miracle' crumble bit by bit before him."
"Like…" Shen Qingqiu pointed to the disfigured corpse on the autopsy table.
"Like how he treated these girls."
…It was late at night when they left the morgue.
The carriage traveled along the empty streets, the horses' hooves echoing on the ground.
The interior was dimly lit.
Shen Qingqiu leaned wearily against the cushions, closing her eyes to rest.
The [information reading] she had just done had drained a lot of her mental energy.
Suddenly, a warm hand reached out and gently pulled her head towards him, letting her rest on a broad, muscular shoulder.
Seventeen didn't speak.
He simply adjusted her position to be as comfortable as possible, and his right hand, usually his most powerful weapon, was now clumsily and carefully massaging her temples.
The pressure was moderate, the rhythm steady.
This was a technique he had practiced hundreds of times at home.
Shen Qingqiu didn't open her eyes, but a slight smile played on her lips.
"Seventeen."
"Hmm?"
"That girl's heart is made of bronze." Shen Qingqiu's voice was soft, almost ethereal in the rain. "Cold, it will never beat."
She reached out and touched Seventeen's left chest, beneath his tuxedo.
There was a simulated heart there, beating strongly.
Thump, thump, thump.
"But yours is warm." Seventeen's fingers paused slightly.
He lowered his head, looking at the woman in his arms.
In this crazy world filled with clockwork mechanisms and gears, where everyone wants to replace their hearts with iron, she was greedy for his simulated, one and only "true heart."
"Because…" Seventeen's voice was hoarse, with a hint of barely perceptible shyness.
"Because inside… is you."
He learned to have a heartbeat for her.
She was his fuel, his logic, the only soul within his steel shell.
Shen Qingqiu opened her eyes and, in the dim light of the carriage, kissed his chin.
"Then keep jumping."
"Jump for me." The carriage rounded the street corner and disappeared into the vast night.
But at the end of that rainy night, a battle between flesh and machine, faith and blasphemy, had only just begun.
The rainy night was cold as a knife, and hearts were as hard as iron.
Only in this corner of the carriage remained warm and unchanged.