Hello! I'm back from Paris!
Here is a new chapter! Enjoy!
And thank you Mium, Dekol347, Porthos10, Microraptor, Ranger_Red, First_Time_****, TheHumble_Dogge, George_Bush_2910, AlexZero12, Shingle_Top and lizer for your support!
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When the curfew came into effect, Montreal changed its face. The streets emptied and grew eerily silent.
Every sound was amplified, and every footstep echoed like a confession, making the atmosphere deeply unsettling for anyone who had to walk through them.
Like all the other streets, Saint-Paul Street had turned gloomy, as if it had never truly belonged to the living — as if this was its real face, finally revealed.
Under the dark cloak of night, Montreal seemed to flatten, blending into the shadows until it resembled a ghost town haunted by the souls of all who had once lived there.
Adam wouldn't have been surprised to spot, at the far end of an alley, the specter of an old coureur des bois or a long-forgotten Iroquois warrior.
Around him, the shadows stretched and merged, swallowing the cobblestones, the façades, the crates, barrels, and crooked alleyways.
The lanterns hanging from the walls cast a pale, flickering light onto the pavement, struggling to hold the darkness at bay. But it was a hopeless fight.
The flames inside looked fragile, almost pitiful, against such overwhelming blackness.
To his right, Adam caught a glimpse of the Saint Lawrence River, its black surface glistening faintly beneath a sliver of moon, sharp and thin like the blade of a saber.
But a dense cloud soon slid in front of it, devouring its soft, comforting glow.
The river, the city, and the surrounding forests were plunged into even deeper darkness.
A lone figure moved slowly along the silent homes and shuttered shops, then vanished like an illusion, blending perfectly into the shadows.
His careful footsteps were barely audible — exactly as he intended.
His breathing was held, his thoughts suspended, his whole being focused on one single goal: to go unnoticed.
Of course, Adam had no desire to attract the attention of a patrol. He'd have a hard time explaining why he was wandering through the streets of Montreal so late at night.
A cool breeze swept in from the river, brushing against his face and slipping into his coat like a cold, sneaky snake. There was nothing he could do to stop it — the chill sent a sharp shiver through him.
With a brisk gesture, he adjusted his long black coat and raised his collar to shield his neck.
His black tricorne was pulled so low over his brow that even in broad daylight, it would have been hard to spot the wide scar above his eye, the one running all the way to the back of his ear — a scar he often forgot about, but which others never failed to notice.
Suddenly, a sound.
He froze.
His heart pounded wildly in his chest. Without thinking, Adam held his breath and slipped into the shadowed recess of a doorway.
His back pressed against the cold stone wall, damp from an earlier shower. Thanks to his coat, he only felt the hardness of the stone.
A moment later, he spotted a patrol passing three houses down, moving through a narrow alley.
They were led by the flickering light of a lantern, swinging from the hand of a sergeant.
The soldiers walked slowly, their thick leather shoes clapping against the wet cobblestones as they headed onto Saint-Paul Street.
They were coming his way.
Adam shut his eyes and silently prayed not to be noticed. The small group passed into his line of sight.
Fortunately, God heard him, and not one of the soldiers turned their head.
Despite the lantern's modest flame, it would have been enough to spot him if the soldiers had looked in his direction.
He stayed perfectly still for a long moment and only stepped out of his hiding spot once he was sure the danger had passed. Straining his ears, he could still make out the faint sound of boots on the slick, muddy pavement.
That was a close one.
Saint-Paul Street quickly returned to silence. Only then did Adam resume his slow advance toward the warehouses, more cautious than ever.
All his senses were sharpened, so much so that he felt as if he had never seen, heard, or smelled so clearly in his life.
He knew Montreal had several warehouses, both civilian and military, thanks to its ideal location.
Nestled deep in the heart of New France, the city had quickly become a vital logistics hub, a crossroads no convoy could avoid.
From here, supplies were sent to the various forts across the region, from the imposing Fort Bourbon in the south to the modest Fort de la Corne, lost on the western frontier.
It was the gateway to the "Pays d'en Haut."
The city also needed places to store resources extracted from New France, to be sold locally or shipped back to France. Though Montreal played an important military role, above all else, it was a merchant city — a strategic cog in the colony's economy.
As he drew closer to the looming buildings, Adam moved with the stealth of a mouse. He slipped behind a cart missing a wheel, tucked into the shadow of a two-story stone house.
He observed the scene before him.
Hmm. The kid Gaspard wasn't lying. There's definitely something shady going on here.
But he couldn't see much. The area was fenced off by a palisade of tall wooden planks. All he could make out were faint yellowish glows near the entrance, the muffled voices of men, and the heavy thuds of cargo being loaded or unloaded.
Adam bit his lip, hesitating.
If this were some game, he'd pull his hood over his face and start looking for a gap in the security system — there had to be one or two, just enough for the player to slip through and complete the mission without raising an alarm.
But this wasn't a game, and the men inside weren't brainless NPCs.
So... what do I do? Wait? Or look for another way in?
His curiosity grew by the minute, clouding his judgment. Adam wanted to see with his own eyes what was unfolding in the shadows.
At last, he decided to leave his hiding spot and move forward, staying cloaked in darkness.
The shadows are my friends, I am one with the darkness, he whispered inwardly to bolster his courage, fully aware that these ridiculous words — straight out of a bad movie — had no place in the real world.
Carefully, Adam avoided a large puddle of brown mud and made a wide detour to reach the opposite side of the restricted area. He could almost picture a little map floating in the corner of his vision, with bright red zones highlighting the danger he'd be in if someone caught him snooping around here.
The palisade wasn't very tall, nor was it particularly sturdy. He could've easily broken it down — but the racket would've been deafening, and the mission would've been "failed" before it had even truly begun.
The amateur spy chose another approach. He moved a few objects around to use them as a makeshift foothold. There was a faint scrape against the cobblestones, but no one seemed to notice. No one saw him climb over the palisade either.
C-come on!
With all the grace of a sack of potatoes, he tumbled over the wooden fence and landed on all fours in the sticky mud on the other side. Thankfully, the fall didn't make much noise — but a treacherous little stone jabbed deep into his right knee.
"Hurgh!"
Adam bit down hard on his lower lip to stifle a cry of pain and clutched his throbbing leg. He could almost imagine the blood seeping through the fabric, staining his breeches. His eyes welled up with tears.
Fuck, you idiot! God, that hurts! Ah... shit, I'm in for it!
Wincing like a wounded soldier, he pulled himself upright and limped toward the nearest building, pressing his back against the wooden wall, tense and alert.
O-okay... n-no one heard me!
It took him a few moments to collect himself.
Once he judged it safe enough, Adam slipped behind the building that had offered him cover. He crept between it and the palisade, stopping next to a large barrel where someone had left a length of rope and a broken lantern. The lantern was dark.
Seeing no one, he made a clumsy dash to the next building, as silently as before.
The closer he got, the clearer the voices of the intruders became. Snatches of conversation reached his ears.
"Come on, move it! We don't have all night!"
"Ouch, my back!"
"Watch it, you fool! Damn it! Pick that up and stack it with the others!"
"Hey, how about giving us a hand instead of standing there watching us do all the work?"
"We got paid to look the other way, not to help."
"Yeah. How could we help, when there's nothing going on tonight? We didn't see a thing."
"Fot-en-cul!"
A sharp voice cut through the growing bickering, snapping the group back to order.
"Silence! You think this is the time and place for your crap? Get moving! You should've been done already!"
Adam, who had crept dangerously close while still hidden by the shadows of a building, leaned forward ever so slightly to spy on the scene and get a good look at the intruders.
In front of him, a cart hitched to a heavy horse stood waiting, surrounded by about a dozen men at most. Most were dressed plainly.
Worn-out coats, greasy and faded from years of hard use; wide-brimmed hats patched and reshaped, old tricorns slumped on their heads. Ordinary clothes for the colonies, the kind that drew no attention. Others had tossed their jackets aside, working in just their shirts despite the night's chill, trying to make the labor easier.
From his hiding spot, Adam struggled to put names to faces, so he focused on those with distinctive features.
One man stood out: tall and broad, his head shaved clean, his chest puffed out beneath a grey shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that looked downright dangerous. His jaw was square and jutted forward, and an ugly scar ran across his throat.
If Adam crossed paths with him again, he'd recognize him instantly.
He memorized the man's features and moved on to another.
This one was almost the exact opposite: small and scrawny, with hunched shoulders, and not the least bit intimidating. His nose looked like it had been smashed flat by a brick, and long brown hair failed to hide his large, protruding ears.
But there were soldiers too.
Shit! Gaspard was right! This isn't just some petty theft — it's organized, and judging by the looks of it, this isn't the first time!
Adam counted five soldiers, four of them regulars, probably the sentries who were supposed to keep unauthorized people away from the area. Their faces were hard to make out — but the fifth man, standing apart, was immediately recognizable: an officer with a stern, upright posture.
It's... it's that other officer! The one staying at Madame Boileau's place! What was his name again? Cho... Cha... Chamoine! Captain Chamoine! That's it!
He narrowed his eyes to make sure he wasn't mistaken — no doubt about it. It was indeed the man lodging in the same house, right upstairs at Madame Boileau's.
The officer held a plain lantern in one hand and kept a sharp, impatient eye on the men loading the cart — men he had clearly allowed inside. In his other hand, he held a hefty ring of keys and seemed to be waiting for the crew to finish so he could lock up the warehouse.
"For God's sake, what the hell is wrong with you tonight?!" the man growled, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching from the street.
"W-we're done," answered one of the men, completely dressed in black and soaked in sweat.
"About time. Now get the hell out of here," Captain Chamoine ordered curtly, selecting the large key that matched the warehouse's lock.
The warehouse door slammed shut, and the metallic clatter echoed all the way to Adam.
"And as for you lot," the captain added, turning to the soldiers, "same as always — you saw nothing."
The officer handed out a few coins, which the soldiers pocketed eagerly, grinning.
"Of course, Captain!" said the tallest of the group, without a hint of shame. "Heh, didn't see a thing, didn't hear a thing."
Like a child with a new toy or sweets, he joyfully rolled the coins around in the palm of his hand before slipping them into his coat pocket.
The captain shot the four soldiers a look full of contempt, then turned on his heels.
As soon as the cart and the officer left the area, the sentries returned to their positions at the entrance. It was as if nothing had ever happened.
They're gone! Now what am I supposed to do?
Adam clenched his jaw, straightened up, and immediately felt a sharp twinge in his knee.
A tingling sensation ran all the way up his thigh. He slowly bent the leg and placed a few fingers around the sore spot.
Tss! I want to see what's inside that warehouse, but I don't have the key. And it's not like they keep any proper records of what they've taken! For all I know, the numbers are all fake!
His gaze turned cold as it settled on the sentries.
And even if I wanted to… there's no way I could get in there without being seen. I can't just kill those bastards either. I don't even have a weapon.
There was still Chamoine — and the cart.
I know where Captain Chamoine lives, so it doesn't matter if I let him go. But I have to find out where that cart is headed!
Everything suddenly clicked in Adam's mind, and without wasting a second, he turned around. Limping slightly, he retraced his steps, skirting along the palisade until he reached his entry point.
With utmost caution, he grabbed an empty barrel, rolled it through the mud, and pulled over a large crate, which he climbed onto.Once atop the barrel, he swung himself over the palisade and landed in the deserted street. Just at that moment, the rain began to fall.
There was no warning, no gradual build-up — it was as if the sky had suddenly split in two.
The rain quickly formed a solid curtain all around him, drowning out every sound.
With so little light, Adam felt as if he had gone completely blind. The street soon turned into a muddy stream, and the rooftops into cascading waterfalls.
With his coat clinging to his soaked skin, half deaf and half blind, he hurried his pace, determined to catch up to the cart that couldn't have gone far.
Hmm, they're probably trying to leave the city. The closest gate is the East Gate!
A sense of urgency gripped him, knowing the gate was nearby. If he took too long, he risked losing them altogether.
He quickened his pace, both to escape the rain and to catch up with the suspicious men, but when he finally reached the gate — naturally guarded by a few soldiers standing stiff and dry beneath the shelter — he saw no sign of the cart.
Fuck! Did they already pass?
He raised a frozen hand to his soaked face and wiped the streaming water off his skin, his movements tense and impatient.
"Maybe they're using another gate," he muttered under his breath.
His face, barely visible in the downpour, tilted downward as he turned sharply and headed off in the opposite direction. Shoulders hunched, he followed Saint-Paul Street under the relentless rain, passing shuttered homes and closed shops.
After a few minutes, Adam spotted the cart again — it was just rolling past the Hôtel-Dieu.
The building loomed ahead, massive and cold, like a giant guarding the street. It was the largest structure in the entire city.
Both a religious and medical institution, its primary mission was to aid orphans, the poor, and pilgrims.
It had been around for more than a century, having been founded in 1642. Naturally, the present structure had little in common with the original, having expanded considerably over the years.
Its steeple, rising from the center, made it visible from afar.
Beautiful by day, the building now struck Adam as oppressively grim. All that was missing was a thunderstorm in the background to make it look like some dreadful horror was unfolding within.
There it is! The cart!
Even though he'd caught up to it, he didn't know what else he could do. He couldn't just charge in like some lunatic, kill everyone, and stop this disgraceful theft.
He wasn't a comic book hero or some overpowered video game character with unrealistic skills. He was just himself — an ordinary man with ordinary means.
But if he waited too long, the cart would vanish right before his eyes.
Of course, there was no magic involved here. He figured that, just like they'd managed to enter the King's warehouses with the help of a bribe, they'd likely have no trouble leaving Montreal under curfew the same way.
Frustration clenched his fists. All he could do was watch.
Because of the damn rain, if there had been any conversation between those people, he couldn't hear a single word through the relentless noise.
Just as he had feared, the cart turned and headed toward the western gate — the Callières Gate, named in honor of the Governor General of New France under Louis XIV. It paused there only for a moment.
A purse was exchanged, and the gate opened with a sharp, hollow clack, muffled like everything else by the downpour.
Adam stood there like a fool in the street, soaked to the bone and freezing.
Defeated, he watched the gate close before him.
Well... I guess that's the mission failed. If I'd known… No, there was nothing else I could've done.
A shiver rippled through him, making it clear it was time to head home. With a small, ironic tilt of his head — as though bowing to some imaginary noble — he shook the water out of his tricorne.
There was nothing more he could do.
Adam turned back, his steps heavy, and made his way back to his lodging without trouble.
The building was quiet, as if fast asleep. For a brief moment, he considered taking his chances sneaking into Captain Chamoine's room, searching for proof among his belongings — but quickly abandoned the idea.
The risk was too high. Soaked as he was, he would leave traces of his passage everywhere in the room. His shoes were caked with mud.
Even a blind man would realize in an instant that someone had been there — assuming Chamoine wasn't still inside.
Resigned, he walked on.
Climbing the staircase to the upper floor, he heard the faint sounds of laughter and muffled sighs. Clearly, he wasn't the only one who had braved the curfew tonight.
He didn't linger to find out who the late-night guest might be and climbed the narrow staircase leading to the attic rooms. The steps creaked under his weight, but no one came out to check who might be wandering about at such an hour.
Adam entered his room, hastily pulled off his boots, and peeled away his soaking clothes.
Wearing only his shirt — long enough to cover the tops of his thighs — he sat on the edge of his bed. He hadn't even bothered lighting a candle.
He'd completely forgotten about the small injury to his knee.
Alone in the dim room, he sat thinking for a long time, but no clear conclusion came to him.
Ah... I don't feel like sleeping, but... it must be really late. Oh well, I guess that's enough for today. Tomorrow's another day.
With that thought, he slipped off his shirt and put on his other, longer one meant for sleeping. Still chilled to the bone, he crawled under his blankets and sheets. The bed felt icy, but after a few minutes, warmth slowly returned to his body.
Before he knew it, he had drifted off to sleep — and dreamed of a different version of the night, one where he was agile, fearless, and armed to the teeth.
In his dream, he leaped from rooftop to rooftop with a cat's grace and pounced to assassinate two enemies at once with hidden blades. He would've revealed his arsenal and wiped out his foes in a heartbeat, before any of them could make a sound.
And at the end, he would've found some valuable clue on a corpse — something that would lead him straight to the next mission.