Ashes Of Deep Sea

Chapter 338: Chapter 342 Maurice’s Clearance Techniques

Chapter 338 -342 Maurice’s Clearance Techniques

When Duncan and Alice set off for the cemetery, Morris and Fenna were not idle either. They arrived early at the “Citizens Assistance Center” in the southern part of the Upper City District, tasked by Duncan to accomplish one thing—

At Frost City-State, seek a stable and legal haven, and, if possible, one or two identities suitable for public appearance.

After all, they might be operating in this city-state for a considerable duration, and could not live a life of hiding like the Heretics.

Considering Tyrion’s contacts in the city were no longer reliable, Morris decided to figure things out by himself.

The Citizens Assistance Center in Frost was a large dome-shaped building, surrounded by two long, extending wings. Officially a citizens assistance center, the building also served to welcome visitors entering the City-State and handle a plethora of third-party intermediary tasks—from housing leases and sales registration, to temporary passes, and the hiring of temporary maids, gardeners, and launderers, all accomplished here—the lengthy wings crammed with various registration windows and offices, and inside the enormous dome, a bustling hall that was always noisy and crowded, quite unlike Prandel.

Upon entering the immense dome, heat assaulted them, the unique high-pressure heating apparatus of Frost dispelling the chill of winter, while bright electric lights hung high above in the dome, illuminating the whole building.

The center had only just opened recently, yet many people had already streamed in, citizens seeking short-term employment or to register property leases and sales bustling among the countless windows and counters. Amidst the clamor, the sounds of pneumatic tubes activating with “clacks” and “hisses” reverberated, and Fenna, evidently uncomfortable with the environment, dodged the throngs carefully while muttering to Morris, “In Prandel, human resources and housing rentals wouldn’t be housed in the same building.”

“You have to consider the cost of heating a large building, and the time needed to retrofit a heat pump exchange station,” Morris shook his head, “Most of the city’s basic municipal infrastructure was left from the era of the Frost Queen, but that glorious age has passed. After the great rebellion, Frost City-State barely recovered seventy to eighty percent of its Vital Energy through the boiling gold industry, but renewing the Queen’s legacy of underground pipelines and steam power network is no simple task.”

“Are we just going to make do with it?” Fenna’s eyes widened, “That’s technology from half a century ago!”

“What else?” Morris sighed, “It’s a combination of urban decline, demographic pressures, and the reduction in livable area due to the cliff collapse… The facilities from half a century ago might indeed be cramped now, but at least it’s barely sufficient. Since it suffices, we continue using it… This isn’t just an issue in Frost, many old industrial city-states face the same problem, vibrant cities like Prandel are the exception.”

Fenna fell silent.

This wasn’t her area of expertise.

Meanwhile, Morris had already located the registration counter for transient populations on the dazzling circuit diagram above the hallway. He and the tall Fenna weaved through the crowd, finally arriving at a relatively quiet counter.

The long wooden counter was set against the wall, divided into several slots by iron bars, each manned by someone in a gray-blue uniform—expressions as rigid as the iron bars beside them, clearly intended to maintain such till the end of their shift.

“We need a residence permit and also seek a short-term rental property,” Morris approached one of the slots, sat down on a creaking iron chair, and spoke to the sallow-faced middle-aged man, “We just landed today.”

“Which dock?” The sallow-faced clerk lifted his eyelids, glanced at the elderly man opposite him, pausing for a moment when he noticed the tall lady behind him, but then resumed in a bureaucratic tone, “Let’s see the dock documentation and the tickets.”

Fenna frowned, looking down at Morris.

But Morris remained composed, spreading his hands, “Lost them, probably at the dock as we departed, and that ship has already left.”

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The clerk immediately stopped what he was doing, looked up with a poker face tinged with displeasure, “That won’t do, you need the documents, go back to the dock to get them rectified.”

“But I have another thing,” Morris continued while digging inside his coat, pulling out a folded document and a small, dark red-covered booklet, “This should qualify as a legal identity document.”

The clerk waved dismissively, “Without dock documentation, nothing else works—”

He saw the mark on the booklet, stopped mid-sentence, then reached out to unfold the document, scanning it.

His poker face momentarily altered.

“Academic travel permission issued by the Academy of Truth and the Endless Sea Navigational Council, the bearer may stay and visit in all divinely protected City-States, the Academy of Truth’s local city university automatically acts as a guarantor during the stay,” Morris explained, pointing to the red booklet, “This is my credential, a dual degree in theology and academics from the Academy of Truth, rank of Professor.”

The sallow-faced middle-aged clerk stared blankly for a moment, then slowly raised his head, looking somewhat bewildered, “Ah… Good morning, Professor Morris… Delighted to meet you, your identity, of course, is valid.”

Morris’s face relaxed.

But the clerk hesitated briefly, as if struggling with something, yet persisted sternly, “Still… I must at least know which ship you arrived on, it’s… protocol.”

Maurice’s recently relaxed expression seemed slightly awkward, while Fenna beside him touched the tip of her nose and turned her head discreetly.

Maurice sighed and looked at the middle-aged clerk in front of him who seemed a bit nervous but still stared directly at him.

“You already know which ship I am on,” he said with a sigh, a glint in his eyes, “Just make the certificate.”

The clerk hesitated for a moment, a fleeting daze in his eyes, then he bowed his head and started operating the clattering punch machine, inserting the punched card into the pressure pipeline container next to the counter.

Moments later, accompanied by the hissing and clicking from the pipes, a card returned from some approval office deep in the building to the counter.

The clerk put the punched card into a small reading machine, confirmed the receipt’s number and the security password, then started to fill out the required information for the certificate, all the while saying without raising his head, “I can only issue a certificate here—you’ll have to take this certificate to the west side building, to window A-12 where you should find the short-term housing that meets your requirements.”

“Thank you,” Maurice took the completed document, paused, and then muttered softly, “Sorry.”

With that, he and Fenna quickly left the counter and headed to the next window.

“This is my first time doing something like this,” the old man couldn’t help but lower his voice after walking away, “I was intending to rely on the normal document process to handle this…”

“We arrived on a Ghost Ship that defies the norm, as you know, the normal process will never solve the problem,” Fenna said softly too, her tone somewhat amused, “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“…What do you think is the likelihood that Mr. Duncan could issue a legal ship registration for Homeloss?”

“What do you think?”

“…Well,” Maurice sighed and looked at the certificate in his hand, “Heidi better not know about this—the next time this happens, I’d rather forge a fake ship ticket.”

Fenna looked at Maurice with a nearly amused expression. It was indeed the first time she had seen such a worried expression on the face of this old scholar, known for his “rigorous scholarship and adherence to rules,” and seemingly… it was quite interesting.

…

At the same time, having just finished an onsite investigation and not yet managed to return to the cathedral, Agatha received urgent information on the way from a subordinate from Tomb No. 3.

Sitting in the steam car, Agatha looked at the letter just handed to her, her expression gradually turning blank.

A denunciation letter—from that indescribable Visitor.

Right after she left, this letter was delivered to the cemetery.

Should she lament this ironic missed connection, or the strange actions of the “Visitor”?

She tucked away the letter, quickly calculating in her mind.

Anxiety spread in her heart, and suddenly one matter seemed urgent.

“Turn around, go to the East Harbor.”

The subordinate driving up front was somewhat surprised, “Aren’t we going to the cathedral first?”

“Change of plan, go to the East Harbor first,” Agatha said decisively, “I have a bad feeling… something might be trying to land.”

The driver was puzzled, but the instinct to obey orders pressed down his curiosity.

The pitch-black steam car slowed down at the next intersection, turned, and then sped toward the port area on the eastern side of the City-State.