People in Terra, governing a bizarre little country

"The boss is very easy to talk to..."

"Even so, it's best not to do anything that provokes the boss. I know this all too well."

The poet said,

"After all, my boss is someone who always says: 'There is no sacrifice too great to bear, and no betrayal too small to be ignored.'"

"Does the harpist also work in Victoria? Then why did he come to Sherag?"

"That's the secret, Miss Nana. Men need secrets to be attractive."

The man in the grey top hat spoke offhand, then immediately realized he had gone a bit too far. Looking at the ticket seller's slightly flushed face, he quickly realized his mistake.

Forgot, if this were said in Victoria, people would probably just laugh it off and criticize it as old-fashioned, just like "women don't love bad boys." But how could a young girl like Sherag have heard of such things?

He quickly spoke up to remind her, interrupting the ticket seller's seemingly unfocused thoughts:

"Miss Nana, my ticket?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Harpist!"

The ticket seller snapped out of her daze and hurriedly took out the ticket, handing it to the man in the grey top hat.

After nodding slightly in thanks, the man in the gray top hat didn't dare say another word and quickly left the ticket window.

His relationship with the Sheragans was too good, which was not part of his plan. While acquaintances could help him obtain intelligence, they could also leave unnecessary leverage for others.

Fortunately, his mission has reached its final stage. Once the guests' identities are confirmed, he will likely be able to retire successfully and return to Victoria.

I heard that His Highness the Duke is short-handed in Londinium recently. I guess after his rest, his next work location will be there.

Sigh, what else can we do? The gray top hat is like a brick; we'll just move it wherever it's needed.

Entering the waiting hall, with 15 minutes to go before the early train arrives, Gray Hat sat down on a chair. There weren't many people in the hall, but Gray Hat already felt a long-lost sense of excitement.

"Come on, let me see how many surprises Prime Minister Ernst can bring to His Majesty the Duke?"

Chapter 263 Gray Top Hat: What kind of scene haven't I seen?

The train departed on time, and the man in the gray top hat boarded on time.

Everything was meticulous, everything was ordinary, and it even made people feel a little bored.

The man in the grey top hat leaned back on the sofa in the compartment, his gaze following the speeding train as it swept across the towering mountains of Shelag, past the herding Shelag people and herds of mountain horned beasts, before finally slowing down, braking, and coming to a stop.

The arrival announcement soon sounded, and the train attendants knocked on each compartment door to remind the passengers to disembark. But when they got to the compartment with the grey top hat, everyone tacitly chose to avoid it.

There's nothing special about it; it's just a matter of practice.

The reputation of "The Harpist on the Train" had spread throughout the train over the past three months. Every attendant was intimately familiar with this eccentric foreigner in a hat who spent almost the entire day on the train. Initially, the attendants would offer a heads-up out of curiosity or professional courtesy, but after three consecutive months of round trips, they had come to believe the explanation given by the man in the grey top hat: "I don't care whether I reach my destination; I'm simply enjoying the journey."

They tacitly agreed not to disturb the harpist who was enjoying his journey. In return, the harpist would sometimes leave his compartment, pick up his harp, and play it around the train carriages whenever he wished.

Music is universal; Victoria's music could also touch the hearts and souls of the Sherag people. Although his clothing and behavior were incredibly eccentric, isn't it, in a way, normal for an eccentric person to do eccentric things?

Sherag has this capacity for inclusiveness, and the people of Sherag also possess this magnanimity to tolerate and appreciate this music.

As usual, when the train's stop ended, the return journey was about to begin. The man in the grey top hat listened intently to the subtle sounds coming from the corridor through the slightly ajar door. Only after the attendants closed the doors of each compartment and the footsteps in the corridor gradually subsided did he take a deep breath, stand up, and take his harp from his "harp case."

Just like many movies about secret agents and spies, the "harp case" is of course used to store weapons, but it can also be used to store a harp. There is no conflict between them; you just need to add a hidden compartment.

Picking up the harp, the man in the grey top hat stepped out of the carriage; the plan was officially underway!

As his fingers plucked the strings, clear and melodious music flowed from his fingertips and spread. The train attendants, used to such performances, greeted the "Harpist on the Train" with friendly smiles. The unfamiliar passengers, seeing the train attendants' kind attitude towards the man in the strange hat, felt reassured and listened to the free musical performance.

Of course, this was just a pretense. Playing the piano was only to make his subsequent movement through the carriages seem more natural. Under the pretext of playing music, the man in the gray top hat circled around the hard-seat carriage and then naturally entered the next compartment.

Based on what he had just listened to and observed, he noticed that all the compartments in his carriage were checked and closed by the train attendants. If there were any special visitors on this train, they would have to stay in the second compartment of the entire train.

Without arousing any further suspicion, he walked into the next private room. The man in the gray top hat glanced between the rooms, his brows furrowing slightly in confusion.

"Are there people everywhere?"

Although the Shelag Snowfield Express has recently become a popular tourist destination in Terra, there are not many passengers willing to spend money to buy a cabin ticket. At least, based on Grey Hat's observations over the past three months, this is the first time he has seen a train with all six cabins fully booked!

Something unusual must be going on! The corners of the man in the grey top hat curled up slightly, a plan already forming in his mind.

“Mr. Ernst, whatever you have prepared for this exposition is no longer a secret.”

"Let me see where the Shivaesh family gets the confidence to refuse His Highness the Duke!"

He stopped playing, reached out his hand, and without knocking, pushed open the door to the number one private room in front of him.

What came into view was the same decor as his private room: a square table, a sofa, fresh flowers, and... a multitude of desserts he had never seen before.

"Oh dear, it seems we've got a rather impolite guest. Mostima, is this part of your plan?"

The kind-looking old man with white hair and beard swallowed the fruit tart in his hand in one gulp, his satisfied smile reminiscent of the grandfather figure on the signboard of a famous fast-food brand from another world. If it weren't for his dazzling wings and the halo radiating holy light above his head, he might really look no different from an ordinary old man.

Unfortunately, the old man dressed in elaborate and luxurious attire was destined to be no ordinary person, and the girl he called out, named Mostima, was no ordinary Sarkaz girl either.

“This is not my arrangement, Miss Crimson Singer. This person is not your friend either, is he?” Mostima shook her head, denying the Pope’s inquiry, while passing the buck to her friend who had been given a new codename.

The only Liberian girl present urgently retorted, "My name is Fiameta! And of course I don't know this person!"

She turned her head, her eyes burning with a fierce light, and asked warily:

"who are you?"

"I...I...I'm a bard! I play the harp!" The man in the grey top hat stammered, suddenly feeling a little fortunate that his current attire was indeed very different from his colleagues' uniform appearance!

If his scarf wasn't an official, limited-edition, super-fluffy commemorative scarf certified by the Saint of Sherag, if his grey top hat wasn't a "I Love Sherag" printed knitted top hat from Brown Tao Home Textiles, and if what he was wearing wasn't a trendy new Victorian country-style casual warm unicorn fleece jacket from Sherag!

That would be terrible for him!

If he had saved the Duke of Caesars this expense, and as a result he had been recognized by the people in the room while wearing that grey top hat and uniform, then he would have been in big trouble!

With a hint of panic, he forced his gaze away from the enormous revolvers on the waists of the musketeers. The man in the grey top hat swallowed hard, hastily raised his hand, and strummed a few obviously subpar melodies on his harp. Then, he hurriedly turned around and slammed the door shut.

Only after confirming that no hand had firmly blocked the door when it closed, and that there were no footsteps coming from inside trying to open it, did the man in the grey top hat finally let out a long sigh of relief.

"........"

"Looks like I've really been exhausted lately... Hahaha, Laterano, how could that be...?"

"No, it's not entirely impossible. Lateran was one of the co-organizers of the World's Fair, but we didn't expect the Sarkaz to be so enthusiastic about the event, with even the Pope himself attending..."

The man in the grey top hat silently offered himself an explanation, trying to soothe his frightened heart.

After all, this is Sakota, so it can't be judged by ordinary standards. Perhaps other countries would consider this event a minor matter and send any representative, which would suffice. But for the Sakotas, as long as it's an "event," the reason is enough, and whatever they do is not surprising.

Perhaps the Pope's visit to Shelag was just for fun?

"Hahahaha, what am I thinking?"

Unable to resist amused by his own wild thoughts, the man in the grey top hat rubbed his eyes and headed towards the next private room.

The discovery of the Lateran Pope was a success, but it wasn't enough. All six boxes were occupied; it would be too shameful to have fled after only opening one. It would also be difficult to explain to the Duke.

Besides, encountering the Pope first might not be a bad thing; at least it raised his expectations. Could anyone else possibly have the same influence as the Pope?

Thinking this, the man in the gray top hat reached out and pushed open the door to VIP box number two.

With the same decor, this time, only three people appeared in front of the gray top hat, and they all seemed much more approachable.

"Miss, sir, step back. Who are you?"

Even in winter clothes, she couldn't hide her stunning figure. The female bodyguard's golden eyes flashed with a dangerous light, and in an instant, her crossbow was nocked.

Behind her, Li Boli and his daughter, with their long, light pink hair, looked at the uninvited guests with some confusion.

Hermann subtly stepped forward, shielding Ceylon behind him, and simultaneously pressed the trigger on the black-clad man's raised crossbow, asking the man in the grey top hat:

"Could this gentleman be the mysterious harpist on the Snowfield Express Line that Ceylon mentioned?"

"..." The man in the grey top hat surveyed the room, then glanced discreetly at the man in black, whose muscles were taut and who seemed ready to strike again at any moment. Finally, he nodded sincerely. "Yes, sir, that is me."

It's no wonder he lost face; the enemy's crossbows were already loaded, what could he do?

This all-black female bodyguard was clearly no pushover. Judging from her actions and reactions, she was probably a seasoned assassin. He, in the grey top hat, was merely an intelligence operative, practically a civil official, unskilled in combat. Besides, he'd only brought a harp with him, without even a weapon. What made him think he could fight her?

Besides, he wasn't even here to fight. His salary is so low, why risk his life? He already has the intelligence; he can live comfortably on reimbursement. If he dies, he won't get any reimbursement.

The man in the grey top hat volunteered, "Would you like to hear me play a tune?"

“No need,” Hermann shook his head.

The man in the grey top hat shrugged, silently took a step back, and closed the door to the private room. Only after the murderous intent that had been fixed on him disappeared did he breathe a sigh of relief.

"The mayor of Siesta, along with his daughter and bodyguards."

"Unexpected, but also reasonable. Ceylon was already working in Kjerag, so it makes sense for Hermann to come to Kjerag for the fair."

"However, aren't there a bit too many 'surprises'?"

The man in the grey top hat turned his head to look at the doors of the four untouched private rooms. In a daze, he seemed to see four menacing demons beckoning to him.

"Hey grey top hat, come play!"

He pursed his lips, but still felt it wasn't enough, so he simply licked his dry lips.

For a fleeting moment, he even considered giving up.

Or should we just stop here?

No!

"Fine, I'm a well-trained Grey Hat under the Duke of Caesar. What haven't I seen?"

"Since we're already here, let's give it a try!"

Chapter 264 Grey Top Hat: Haha, the Duke's One-Spoon Stew!

Kjerag, the Snow Country Express.

The poet is a literature enthusiast; otherwise, he would not have earned such a title.

There are no wrong nicknames, only wrong names.

He had read many interesting literary works, ranging from the obscure and difficult theoretical works on Originium Arts in Letania to the stories written by an organization in Victoria that was based on "fairy tales." He even had the privilege of seeing rubbings of the famous plays and scripts of the [Crimson Troupe], which supposedly originated in Gaul and flourished among the nations of Terra before vanishing without a trace. Those were truly remarkable works, but nowadays, it seemed no one could capture the essence of their performances.

This is why the poet is perfectly aware of the obvious logic that "literary works need logic, but reality does not."

However, as he stood at the door of Box 3, recalling the unpleasant memories of the first two boxes, he suddenly had the illusion that he might be in some absurd comedy.

"Haha, what am I even thinking?"

"The Lateran Pope and the Mayor of Siesta are both unexpected yet reasonable figures. Why should I be suspicious of them?"

"If some god of Sherag wanted to plot to kill me, why bother with such a troublesome way of toying with me?"

The man in the grey top hat shook his head, a self-deprecating smile playing on his lips:

"Let's finish this mission quickly and get back to Victoria. I've been in Sherag for so long, I'm starting to miss my fiancée. Let's get married properly after this mission is over!"

"I wonder if we can invite the Duke of Caesar... What am I thinking? The Duke is so busy with state affairs, how could he possibly find the time to attend the wedding of his subordinate?"

Shrugging, the man in the grey top hat swallowed hard, reached out, and opened the door to the private room in front of him.

The train compartments were no different from any other... I didn't see the gray top hat, but I was a little surprised that someone would put a mirror at the entrance of the compartment.

Wait... no, I shouldn't be wearing this uniform. I'm wearing all Kjerag limited edition merchandise! And my harp, where is it in the mirror?

The poet seemed to realize something; in an instant, even before his mind was fully aware of it, his body was already covered in cold sweat.

A sharp dagger was already pressed against his heart. The Sherag outfit, which provided excellent warmth, offered little in terms of defense. The poet could almost feel the chill emanating from the "reflection" before him!

"Stop, Smith."

A familiar, elegant female voice stopped the gray-hatted man in front of her. The gray-hatted man, named "Smith," glanced coldly at the "Poet" before sheathed her dagger and the murderous intent surging from her hand, and sat back down in the room as if nothing had happened.

Only then did the poet finally see the situation in the room clearly.

The young, orange-haired Vaivaan girl stared wide-eyed at the swirling snowflakes and rolling mountains outside the train window, her eyes sparkling with wonder. Beside her, the blonde Rupert's face was tense. She glanced sideways at the grey-hatted figure standing in the doorway; his striking face, easily recognizable among Victorian nobility and the military, instantly identified the group to the Poet.

The Storm Commando, one of Victoria's top special operations forces!

Opposite the Stormtroopers, standing beside the grey-hatted "Smith," the figure seated on the sofa was none other than the leader of all the grey-hatted women, one of the most powerful women in Terra, the Grand Duchess who claimed to have control over "three-eighths of Victoria," and the very woman the poet had repeatedly mentioned—the Grand Duchess of Kester!

With a calm yet slightly amused gaze sweeping over the poet, the Duke of Custer spoke with a touch of teasing ease:

"It seems our Sir Bellingham is doing quite well in Sherag?"