Chapter 73: First Battle

Chapter Seventy-Three
First Battle

Under the bright afternoon sun, Klein’s clothing was stained with dust. He quickly adjusted the firing position of the revolver and cocked the corresponding mechanism, putting himself in a state where he could fire and hit an enemy at any moment. The brass-colored metal of the gun reflected flowing light.

He gripped the gun with one hand, extending it forward, alert to possible changes around him.

At the same time, he was somewhat worried about Captain Dunn and El Hassan, the gentleman in the gray double-breasted windbreaker. They were both Nightmares, better at secretly influencing enemies. Whether they could handle direct confrontation remained uncertain.

Just as the thought turned through Klein’s mind, El Hassan voluntarily slowed his charge. His expression became tranquil and sorrowful.

He opened his mouth and began chanting a poem that made the heart peaceful, as though one had entered night:

“When the sun sinks in the west,
And dew is on the evening’s breast,
Pale as moonlight she appears,
Or like the stars that follow near;
The evening primrose, fed by night,
Unfolds her frail and graceful light,
A hermit bloom that shuns the sun…”

The chanting spread outward. Klein nearly lost his tension and relaxed completely.

Fortunately, he had similar experience before and was not in the direction El Hassan was facing. He quickly settled his mind, using a half-meditative state to resist the influence of the “poem.”

Whew…

He sighed inwardly in relief, no longer doubting Dunn and El’s ability in frontal combat.

Because he had advanced only recently and could not claim to know much about Sequence potions, he had forgotten that Sequence 7 Nightmare advanced from Sequence 8 Midnight Poet, preserving the earlier abilities in full and improving them slightly.

As for Klein’s impression of Midnight Poet, it came entirely from Leonard Mitchell. He knew that this profession likewise inherited the special traits of Sleepless, was skilled in combat, shooting, climbing, and sensing, and could use poems of different styles to influence the living beings around them in different ways. In simple terms, they were violent poets.

Within El Hassan’s chanting, ripples suddenly appeared beside a stack of large wooden crates. A man wearing a black tailcoat and a half-top silk hat emerged.

Yet this man’s face was painted in red, yellow, and white greasepaint, forming the image of a “clown” whose mouth corners curved sharply upward. It created an absurd and laughable contrast with his formal attire, which looked suited for a banquet.

Tap, tap, tap! The black-haired Lorotta, who had been introduced as an excellent marksman, sprinted forward. One hand held a gun, the other formed a fist. In only a few steps, she closed in on the tailcoat clown.

The tailcoat clown seemed to be affected by El Hassan’s poem. His body swayed slightly. His gaze was peaceful and serene, with no desire to resist at all.

Slap! The black-haired Madam Lorotta sidestepped with a boxer’s footwork, raised her arm, and swung her fist toward the tailcoat clown’s face.

Boom!

The air exploded. The tailcoat clown abruptly shattered like a mirror, piece by piece, swiftly evaporating and vanishing.

At that very moment, several steps away in the dim area beside the wooden crates, the tailcoat clown’s figure rapidly outlined itself and reappeared.

The fellow affected earlier had only been an illusion. Only a performance.

As before, the tailcoat clown’s mouth split into a ridiculous smile. One hand pressed his half-top hat, and the other rose before he abruptly snapped his fingers.

Bang!

His finger-snap produced the sound of a firearm. Lorotta lunged left first and rolled repeatedly to dodge.

But nothing happened, except for the fake gunshot.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Dunn and El each raised their guns and fired steadily. The tailcoat clown moved left and right, sometimes retreating, sometimes rolling, his agile figure resembling an acrobatic performance.

Suddenly, the black-haired Madam Lorotta charged from somewhere else. She remained the excellent marksman she had been called; twisting her waist, swinging her arm, she struck at the enemy with her fist.

Boom!

The tailcoat clown had no time to evade. He lifted his left arm and blocked the punch.

Seeing him pause, Dunn and El did not hesitate at all. Each aimed and pulled the trigger.

At that instant, orange flames suddenly burst from the tailcoat clown’s arm where it was blocking Lorotta’s fist.

With a whoosh, the flames wrapped the tailcoat clown within and spread toward Lorotta.

Bang! Bang! Dunn and El’s revolvers fired separately, striking the mass of flame.

The flames burned rapidly, soon leaving only black ash drifting through the air. Yet the tailcoat clown’s figure appeared not far away once again, half hidden behind several stacked crates.

He lifted his right hand and snapped his fingers again.

Bang!

Amid the fake gunshot, Lorotta suddenly stopped, no longer lunging. Soil splashed up in front of her, and a bullet hole appeared.

This strike from the tailcoat clown was no longer an illusion.

False and real, real and false—it was truly difficult to distinguish.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The tailcoat clown repeatedly snapped his fingers, sometimes hiding, sometimes appearing, entering a firefight against Dunn and El.

Seeing this, Lorotta narrowed her eyes and lifted the long-barreled dark-gold revolver held in her left hand.

Bang!

The tailcoat clown suddenly crouched, shrinking his body to dodge the lethal shot. His half-top silk hat flew backward and fell into the dust, bearing an obvious scorched bullet hole.

With several rolls, he climbed onto the stacked wooden crates, nimble as a curly-haired baboon. From high above, he snapped his fingers and fired air bullets.

El Hassan took several steps back, lowered his gun, and began chanting again:

“Her beauty blooms for night alone,
Yet night to beauty’s charms is blind,
Unmoved by love she does not own…”

The tailcoat clown continued leaping between wooden crates. Suddenly, he lifted a hand and dug at his ear, looking toward El with that fixed, ridiculous smile.

Could he have plugged his ears in advance? The Sequence potions controlled by the Secret Order are truly strange…

Watching from afar, Klein formed a certain guess.

The thought had only just flashed through his mind when he suddenly saw a figure appear on the roof of a warehouse to the side, running swiftly toward the innermost room where Ray Bieber was hiding.

This figure wore the gray-white clothing of a docks worker. His face seemed to be painted with red, yellow, and white greasepaint as well.

The tailcoat clown is responsible for drawing away the Captain and the others, while someone else takes the notebook?

Klein’s thoughts stirred. Instinctively, he lifted his right hand and fired at the figure on the roof.

Just as he aimed and gave the necessary lead, that figure suddenly crouched, changing from running to rolling.

Bang!

Unable to stop himself, Klein pulled the trigger. He saw the figure abruptly pause as a burst of blood bloomed from his body.

The figure looked toward him in astonishment, endured the pain, and continued charging toward the innermost warehouse.

Ever heard of faith-based marksmanship?

The corner of Klein’s mouth twitched, and he pulled the trigger again. This time, the bullet struck the wooden roof beside the figure.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Leonard and Borgia also fired separately, but neither managed to hit the figure.

Klein was just about to mock their marksmanship as worse than his own, but his trigger finger suddenly froze.

Right! Why stop him?

Didn’t I just divine that the warehouse is extremely dangerous? Letting this fellow scout the path and step on the mine—wouldn’t that be good?

Leonard and Mr. Borgia are probably thinking the same thing…

As thoughts flickered, Klein raised the muzzle and began shooting birds in the sky.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Amid several gunshots, the figure reached the roof of the innermost warehouse without any obstruction.

He abruptly dove down, smashing through the roof with his elbow and falling inside along with fragments of broken wood.

Accompanying that sound, the black-haired Madam Lorotta’s eyes suddenly turned pitch-black. Her left hand made a strange downward-pulling motion.

The tailcoat clown’s rolling and leaping actions immediately seized up. It was as though an invisible hand had tightly grabbed his ankle.

Dunn did not fire at once. Instead, he lowered his revolver.

He opened his mouth. Without moving his Adam’s apple, relying purely on his spirituality to resonate with the surrounding air, he let a hollow, drifting, strange voice ring out:

“She blooms through all the hours of night;
Yet when the waking daylight stares,
She droops beneath that dizzying sight,
Ashamed, and withers unaware…”

The tailcoat clown’s struggles at once grew powerless, as though he had lost the will to survive.

El Hassan raised his revolver and aimed at the enemy, his finger just about to pull the trigger.

At that lightning-fast instant, an extraordinarily shrill scream came from the innermost warehouse.

“Ah!”

That scream contained extreme, violent terror, as though its owner had encountered something unimaginable and horrifying.

As Klein’s hair stood on end, the scream came to an abrupt stop. The innermost warehouse returned to silence—an eerie quiet that made the scalp tingle.

Bang!

El was somewhat affected. His bullet only struck the tailcoat clown’s abdomen.

Hah. Hah. Hah!

The silence of the innermost warehouse was broken again. A burst of breathing that should have been faint suddenly sounded, growing from soft to loud, tugging at everyone’s nerves.

Thump, thump, thump! Thump, thump, thump!

Inside the iron-black box, 2-049 abruptly went berserk, going utterly mad.

Note:
The poem in this chapter is adapted from John Clare’s “The Evening Primrose.”