Chapter 68: “Monster”

Chapter Sixty-Eight
“Monster”

At dusk, the setting sun stretched the shadows of carriages and horses until they were long and thin across the road.

Having already explained things to Benson and Melissa, Klein had dinner at Blackthorn Security Company. Now he was riding a public carriage together with Old Neil toward the docks district.

He wore his original cheap formal suit, because he was worried that in a place like this, conflict might easily break out. If his carefully tended tailcoat were damaged, it would not merely hurt his heart—it would hurt his wallet.

When the sunlight took on a burning hue, the carriage stopped.

Old Neil, still dressed in that classical black robe and matching round-brimmed felt hat, walked toward the Dragon Bar across the slanted street, utterly unconcerned with other people’s gazes.

Even though the bar was still some distance away, even though its heavy door remained firmly closed, Klein could still hear waves of shouting from within, each louder than the last. They seemed to be cheering for some “hero.”

As he approached, he suddenly felt something. He turned his head toward the warehouse opposite the bar and saw, concealed on the rooftop, a burly man dressed in uniform.

The man carried a huge gray-white mechanical box on his back and held in his hands a thick, complicated rifle.

Between the gray-white metal box and the rifle of the same color, obvious pipes connected the two.

“A high-pressure steam rifle?”

Klein murmured in astonishment. Turning to Old Neil, he said, “This bar can actually get its hands on a weapon like that?”

That was a military-controlled item!

Although extracted phlogiston was used, the high-pressure steam backpack was still astonishing in both size and weight. Only a true iron-blooded soldier could carry such a thing. Bullets driven by that power reached extremely high velocities and possessed terrifying destructive force. With proper aiming, it was almost equal to an inferior sniper rifle.

“What?”

Old Neil narrowed his eyes and looked over. He too appeared puzzled.

“Something happened here?”

Something happened?

Klein looked around and indeed discovered several other men carrying repeating rifles, searching for something.

“What happened?” Old Neil asked, approaching the bar and questioning the burly man standing guard outside.

The burly man clearly recognized Old Neil. The muscles on his face twitched as he gave a bitter smile.

“The bar was nearly torn apart just now.

“They say some wanted fellow came to buy materials. Someone recognized him, and then things turned into this… My Lord, what exactly did he do? How dangerous is he, that they need to treat him like this? When I saw those guns, my legs went soft—softer than after fooling around with red-haired Sunny for an entire night!”

He did not know who the wanted man truly was, nor did he know that the people who came here to buy materials included Beyonders.

“A wanted fellow? Do you know his name?” Old Neil asked with interest.

“Called—called Tris?” the burly man answered, not especially certain.

Tris the Instigator?

Klein nodded in sudden understanding.

Tris had not previously known that Joyce Meyer had begun suspecting him. He had come openly to the underground market to purchase materials, only to be recognized by an informant from the Machinery Hivemind, the Mandated Punishers, or the Nighthawks, leading to an intense conflict.

“Was he caught?” Klein asked, tapping the ground lightly with his silver-inlaid black cane.

Judging from the situation around them, it seemed he had not been.

The burly man shook his head slightly and pointed with his chin toward the roof of the warehouse across the street.

“He rushed out before those terrifying fellows arrived. Whew. I have never seen anyone run faster than him!”

In truth, you still have not seen what an Assassin can really do. Otherwise you would be taken somewhere unspeakable for re-education…

Klein silently muttered to himself.

“Is the market still open?” Old Neil asked instead, turning to the key point.

“It has just reopened,” the burly man answered with certainty.

“Good.”

Old Neil quickened his pace and stretched out his right hand, pushing open the heavy door.

Klein followed close behind. The moment he entered, the heavy heat and dense smell of alcohol nearly knocked him over.

At the center of the Dragon Bar stood a boxing ring. Two bare-chested men were fighting fiercely on it, while dozens of drinkers shouted hoarsely for the fighter they supported. Among those shouts, quite a few were vulgar.

Old Neil paid them no attention. He led Klein around the ring and toward a billiard room at the back.

Inside the billiard room, two men were holding cues and chatting with laughter. When they saw Old Neil push the door open and enter, they fell quiet for several seconds.

Once they confirmed who had arrived, they silently moved aside, allowing Old Neil and Klein to pass through the hidden door behind them.

After passing through several rooms in succession, Klein’s view suddenly opened up. Before him was a space roughly the size of a tiered lecture hall from his previous life.

Some people had set up stalls, their blankets covered in bottles and jars. Others walked among the stalls, examining, conversing, or comparing prices.

“One-twentieth of all profits goes to Swain. Ah, he is the owner of the Dragon Bar, a former captain of a Mandated Punisher team, older than even me, and an old fellow who hopes to die of alcoholism,” Old Neil introduced in his usual rambling manner.

Klein thought for a moment, then evaluated sincerely, “A rather profitable business.”

After all, the only cost was providing space and protection.

“If you take a fancy to something but have not brought enough money, you can go borrow from Swain. Of course, he charges extremely high interest…”

At that point, Old Neil spoke somewhat through gritted teeth.

As expected, it is just like a casino—loan-shark service included…

Holding his cane, Klein looked around while asking curiously, “Is Mr. Swain a Seafarer?”

The captain of a Mandated Punisher team ought to be around Sequence 7.

“No. Only a Folk of Rage. Tingen is not coastal. Here, the Church of the Goddess is stronger than the Lord of Storms’ church.”

Old Neil gave a scoffing laugh.

“In fact, Swain had the chance to become a Seafarer, but he feared losing control and chose to give it up.”

Klein was just about to ask whether the bar owner had once nearly lost control when he suddenly sensed something strange on his left.

Something seemed to be hidden there, whispering, telling some story.

Klein turned and saw a pale-faced young man. He wore a worn linen shirt and the blue-gray trousers common to laborers. His gaze was extremely unfocused, yet madness seeped through it. He kept muttering something under his breath.

“His inspiration is very high… or twisted?” Klein frowned and whispered.

What had stirred his own inspiration just now was precisely this other man’s inspiration.

Normally speaking, awareness brought by “inspiration” would inevitably involve some interaction and was almost impossible to hide from others. But “others,” in this case, usually meant Spirit Mediums using an ability, or formidable people with similar specialties. A Beyonder like Klein could not easily distinguish it. Only when the other party’s inspiration was high to a certain degree, or had undergone abnormal distortion, could he notice.

Their gazes met. The pale-faced young man with messy black hair began walking toward Klein, wearing an expression half sleepwalking and half mad.

He stopped before Klein and stared blankly at him.

Suddenly, he laughed loudly.

“Haha. The smell of death. Death’s… ah!”

Before he could finish, he let out a scream. His eyes squeezed tightly shut, and bloody liquid streamed from them.

“Ah!” “Damn it!” The young man clutched his eyes, hugged his head, and rolled across the ground in pain. Only after quite some time did he calm down and lie there gasping.

Throughout the entire process, the customers and stall owners moving around did not spare him even a single glance.

Pressing down on his half-top hat, Klein stared at Old Neil in utter astonishment, using his expression to ask for both explanation and guidance.

“No need to mind him. His name is Ademisaul. An orphan. His nickname is ‘Monster.’ He was born with extremely high inspiration, and often sees things he should not see and hears voices he should not hear. That is why he often talks nonsense and often suffers harm.”

Old Neil shook his head as he explained.

He could tell that this body of mine has died once?

Klein frowned. Lowering his voice, he asked in confusion, “Have the Nighthawks, Mandated Punishers, and Machinery Hivemind never considered absorbing him into their teams?”

“We cannot. None of us have a Sequence potion suitable for him,” Old Neil sighed.

Right. That is equivalent to being born with half of a Sequence beginning already solidified…

Curious, Klein asked again, “Then which Sequence pathway is suitable for him?”

“The Sequence 9 suitable for him is called Monster. His nickname came from there. Unfortunately, the beginning of this Sequence pathway is controlled only by the Life School of Thought,” Old Neil answered softly.

As he and Klein spoke, they deliberately avoided the people around them as much as possible, lest the information leak to those mysticism enthusiasts.

The Life School of Thought?

Klein recalled the materials he had previously read.

This secret organization had appeared at the beginning of the present epoch, and its exact origin was unknown. Its inheritance was primarily master to apprentice.

Its specific theories and beliefs likewise rarely spread outside. Klein knew only that they divided the world into three layers: the Absolute Rational World, also called the Absolute Truth World; the Spirit World; and the Material World.

They are said to have once produced a Prophet… Should that not correspond to the Seer Sequence pathway? I do not understand. I do not understand at all…

Klein shook his head repeatedly, watching as Ademisaul struggled to his feet and wandered toward another corner.

Gathering his thoughts, he followed Old Neil past one stall after another. He discovered moon flowers, bergamot, night vanilla, and other plants, as well as pure silver, citrine, ruby, and other minerals.

“It really is quite complete…”

Klein murmured.

Around him, mysticism enthusiasts of varying ages and genders stopped now and then, identified items, exchanged words, and made the place rather lively.

“Walk around by yourself. I am going to pay off the bill.”

Old Neil pointed toward one of the two rooms at the far end.

“All right.”

Klein nodded without much concern.

Carrying his black cane, he strolled leisurely to a stall selling homemade amulets and examined them seriously.

Just as Klein was about to speak and ask questions, he suddenly heard someone at the stall behind him ask, “Is this powder ground from tooth peony?”

Tooth peony?

Is that not one of the supplementary ingredients for the Spectator potion?

Thoughtful, Klein turned and looked at the speaker.

He remembered this material very clearly because Justice had repeated it several times back then, and he himself had made a point of memorizing it.