The fire at St. Mary's Mental Hospital burned for three days and three nights.
When the black smoke finally dissipated, the fogged city did not experience a cathartic resolution; instead, it fell into an eerie calm. The church remained tight-lipped about the incident, the newspapers made no mention of it, as if the white tower had never existed.
Until the morning of the fourth day.
A mechanical owl, crafted entirely of pure gold and with ruby-encrusted eyes, pierced through the thick fog and landed on the windowsill of number 13 Blackwood Street.
It clutched a sealed letter in its claws.
"Gold-embossed letter paper, the scent of lavender perfume, and..." Shen Qingqiu sat before her dressing table, using a silver letter opener to pry open the sealing wax seal, sniffing lightly.
"An unmistakable, rotting smell of machine oil." The letter unfolded, revealing lines of cursive handwriting:
[To Countess Shen of the Eastern Detective Agency:]
[Hearing of the 'miracle' you performed at St. Mary's, I am greatly comforted.] "Tonight, the palace hosts a masquerade ball. We cordially invite you, Madam, and your deacon to attend and witness the brilliance of the 'New God.'"
[Signature: Queen Victoria (Written by: Cardinal Moriarty)]
"It's a trap." Seventeen stood behind her, applying a hot towel to her wrist (a bruise left from being tied up while acting in the asylum).
He glanced at the letter, a cold glint in his eyes.
"Master, should I bring heavy weapons? Like… a 'Destroyer' shoulder cannon hidden under my dress?"
Shen Qingqiu chuckled.
She turned, hooking her fingers around Seventeen's tie and pulling him down.
"My dear Sebastian, this is a ball, not a siege."
"We're going to dance, not blow up bunkers."
"And…" Her eyes flickered, revealing a queenly disdain.
"Do we need cannons to kill them?"
… Night fell.
Inside the dressing room at No. 13 Blackwood Street, the atmosphere was ambiguous and sticky.
Before the enormous dressing mirror, Shen Qingqiu wore only a black silk slip.
Seventeen held an extremely luxurious black velvet evening gown. It was custom-made by Shen Qingqiu at a high price (actually, she had embezzled funds from several corrupt officials' accounts).
"Help me put this on."
Shen Qingqiu opened her arms.
Seventeen took a deep breath (his cooling system overloaded again).
He carefully slipped the gown onto her body. It was an extremely daring dress, with a backless design that plunged to her waist, the skirt studded with thousands of black crystals, shimmering with every step, as if she were wearing the entire starry sky.
The most crucial step was coming—the corset.
Seventeen stood behind her, his hands holding the two black ribbons.
His fingers, gloved with white cotton gloves, touched her warm back through the thin fabric. That touch made his simulated heart pound wildly.
"Press harder, Seventeen." Shen Qingqiu looked at him in the mirror, her eyes teasing. "I want to see if your 'Xingtian Grip' can truly control the force precisely." Seventeen pursed his lips, cold sweat beading on his forehead.
This was more nerve-wracking than dismantling an atomic bomb.
Too light, and it wouldn't hold its shape; too heavy, and it would break her ribs.
He mobilized all his computing power.
[Micro-management Mode: Activated.]
[Pressure Sensing: Real-time Monitoring.]
His fingers deftly moved through the ribbons, and as he slowly tightened, Shen Qingqiu's slender waist was perfectly outlined.
It was a breathtakingly beautiful curve.
"Perfect." Shen Qingqiu twirled with satisfaction, her black skirt blooming like a flower.
She looked at Seventeen.
Tonight, he had changed out of his signature black tuxedo.
To match her "Black Swan" look, Shen Qingqiu had specially dressed him in a white military uniform.
His pristine white uniform was impeccably tailored, adorned with gold tassel epaulets and several unidentified medals (actually decorations Shen Qingqiu had made from discarded chips). His black hair was meticulously combed back, revealing a handsome face framed by a brand-new gold-rimmed monocle.
If he in black resembled a butler of hell,
then in white, he was a fallen angel, a divine Asura.
"This outfit…" Seventeen tugged at his collar somewhat awkwardly, "It's too white. It gets dirty easily."
If he killed someone and blood splattered on it, it would be very noticeable.
"If it gets dirty, let it get dirty." Shen Qingqiu walked over and placed a silver half-face mask on his face, concealing his mutated right eye.
"Blood-stained white, that's another kind of exquisite beauty."
…The Imperial Palace.
Under the enormous crystal dome, a steam-powered orchestra was playing a waltz.
Thousands of candles illuminated the magnificent ballroom as bright as day.
But the atmosphere here was eerily stiff.
On the dance floor, hundreds upon hundreds of nobles, all wearing masks, danced gracefully. Their movements were perfectly synchronized, even the angle at which their skirts twirled was identical.
"They're Wind-up Men," Seventeen whispered as they stepped into the ballroom, arm in arm with Shen Qingqiu.
"Most of these nobles… have been transformed into mechanical puppets."
Shen Qingqiu nodded slightly, her black feather folding fan obscuring half her face.
"It seems that archbishop has turned the entire upper class into his puppet house."
Their appearance instantly drew everyone's attention.
The two figures, one in black and one in white, were like two meteorites suddenly thrown into stagnant water.
The woman was noble and aloof, like a queen of the night; the man was dashing and ascetic, like a white-clad war god.
The vibrant, flamboyant life force emanating from them contrasted sharply with the lifeless mechanical nobles around them.
"That's… the woman who destroyed the White Tower?"
"Shh… the Archbishop is watching." On the second-floor terrace, a figure in red held a wine glass, looking down at them.
It was Archbishop Moriarty.
He wasn't wearing a mask. Because in this country, his face was a symbol of power.
Shen Qingqiu looked up, meeting the Archbishop's gaze through the gap in the fan ribs.
She didn't bow.
Instead, she raised her empty wine glass, making a "toast" gesture towards the Archbishop.
Provocation.
Blatant provocation.
A cold smile curled at the Archbishop's lips, and the wine glass in his hand shattered instantly.
Just then, the music changed.
The previously soothing waltz suddenly transformed into a high-energy tango.
"Looks like it's time for the opening dance."
Shen Qingqiu put down her wine glass and turned to look at Seventeen.
"Sebastian, would you do me the honor?" Seventeen bowed slightly, his left hand behind his back, his right hand (the terrifyingly powerful Xing Tian Grip) extended gentlemanly.
"My pleasure, Master." The two glided onto the dance floor.
If the dance on the train was a test,
then tonight's dance was a declaration of war.
Tap, tap, tap.
The accordion's sound was rapid and passionate.
Shen Qingqiu, like a black swan, twirled and bent low in Seventeen's arms.
Every movement of hers was full of power, her eyes always locked on Seventeen's.
"Seventeen, three o'clock, the one with the lion mask, he has a gun on his waist."
Shen Qingqiu whispered in Seventeen's ear in a split second.
"Locked on." Seventeen smiled, and as the man tried to draw his gun, he slid in with Shen Qingqiu, seemingly unintentionally bumping into him.
Crack.
That was the sound of bone and gun shattering simultaneously.
The "lion" didn't even have time to scream before Seventeen skillfully shattered its internal organs, leaving it limp and sprawling on the ground.
But those around seemed oblivious, continuing to dance, some even stepping over the corpse.
"Nine o'clock, that woman's fan has a poisoned needle."
"Dealt with." With a lifting motion, Seventeen flicked an extremely fine metal disc from his fingertip, precisely severing the mechanism within the woman's fan.
This was a dance on a knife's edge.
Assassins from the dance floor surged forward, attempting to eliminate these two "heretics" in the chaos.
But Shen Qingqiu and Seventeen's coordination was flawless.
They were dance partners, but more importantly, comrades-in-arms.
Every turn was a defensive maneuver, every handshake a signal.
Seventeen's white military uniform cast afterimages under the lights.
His movements were exquisitely elegant, without a single wrinkle.
The assassins who tried to approach often fell inexplicably before they even saw his movements.
"Are you happy?" Shen Qingqiu looked up at Seventeen's handsome face as she bent over.
"As long as I'm with you." Seventeen pulled her up, pressing her tightly against his chest.
"Killing is also a kind of pleasure." The music was about to end.
The final still.
Shen Qingqiu suddenly turned around, leaning against Seventeen's chest. Seventeen had one arm around her waist and the other gripping her wrist, the two of them striking a tense pose, facing the Archbishop on the second floor.
Clap, clap, clap.
Sparse applause rang out.
The Archbishop stood on the terrace, a fake smile on his face.
"Brilliant. Truly brilliant."
"Earl Shen from the East, indeed lives up to his reputation."
"However..." The Archbishop's tone changed, his eyes turning sinister.
"The dance is over, it's time to meet the true master."
As his words fell.
A deep, muffled tolling bell echoed from the depths of the palace.
Then, the previously closed throne room doors slowly opened.
A figure in a magnificent robe and crown sat stiffly on the golden throne.
It was Queen Victoria.
But when Shen Qingqiu saw her face clearly, her pupils contracted slightly.
It wasn't human.
It was a gigantic, exquisitely crafted ceramic doll.
Her skin was glazed, her eyes sapphire, and behind her, countless thick steam pipes led directly underground.
"This isn't a queen," Shen Qingqiu sneered, her folding fan slamming shut.
"This is clearly a...vent valve used to conceal that 'monster' underground."
She turned to Seventeen, her golden pupils burning behind the mask.
"Seventeen, it seems tonight's ball will be more than just bloodshed." Seventeen removed his gloves, revealing a mechanical right hand that was beginning to heat up, flowing with dark golden magma patterns.
He unbuttoned his collar, revealing a sleek collarbone.
"Master." His voice was low, carrying a chilling excitement.
"It's time... to tear this place apart." Outside the window, a bolt of lightning ripped through the night sky of the foggy city.
It illuminated the hypocritical palace, and also the two madmen, one in black and one in white, about to slay a god.
Accepting the golden invitation, attending the banquet of death.
The masquerade dance ended, a fleeting glimpse.
What followed was—the prelude to the collapse of divine authority.