Chapter 193: Diary

"Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang..."

Deafening music echoed relentlessly down a dilapidated street in South Boston. The old walls of the buildings, unable to fully muffle the noise, allowed the pounding rhythm to spill outward.

Yet, none of the locals dared to complain about the disturbance or call out the noise for being excessive.

For one, they didn't dare. And two, they had grown used to it. Despite the racket, many people still lived in the surrounding area.

If you walked further along the street, you'd notice something off about the bar's signage. The flickering neon lights outside didn't display the usual, welcoming name of a bar—like "House of Something" or "Song of Something."

Instead, a single word blinked repeatedly: "Negro."

Had Jiang Hai been there, he would have been astonished. The mayor of Winthrop Town had once explicitly warned him never to utter that word in front of African Americans. It carried with it the weight of history, a reminder of slavery and racial oppression.

And yet, here it was, proudly displayed as the name of the bar. It was a bold, brazen act that made it clear: the people who frequented this establishment were far from ordinary citizens. They were trouble.

Stepping inside the bar revealed a scene straight out of hell.

The place was chaotic, with platforms scattered around the room. On each platform stood women swaying provocatively to the music, making seductive gestures. As the crowd's energy reached a fever pitch, the women would strip off their clothes and dance even more boldly.

If someone in the audience caught their attention—or vice versa—the women would leap off the platforms, throwing themselves into waiting arms. The air was thick with hormones, and acts that belonged in private often happened openly in the hall. Kissing was considered passé. Here, people skipped straight to the point.

In the shadows, away from the madness, thugs with messy tattoos operated quietly. They were selling illicit items—things far worse than Red Bull, though the effects of their merchandise might be comparable in intensity.

Compared to this place, the strip club Moses Adams had once taken Jiang Hai to in New York seemed like a gentleman's gathering. This bar was a den of primal indulgence.

One peculiar detail stood out, though: everyone in the bar was white. There wasn't a single Black, Asian, or even Latino person present. The crowd was a sea of blonde hair and blue eyes. It was an unsettlingly homogenous gathering.

On the second floor, a man sat perched like a king surveying his kingdom. He had long blonde hair and wore a green military vest, camouflage pants, and heavy combat boots. A cigar hung from his lips as he watched the chaos below with a mix of bloodlust and arrogance.

The man wasn't alone. Four other men, dressed in sharp black suits and sunglasses, stood at attention nearby.

"Bring him in," the blonde man ordered, his voice cold.

Moments later, four of his subordinates shoved a man into the room. The newcomer looked out of place—tall and muscular but visibly uneasy. His posture and expressions screamed discomfort.

"You're Augustine Wilson, right? And Faraday is your brother?" the blonde man asked, flicking cigar ash onto the floor as he approached.

"Yes," Augustine replied nervously. "If this is about him, I'm sorry, but he's already in jail. He won't be getting out anytime soon. If he owes you money, I'll find a way to repay it."

Despite his fear, Augustine tried to stand his ground. He knew showing weakness would only invite more intimidation.

"No, no, no, you misunderstand," the blonde man said, flashing a crooked smile. "Your brother is my brother's good friend. You've heard of my brother, haven't you? Bunian Valen? They're cellmates now."

At the mention of that name, fear flashed in Augustine's eyes. He instinctively stepped back, but the men in suits were quick to grab his arms and push him forward. One of them even yanked his hair, forcing him to meet the blonde man's gaze.

"Don't you want to avenge your brother?" the blonde man asked, exhaling a puff of smoke into Augustine's face. His tone was calm, almost mocking. An evil glint flickered in his eyes as he leaned closer...

Meanwhile, Jiang Hai walked back to his villa under a starry sky.

In his left hand, he carried a box filled with the seafood he had caught earlier that day. Beneath the seafood were 21 smaller boxes, each containing gold coins. On average, there were about 430 coins per box, meaning Jiang Hai now possessed nearly 9,000 gold coins. Combined with the 6,000 coins from earlier in the day, his total income had reached 15,000 gold coins—equivalent to over six million dollars. The thought made him giddy.

But his excitement was momentarily overshadowed by the small notebook he held in his right hand.

The notebook had been stored in an iron box at the bottom of the sea. Remarkably, the box's seal had protected the contents for over a century. Although the notebook's pages had yellowed, it was still readable, despite some smudging.

The entries, written in English, appeared to be a diary. The author, one John Wiltold, seemed to have been a British major. However, much of the writing was cryptic, and Jiang Hai struggled to piece together its meaning.

When Jiang Hai returned home and opened the door, he found Darlene, Marianne, and Cindy Clive sitting in the living room. The sight was nothing new—Cindy often came by to tutor the girls, who were homeschooled due to their unique circumstances.

"Welcome back!" Cindy greeted him with a warm smile.

"Oh, uh, thanks! I'll just go change my clothes," Jiang Hai stammered, his face turning red. He had recently started fantasizing about Cindy as a potential partner, though he was far too embarrassed to act on it.

After freshening up, Jiang Hai decided to ask Cindy for help with the diary. As an American and a teacher, she might have better luck deciphering it.