The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1311: Chapter 176: Arthur Hastings? Artur Hestinogov!

The curtains were half-drawn, shielding the sunlight streaming in from the glass window.

In the bedroom still lingering with the smell of alcohol, Arthur’s eyelashes twitched slightly.

Slowly opening his eyes, Arthur stared blankly at the ceiling for a long while before finally sitting up in bed, feeling as if his heavy body were a lump of lead.

The sheets stuck to his clammy skin, and the air was filled with the scent of alcohol and tobacco.

Almost instinctively, he reached for the pitcher by the bed, taking several large gulps of water, which only slightly alleviated his thirst. As the water slid down his throat, he felt a moment of warm comfort, but it was quickly followed by a violent reaction in his stomach, and he struggled to suppress the nausea rising within him.

Arthur placed his hand on his forehead, trying to clear his mind. The sunlight outside filtered through the blinds into the room, casting patterns on the wooden floor, and his gaze fixed on that faint patch of light, his eyes involuntarily squinting.

The memories of last night began to piece together, those dim lights, the actors’ tense performances, the aroma and laughter surrounding him—and his own uncontrollable drinking. Clearly, he was not in the best of conditions today.

After finally rising from the bed, he staggered to the window and drew back the curtains.

The cold air hit him, making him feel slightly more awake.

The morning in Göttingen was damp, the air fresh yet tinged with autumn, the street below busy with early risers passing by, while the adjacent street and the distant monastery tower stood in serene tranquility.

“Oh God…” Arthur muttered to himself in a hoarse, low voice, scarcely able to endure the sound of his own voice. Last night’s revelry seemed like a nightmare now; he covered his eyes with his hand, trying to regain his senses.

He didn’t know why he had drunk so much last night. Perhaps the “Turandot” performance gave him a strange sense of release, allowing him to immerse himself in the tide of applause and cheers, temporarily forgetting the pressure of his duties.

Being a chief operative wasn’t as easy as some might think—carrying so many people, so many matters, so much guilt and secrecy in one’s heart, told to no one, shared with no one. It was not a pleasant feeling.

But in a flash, a deep emptiness surged in Arthur’s heart, a feeling not caused by the physical discomfort of a hangover but from a regret over something that seemed out of control.

He was no longer of the age for university indulgences. Back at the University of London, after a night of revelry with Eld, the worst outcome was encountering a few thugs on the way out, getting into a scuffle, and then being tossed into a roadside ditch.

But now…

Now, he carried too many secrets inside him, and a single slip of the tongue could spell disaster.

Whether it was the shady dealings he previously had at Scotland Yard, the Young Italy’s funding, the true nature of the Gestapo, or the Russian students trying to create a big news story for the “Moscow Daily”…

Arthur walked to the window, glancing at his reflection in the glass, his fatigued, unadorned face carrying a certain unfamiliarity in his eyes.

He couldn’t help but smile bitterly, thinking to himself, “I really do look like a complete outsider.”

He walked back to the bed, rummaging through the letters and documents beneath his pillow, looking for something to help focus his thoughts.

Suddenly, his eyes stopped on a piece of letter paper sealed with wax upon which was inscribed “University of Gottingen”—it was his letter of appointment as the National Special Representative of the University of Gottingen.

His slightly heated head was splashed with a basin of cold water. Arthur sighed lightly; all the recklessness and amusement seemed to have no real place in his life. He still needed to firmly plant his feet and continue that cold and pressure-filled work.

He took a deep breath, clutching the letter as he sat down, closing his eyes to find a moment of calm.

However, soon enough, his peripheral vision fell upon the nightstand where, besides his hat, there were many items that didn’t belong to him.

What caught his attention first was a roughly crafted small knife, short yet sturdy, about ten to twelve centimeters long. The oak handle, worn smooth from years of use, felt warm to the touch.

Arthur picked up the knife and examined it, finding the previous owner’s name engraved on the blade—Giuseppe Garibaldi.

Next to the knife lay a brief note, written in Italian with a simple blessing from this jovial revolutionary to a friend—every inch of steel fights for freedom, the warrior’s heart never yields, may you be equally brave on the road ahead.

Arthur chuckled at the note, saying, “Giuseppe… for the sake of this knife you gave me, I won’t use it on you next time.”

Beside the knife lay a letter stained with wine, signed by Shubinsky.

Upon opening the letter, the page was filled with Cyrillic characters that made Arthur frown deeply.

Even though he had been diligently studying Russian, receiving such a letter right after a hangover felt like deciphering an alien script to Arthur.

“Even without English, he should at least use French or German…” Arthur murmured a couple of lines before tucking the letter into a small box under the bed.

But before he could lock the box, he heard someone push open the bedroom door.