Chapter 38: It Is Always Raining in Winster

The cold rain in Winster had been falling for days on end. It seemed as if the sky were determined to exhaust its entire reservoir of water in this short span of time. Yet, the relentless downpour could not dampen the prosperity of the bootlegging business; the illegal spirits spread just as relentlessly as the rain.

Velen rose early that morning. The second batch of moonshine had been freshly brewed the day before. Unlike the previous run, where the *Poseidon* had helped absorb a large portion of the cargo, this time, even after distributing the stock among various casinos, hotels, speakeasies, and brothels, there was still a significant surplus. In this era, holding onto excess liquor was a sin—it was akin to letting gold rot in the dirt. Ethan, leveraging the connections of Sandro’s partners, had found an outlet in a neighboring city, selling the remaining stock at double the current market price. Naturally, the proceeds would be split fifty-fifty, with a portion set aside for Sandro. Ethan was a firm believer in sharing the wealth.

Because this was the first transaction with these new buyers, Velen decided to personally oversee the shipment for the sake of security. Even though the past few days had been tranquil, with no word of trouble hitting any of their competitors, Velen knew that caution was the most vital currency in this trade. He had maintained that vigilance well, and he believed it was precisely that caution that had kept him alive this long. Moreover, Ethan had repeatedly warned him that the silence of the Prohibition Agents was deeply suspicious—they might well be lurking in the shadows, waiting to deliver a fatal blow.

To that end, Velen had handpicked his most elite men to accompany him. Beyond the veterans who had remained from his old tavern days, the rest were the cream of the crop, hand-recommended by various lieutenants and put through rigorous training. They were also equipped with the first batch of mass-produced Winster Typewriters. Gripping the sturdy handle of his Winster Typewriter, Velen felt a sense of calm settle over him. When a man grows old, the only thing he can truly trust is the gun in his hand.

Standing by the window, Velen finished his last cigarette and pulled his coat tight, turning the collar up against his neck. Winster was growing colder; winter was approaching. He wondered how many more winters he would see. He donned his bowler hat, performed a final check on his firearms, and stepped out of the temporary office.

Outside, two trucks were already loaded with the cargo. His handpicked men stood by, all wearing trench coats and bowler hats, looking sharp and spirited.

"Let’s move out. It’s raining hard, so remember to bring umbrellas—we don't want the cargo getting wet during the inspection."

Velen issued his final instructions and stepped quickly into a sedan. Five minutes later, the vehicles pulled out of the factory one by one. Because of the rain, their speed was modest, which allowed their movements to be tracked. Through the torrential downpour, a car followed the convoy from a distance. Even with the rain obstructing the road, the car kept a steady, persistent pace, refusing to lose them. The driver was a specialist handpicked from the Special Operations Division of the Public Security Bureau, and tracking in such weather was second nature to him.

There were three men in the car. Besides the driver and the man in the passenger seat, there was a third occupant in the back: Lewis, who had been lying in wait for days. Lewis could no longer endure the waiting; he had to act. Fortunately, the opportunity had finally arrived. Through their nascent intelligence network, they had learned that Ethan was moving a large shipment today. This cargo was linked to Sandro and several other big figures in Winster. If this shipment were ruined, Ethan would be devastated, and the reputation and prestige of the Prohibition Agents would be established in an instant.

*This is the one.* When the order came down, Lewis was so excited he smashed the table with his new right hand. Yes, his right hand had been replaced—not with flesh and blood, but with an alchemical construct. It was a fine piece of equipment Marvin had secured for him: a Grade 2 alchemical limb, possessing the dual traits of extreme durability and organic attachment. With this prosthetic, it was as if his hand had been reborn, even more nimble than before. Marvin had treated him with nothing but grace, saving his life, providing the limb, and appointing him as the squad leader of the First Team. Lewis, however, was well aware of why.

For one, he had spent years in Winster, possessed a network of contacts, and understood the tangled web of the city. More importantly, he was a "True Name Holder." True Name Holders were not exactly common; even in the elite Special Operations Division, not everyone possessed such a status. Of the men Marvin had brought this time, only two were True Name Holders; the rest were merely highly skilled ordinary men.

Sitting in the back seat with his eyes closed, Lewis felt his new hand growing hot, burning, as if it were about to ignite. *Ethan, just wait. I will make you feel the same pain I have endured!*

***

The convoy arrived at the delivery point without incident. While the heavy rain obscured vision, it also served as a natural barrier, keeping the wilderness deserted. A short while later, the buyer’s convoy appeared. The buyer was "Fatty" Sindorei from the city of Ataska. Though Ataska was not as large as Winster, Fatty Sindorei held a monopoly there; if they could pull off this deal and build a rapport, it would open a vital distribution route. Fatty Sindorei took this deal seriously, sending his most capable lieutenant, "Big" Zora, to handle the handover.

As soon as Velen stepped out of the car, he saw Zora, whose hulking frame made the vehicle look almost too small.

"Hey, Velen! It’s actually you. I never would have guessed—how many years has it been? I didn't think your old bones could still handle this."

Big Zora, unbothered by the rain, strode through the downpour to greet Velen. The two had indeed crossed paths before, as was inevitable in the underworld, though Zora was part of the new generation.

"Just lucky," Velen said, shaking his hand. "Let’s look at the goods. If everything is in order, we’ll finalize the exchange."

Zora nodded. Led by Velen, they went to the back of a truck and pulled back the tarp. Velen handed him a bottle. Zora opened it, took a sip, and nodded. "Not bad. Much better than the swill we make ourselves. No wonder the boss wants your liquor. It’s a deal."

The moment he uttered the word "deal," a sharp, sudden crack of gunfire shattered the air. One of Zora's lookouts collapsed instantly. Zora immediately drew his weapon and roared, "Damn it! You trying to pull a double-cross?!"