The morning mist condensed into water droplets on the glass window, as a discreetly decorated black carriage rolled over the coal-cinder-paved road and slowly stopped in front of the heavy cast iron gate of the Punk Armory Factory.
This factory was undoubtedly one of the most imposing buildings in the entire New Industrial Zone, having once served as a warehouse for the Royal Armory.
To establish another armory beside the Royal Armory, likely there was only one person in all of Thunder City who had that kind of energy.
Once the carriage came to a steady stop, the young coachman hastily got down and opened the carriage door for the Prince.
Mr. Punk had been waiting at the entrance.
The former coachman no longer looked as small and thin as he did a year ago. His slightly plump figure was wrapped in a narrow brown vest, like a small cask, with a pocket watch chain hanging beside the bronze buttons, and he wore a black bowler hat.
