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Hello, You’ve Reached the Daily Road Editorial Office – Part 01

The Daily Road

July 10, 1930, Evening Edition, Page 2

The Champion Speaks! ‘KILL! BOMB! BLOOD!’

At the top floor of Manhattan’s finest hotel, the Hotel Arlianton, the handsome national champion William Trayton, gazing out over the breathtaking view of Central Park, spoke.

“I’m William Trayton. The champion. Above all, I’m a descendant of the distinguished Pilgrim Fathers. Therefore, tonight…”

His eyes snapped open wide.

“I will BOMB the ring! KILL the challenger! Spill BLOOD on the bridge!”

Chapter 3: Hello, You’ve Reached the Daily Road Editorial Office

East Village, the Eastern European neighborhood.

Ukrainian folk songs came from a cart piled high with black coal. Laundry flapped in the wind, rustling softly outside old buildings. The main street below was filled with the smells of food, dust, oil, and sweat.

A horse hitched to the coal cart neighed repeatedly, interrupting the singing. It brought its nose to the ground and scratched at it with its hooves as if trying to draw attention to something. But everyone was too occupied to notice.

In front of the horse was a manhole with its cover left open. Something silver gleamed in the roughly thirty-centimeter hole.

The horse neighed again and again, but the sound was drowned out by car horns, singing, and the clamor of people passing by.

Hmm? Victorique opened her eyes.

Wearing a puzzled look, she puffed out her cheeks and looked up. She was tightly wedged into the manhole as if it was made just for her.

The surface was less than two meters above her. The floor was wet. The summer sky she could see from the manhole was a perfect circle.

There wasn’t a single cloud, and the sun was blinding. The shabby shoes of passersby, the underside of the horse’s hooves, and the bottom of the rotting cart crossed the round sky above her.

Pressing her palm to her head, she called softly, “Hey, Kujou!” There was no response. “Hey, can you hear me?”

No one answered.

Victorique pulled out her pipe from her sleeve and put it in her mouth. She turned on the radio. The news played. “Last night… at the Apocalypse… there was a terrible incident…” She turned it off. She wasn’t interested.

She looked up at the sky lazily and called again, “Hey, Kujou?”

A blond, blue-eyed child with a dirty face peeked into the hole. The child wore a white diaper.

Victorique ordered, “You. Go find the stiff-looking Asian man nearby and bring him here.” But the child did not respond.

In the child’s hand was a skewer with cream-colored, brown, and red round things, resembling a three-color dumpling. As Victorique stared at it, the child backed away, scared.

“Hey, wait!” Victorique tried to stop the child. Her white-blonde hair stirred. “Kujou? Hey, Kujou!” She grew even more baffled.

“What on earth happened to you? Are you all right?”

A creepy face suddenly appeared.

Victorique looked up and saw a large, elderly woman with gray hair tied in an old-fashioned style on top of her head, wearing a vintage brown Southern-style dress. Her eyes were cloudy, her wrinkled skin cold. A crescent-shaped brooch gleamed on her chest.

The old woman opened her mouth to say something. But although her lips moved slowly, no sound came out. Then, she awkwardly mimicked a boxing motion, thrusting her fists forward alternately.

Victorique asked irritably, “Are you doing pantomime?”

The old woman nodded stiffly and began moving faster. She mimed being handcuffed, pointed somewhere, and repeatedly bowed as if asking for help.

Victorique watched closely, and when the old woman paused and looked at her pleadingly, she shook her head. “I have no idea what you’re trying to say.”

The old woman stared at Victorique with her cloudy eyes full of bitterness. Then, she vanished without a trace.

“What a bizarre ghost!” Victorique sighed. “A-Anyway, where on earth is Kujou?”

At the southeastern tip of Manhattan Island was Newspaper Row, and the fifth floor of a peculiar mixed-use building housed the Daily Road editorial office.

The spacious floor had glass walls, making everything visible from the dim hallway. The air was thick with the smells of cigarette smoke, sweat, and grease. The clatter of typewriters, the incessant ringing of phones, and the shouting of men echoed throughout. Newspapers hung like laundry from the ceiling, with plain lamps swaying between them. Desks were crammed together, each with a fan whirring loudly. The strong gusts sent the newspapers and lamps rocking like a ship tossed by waves.

In one corner was a pile of leftover delivery food and cigarette butts. The coat rack sagged under a heap of suit jackets, on the verge of collapsing under the weight.

A young man was typing furiously, a lit cigarette wedged behind his ear. Nearby, a group played cards, while some lay curled up on the floor, fast asleep with a camera clutched to their chests. Many were shirtless due to the heat, wearing only their suit pants and leather shoes. Their hair, greasy and stiff, didn’t budge even under the blast of the fans, a sign it hadn’t been washed in a while.

In another corner was the advertising department. A tall, attractive businesswoman, wearing a men’s hat tilted to one side, a tight pantsuit, and red high heels, was holding a cigarette in her mouth with her arms crossed, waiting impatiently.

Sitting in front of her was an earnest-looking, young East Asian man, Kazuya Kujou. He was typing hurriedly on a typewriter.

After finishing, he stood up straight, handed over the paper, and bowed. “Here you go, Ma’am.”

The woman rolled her eyes mockingly. Scratching her chin, she exhaled a huge plume of smoke from her nose.

“Let me see,” she said.

“Missing Person Notice:

Long white-blonde hair, deep green eyes. About 140 centimeters tall. Female. Sauville immigrant. Speaks English and French. Can read German, Yiddish, Latin, Sanskrit, Polish, Italian, and Spanish. Wearing a traditional outfit called a yukata, a pink floral cloth with a light blue stiff cloth tied around the waist.”

“Hair and… eyes are deep green… height is… female… languages… wow, she’s a remarkable girl. Must have a head that can hold all the knowledge of the New World. Outfit… hmm. And where did she go missing?”

“Oh! On the main street of East Village.”

The woman added in handwriting, “Got separated from their guardian on the main street of East Village.” She finished with, “If seen, please contact the Daily Road editorial office.”

She looked at Kazuya from under her tilted hat. “You summed it up pretty well. Good job.”

He bowed again. “Thank you. I just really want to find her quickly.”

“Smart and polite. But with yellow skin and being homeless, life’s not going to be easy for you in this town.” She took a drag from her cigarette, smirking. “I’ll put it in the evening edition. Hopefully, she’ll be found safe.”

“Thank you.” Kazuya straightened up and bowed.

The woman tapped her forehead with her index finger and said, “Ciao!”

She watched as the young Asian man left.

East Village, a neighborhood steeped in Eastern European roots, was loud with the steady clopping of hooves and incessant chatter.

Victorique remained tightly wedged in the manhole, growing increasingly frustrated.

“Kujou? Hey!” she continued to call out, but received no response.

“Oh my!” exclaimed a shrill voice with a Hungarian accent. “What a silly girl to fall into a hole like this. Are you a newborn fawn or something?”

Victorique looked up to see a middle-aged Eastern European woman with dark hair and tanned skin, cradling a baby on her front and back. The toddler from earlier stood beside her, munching on a dumpling.

“You won’t survive in the New World like this. You’ll be dead in no time, I tell you.”

Holding her golden pipe regally, Victorique said, “Did you see anyone near this mysterious hole—”

The woman laughed. “What mysterious hole? It’s just a manhole.”

Victorique gazed at the woman incredulously. “That’s beside the point,” she said with a sigh. “There’s a young Asian man awkwardly wandering around here. He’s my attendant. Bring him to me at once!”

The middle-aged woman scanned the surroundings. “I don’t see anyone like that.”

“He’s here. You’re just not looking hard enough.”

“No, he’s not.”

Victorique grew irate. “He is! Absolutely! Look more carefully, you moron!”

“What, moron? How dare you!” The woman glared at Victorique, then burst into laughter. “You must have dreamt about becoming a princess with a servant. There’s no such refined person in this poor town. Go back to your humble abode.”

Confused, Victorique murmured, “A-A dream?”

Holding her head, she squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to dispel the hallucinations.