Watchmen Of Watchmen (2)

Behold the secret manuals of the Northern Dipper Seven Stars Fist and the Seven-Lotus Treasure Lamp that I hold in my right hand.
The seven stars are the Wu-Tang Seven Heroes, and the seven lampstands are the Seven Great Clans.
-<Revelation> 1:20-

-Pajik!

The moment we reached the first floor, I saw office boxers in red, wielding Lightning Clap, entered my view.

With Brain Stopper wrapped around both hands, their hands never ceased, carrying letters and parcels, or darting pen-nibs across paper.

Last time I came, my attention was stolen by the Blue Uniform White Postmen. They used lightness skill even indoors, dropping off gathered mail, then sprinting off again with sorted bundles.

-Chijik!

Each time their tightly bound red Kunlun sleeves moved, a bluish aura scattered, telling me that each of them was at least second-rate or above.

But what mattered now was not the office boxers’ attainment.

-Pacheut!!

“Do you see it, Watson?”

When I extended a finger and pointed at the desks the office boxers each occupied, Watson nodded.

Dozens of tables made of hardwood all had something peculiar about them.

“Is that… scorched by fire?”

Every table the office boxers used to sort mail bore black stains here and there.

“Traces of discharge.”
“Discharge?”

That’s right.

The Brain Stopper wrapped around their hands was leaving scorch marks on the wooden tables.

Before the fist arrives, intent arrives first.
Even if the fist does not arrive, intent still arrives.

Before the fist touches, intent touches first.
Even if the fist cannot touch, intent touches.

The teaching of John The Revelator¹, the Fist Ancestor, said to have saved Midfield from a Kung-Fu Cult Master and ascended before his disciples’ eyes.

The wisdom of John The Revelator, founding patriarch of the Wu-Tang Order and a revelator who read heavenly secrets to glimpse the future, could be applied without fail to the Kung-Fu of other clans as well.

As I said earlier, Lightning Clap is a palm technique that pursues extreme briskness by a method directly opposite to a conditioned counterattack art—striking to meet pre-formed conditions without passing through thought.

And what makes it possible is precisely the knotted Intent contained within Brain Stopper.

What is carried out on earth is as it is in heaven.

Lightning is a link that joins heaven and earth in an instant.

Bioelectric current that runs through nerves—serving as a medium that bears Intent—possesses a nature akin to Brain Stopper.

Kunlun Cathedral’s Lightning Clap accelerates the knotted Intent that links head and hand in a fleeting moment by means of Brain Stopper, then releases it repeatedly—allowing movements of extreme speed and precision, like a finely made machine, without deep thought.

The discharge marks left on the tables were all etched in the process of sorting mail while performing Lightning Clap along calculated, optimal trajectories.

And traces of discharge did not remain on the desks alone.

“Now you understand what I mean?”
“Don’t tell me….”

Watson checked the postage stamp on the envelope once more, raised her brows, and widened her eyes.

“So Brain Stopper discharged from their fingertips leaves a mark on the stamp!”
“Exactly.”

Each time the office boxers picked up mail, they touched a Brain Stopper-wrapped finger to the stamp and caused a discharge.

As a result, a processed stamp faintly retains the office boxer’s fingerprint.

In London Murim, the fingerprint engraved by an office boxer’s discharge serves the same function as the cancellation mark used in my previous world to show that a stamp has been used.

“Most people only pay attention to the Date Stamp that prints the day the office boxer checked the stamp, and do not even know the cancellation fingerprint exists.”

The tables were deeply marked because they were exposed for long periods to discharges caused by Lightning Clap; the fingerprint left on a stamp is hard to notice unless you look closely.

“As long as the imprint is clearly there, we can find who handled the sorting of this letter. Then if we check that person’s ledger, we can learn, at least roughly, which delivery boxer collected the mail—and where he retrieved the kidnapper’s letter.”

Watson nodded again and again, her pupils dilated with excitement.

“Indeed—you had it all planned.”

Perhaps he heard us speaking; Sir Fawcett, who had been walking ahead, gently turned his head toward us.

“Wait a moment. I’ll fetch the fingerprints at once.”

Perhaps not wishing to disturb the office boxers absorbed in their work, the Postmaster General sent a brief Direct Message to deliver his order.

The office boxers glanced once at the minister, then silently continued their work.

Securing their fingerprints was the duty of the Postmaster General’s homing pigeon, David.

-Coo-coo!

David flew swiftly, took a sheet of paper of suitable size in his beak, then performed a perilous acrobatic flight between the office boxers’ tables, collecting onto the paper the fingerprints of the Kung-Fuists sorting mail with Lightning Clap.

-Padadak!

Before even fifteen seconds had passed, the homing pigeon returned, having filled both sides of the thick paper with cancellation fingerprints.

“Good. Well done, David.”
“Coo-coo.”

When Sir Fawcett stroked the back of its neck, the pigeon puffed out its chest and lifted its head stiffly.

Taking the paper, I drew a portable magnifying glass from the handle of the Heavenly Demon Cane and examined the office boxers’ fingerprints.

“Found it.”

When I pointed to the imprint matching the discharge mark left on the stamp, David let out a low coo and flew to the table where the fingerprint’s owner was working.

“Leadbeater. Apologies for interrupting your work, but would you spare a moment?”

When the Postmaster General followed David and spoke to the low-ranking office boxer, a middle-aged woman stopped sorting mail and snapped to attention.

“…What is the matter?”
“Unfortunately, a vile criminal has used a letter to hide his identity in the course of kidnapping an innocent civilian. Check the date stamp impressed upon this envelope and find out where it was collected from.”
“As you command.”

After checking the stamp on the envelope and the imprint on the postage, Leadbeater immediately searched the ledger and confirmed the record.

Ten seconds later, having flipped through a vast amount of records at speed with Lightning Clap, she gave us the answer we wanted.

“The letters and parcels assigned to me that day were all collected from a single place.”
“Do you recall exactly which district?”
“It was The Island.”
“Oh.”

A place name one could not understand unless one was a London native.

The ‘Island’ Leadbeater indicated was by no means a place somewhere in the North Sea.

Its proper name, located in the East End’s Tower Hamlets, was the Isle Of Dogs.

The name ‘Island’ was only a nickname for a large peninsula surrounded on three sides by the Thames.

The reason this place, home to the East India Docks, West India Docks, Millwall Docks, and more, with frequent ship traffic, came to be called the Island by Londoners was simple.

Because the City Canal, made to provide ships a shortcut, was opened, cutting the peninsula off from London completely.

Only two bridges connected the Isle Of Dogs to London.

Moreover, it bustled year-round with sailors and merchants from overseas, and with a considerable number of immigrant dockworkers, so it often felt richly foreign.

For these reasons, the peninsula naturally came to be called the Island.

Unless one used Jesus Walk, one could not enter or leave except when the swing bridge rotated, so even Scotland Yard constables avoided patrolling the area.
It was a place tailor-made for the Italian mafia to hide.

“Excuse me, Ms. Leadbeater. Could we know which delivery boxer collected the mail from the Isle Of Dogs that day?”
“Ah. Yes. He’s right there, in fact. Hey—Rossetti!”

At my question, Leadbeater called out and stopped a short man crossing the first floor with his mailbag stuffed full.

The black-haired man with bulging eyes approached us with a deep frown, as though he thoroughly disliked being called while he was busy.

“How can I be of service?”
“It’s nothing. I merely needed to confirm exactly where on the Isle Of Dogs your route lies. I would have you look at the date stamp impressed on this envelope and recall that day.”
“…I cannot recall well. That day, I was busily circling the whole East End, not only the Isle Of Dogs.”

While the delivery boxer answered Sir Fawcett in as polite a tone as he could manage (though still with a face like he was chewing insects), I checked the mail piled beside the office boxer.

On the letters and parcels, besides the cancellation fingerprints, discharge marks could be seen here and there.

Office boxers were not the only ones who used Lightning Clap.

Given the nature of the job, having to collect the contents of post boxes quickly, the delivery boxers, too, would have to use Lightning Clap and sweep mail into their bags.

Then I turned my attention to the name of the man called Rossetti.

As I chewed over his accent, a hypothesis came to mind, and it was easy to verify.

“Mr. Rossetti.”
“Who are you?”
“That is not important. I have a question, so I will ask one thing.”
“What?”
“Are you on your way back from collecting mail just now?”
“That’s right. But why all of a sudden—”

-Tak!

I snatched Rossetti’s delivery bag, then dumped everything inside onto the floor.

“W-What in the world are you doing!”

On parcels and letters that had not yet passed through an office boxer’s hands, faint traces left by Lightning Clap were etched across them all.

“How strange. On this letter you collected, I could see no trace of discharge besides the cancellation fingerprint.”
“Kgh…!”

Rossetti, as if sensing my intent, tried to flee using lightness skill.

But.

-Tang!
-Kwajik!

By then, Watson, having already grasped the situation, had shot the top of his foot with Fingertips.

“He felt off, so I moved at once!”
“Splendid, Watson.”

Watson had become able to carry out an assistant’s duties more deftly than before.

“You bloody bastardo!”

Meanwhile, the mafia spy sprawled on the floor was spewing curses.
His tear-filled face was twisted in pain.

“Still, your deductions always astonish me, Little Heavenly Demon. When did you notice?”
“It’s simple. I confirmed that Rossetti is an Italian surname, and that when he spoke, the peculiar accent of a Sicilian immigrant still remained. Finally, seeing that the kidnapper’s threatening letter, after passing through an office boxer had no trace of discharge besides the cancellation fingerprint, I could tell the delivery boxer was entangled in this case.”

As I explained the process, Sir Fawcett laughed heartily and nodded.

“It was certainly a gentleman’s decision for you to hire immigrants without prejudice, Minister, but there will always be those who parasitically cling to such goodwill.”

I do not fully agree with the claim that prejudice is the crystallization of knowledge mankind has built up over long years to survive.

But it was well known that Italian Mafia factions accept only Kung-Fuists of the same Italian origin.

I did not harbor prejudice toward Italians, but a mafioso with a shallow later stage can be recognized just by his face.

“Then, do we only need to retrieve the kidnapped sculptor now?”

Watson asked with an excited face, but I shook my head.

“No. There’s no tobacco smell on this man. The delivery boxer was only a member of the mafia. There will be someone else who carried out the kidnapping. We must find who that is from here.”

I smiled faintly and looked down at Rossetti collapsed on the floor.

“Interview is not my specialty, but I know well how to torment Italians. I learned it from my master.”

It was decided.

Our next destination was an Italian restaurant in East London.

Until Rossetti screamed, my torture would never stop. ²