Chapter 15: The Mastermind

Chapter Fifteen
The Mastermind

Almost by instinct, Klein bent his knees sharply, twisted his waist and back to the side, and rolled in the other direction—toward the washroom door.

Whoosh!

A small black-feathered arrow embedded itself in the washstand. Its tip seemed to be made of bone, gleaming with a watery blue, strangely beautiful.

If Klein had hesitated even slightly, there would have been no escaping this sudden attack.

His roll paused for only a moment before his hand reached toward his pocket, trying to draw out a few tarot cards.

But at that instant, he felt a gust of wind rush toward his face. From the corner of his eye, he saw a black figure approaching at high speed, closing in with a posture far beyond that of an ordinary person. The attacker tensed his instep and kicked upward from below.

Unable to dodge, Klein abandoned his previous plan and raised his elbow to block the attack.

With a dull bang, he felt his entire left arm go numb in an instant. His body was flung away uncontrollably, like the tennis and squash balls beloved by the middle class, or like the football now popular among lower-class workers.

What strength!

Klein’s heart tightened, but though startled, he was not panicked. In midair, he adjusted his body, changed posture, and barely preserved his balance as though performing acrobatics.

Pap! Pap, pap…

Only then did the bark-colored blowpipe land on the washroom floor and bounce toward the back of the door, first fast, then slowly.

Klein had just been about to stretch his body and land steadily so he could deal with the following attacks when another image suddenly flashed through his mind:

The enemy in black was faster than he imagined, arriving sooner than he had expected. He lowered his waist, swung his arm, and punched Klein in the chest.

In that instant, Klein curled himself up again and rolled another half-turn, like a small ball that was endlessly falling and endlessly being thrown upward.

Pap!

Upside down, head below and feet above, he pressed a hand against the floor and spread his legs like scissors, letting the black-clad man’s punch strike nothing. It passed through the gap and burst the air.

The fist had originally aimed at Klein’s chest, but once Klein inverted his body, it could only aim at his legs—and legs could open.

With one press and one push, Klein pulled his legs in and nimbly leaped to the side. At last, he stood firm and straight.

Pap!

Before he could examine the enemy, the black figure had already leaned sideways into him, carrying a strong, whistling gust of wind.

His reaction is so fast!

Klein hurriedly raised both arms, crossing them before himself.

With a muffled bang, it was as though a black bear had rammed into him. Unable to bear that vast force, he could only stagger backward, both arms nearly losing all feeling.

At the same time, Klein finally recognized who had attacked him.

Darkened skin, lean and capable-looking build, deep-set eyes—it was Meursault, the “Executor” of the Zmanger gang. The same Meursault who had come to visit Detective Moriarty that morning.

Pap, pap, pap!

Meursault’s eyes gleamed with viciousness as he pursued. His arms swung in succession—left hooks, right swings—unleashing attacks like a storm.

Klein’s strength was clearly inferior to his opponent’s. He could not block head-on. Relying on agility and premonition, he barely dodged this combination of punches.

This cannot go on. I must use my advantage!

As such thoughts flashed through his mind, Klein stopped attempting to brawl. He lowered his body, planted his feet, and rolled sideways.

Crack!

A chair was shattered into pieces by one sweep of Meursault’s leg.

Klein pushed himself with one hand, exerted strength through his waist and back, and continued rolling, trying to find a chance to draw tarot cards or self-made charms.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

Meursault quickly caught up, alternating kicks with both legs, not much slower than his enemy.

He was like a giant bear that had been gifted agility. He had no obvious weakness in any area. Klein, still rolling, could only focus first on dodging and blocking. He could not spare a hand to draw cards or pull out charms.

Crack! Bang! Bang!

A chair broke. A table toppled. The hatstand fell. Klein had circled through more than half the room, and his situation was becoming increasingly precarious.

This cannot continue!

He dodged constantly, rolling and flipping, searching for every possible chance to reverse the situation.

Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, he swept over the coffee table in the living room, and an idea instantly formed in his mind.

Bang!

Blocking with one hand and using the force to leap backward, Klein endured the pain and rolled toward the living room area.

At that very moment, the muscles in Meursault’s legs abruptly swelled as if inflated.

Thud!

The floor seemed to shake beneath his step. His entire body leaped out and shot like a bullet to Klein’s side. Immediately afterward, one leg lashed out.

Klein barely blocked once and was sent flying again. With a crash, he knocked over the coffee table. The porcelain tea set flew toward the cupboard, and the round-bellied fountain pen, standard contracts, and newspapers scattered across the floor.

Seeing the detective in a black double-breasted frock coat go limp from the collision, unable for the moment to stand or roll, Meursault’s eyes shone fiercely. Amid the sound of porcelain shattering one piece after another, he slid forward and drove his knee out.

Klein looked at the scene with deepened eyes. In his hand, he already held a standard contract.

He had fled toward the living room and ignored the warning of his premonition to keep rolling toward the coffee table precisely in order to seize a standard contract—or a newspaper.

Seeing Meursault’s knee thrust in viciously, Klein suddenly flicked his wrist.

At that moment, another image appeared in his mind: Meursault’s neck bending backward.

Whoosh!

Klein pressed his wrist down slightly and flung the standard contract from his hand.

Whoosh!

Like a dart forged from tempered steel, the contract shot toward Meursault’s throat. The distance between the two of them was less than a meter, and as Meursault drove forward, it grew even smaller.

A white flash entered his vision. Instinctively, Meursault leaned his head back, trying to dodge.

Pff!

The standard contract pierced accurately into Meursault’s throat, into his windpipe.

Blood tinged with faint foam flowed out. Meursault fell in front of Klein, his knee striking the floor heavily.

“Hah… hah… hah…”

He pulled out the bloodstained standard contract and clutched tightly at his throat.

But he could not stop blood from streaming out of the wound. The light in his eyes gradually scattered.

At last, his body twitched a few times, then stopped moving forever.

Klein rested for a while before he had enough strength to turn over and rise. Between his fingers, several tarot cards were already clamped. He stayed alert for any possible counterattack or additional enemies.

Activating spirit vision and confirming the other man’s death, Klein looked around and discovered no other aura colors.

Only then did the tension inside him loosen slightly. He noticed that two chairs had been shattered, the coffee table badly chipped, porcelain scattered everywhere, and the entire living room, dining room, and hall left in chaos.

Lowering his head, he saw that the sleeves of his frock coat were heavily damaged, and the woolen outer layer was covered in dust.

Suddenly, Klein muttered in self-mockery:

“There is no way to reimburse this…”

“Haha. Hahaha. Hahahaha.”

He began laughing. It was as though he had encountered something funny enough to remember for a lifetime. He laughed so hard he nearly bent forward and back. For a while, only his laughter echoed through the house.

Dozens of seconds later, Klein restrained his smile. His expression turned grave as he walked to Meursault’s corpse.

He was going to make the dead speak.

After a familiar spirit-channeling ritual and self-response, Klein smelled the faint, clear fragrance and used dream divination, murmuring:

“The mastermind behind Meursault’s actions.”

Before long, his eyes turned black, and he entered the dream, seeing a field of gray.

Within the gray world, light and shadow shifted, condensing into images and scenes.

Before Meursault stood a middle-aged man who wore no hat. The collar and cuffs of his white shirt had intricate, layered, petal-like decorations, making them look unusually magnificent. Paired with a tight black waistcoat and narrow-legged trousers, the entire outfit was flashy and flamboyant.

This middle-aged man had brown hair, blue eyes, and a lean face with stubble. Yet he possessed a rather distinctive charm, making him a gentleman worth looking at for a long time.

He gazed at Meursault and said in a low voice, “No matter what you do, you must find Ian Wright. Try to keep him alive. If he dies, bring him before me within one hour—preferably within fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, Mr. Ambassador.”

Meursault did not conceal his unruliness, but still lowered his head.

The scene shattered. Klein furrowed his brows.

Mr. Ambassador?

This matter actually involves another country?

Judging from the style of the shirt, this ambassador is very likely the ambassador of the Intis Republic stationed in Backlund…

Ian is only a big boy…

That gentleman understands spirit channeling. Or at least, he has someone beside him who understands spirit channeling…

After thinking for a while, Klein gave another dream-divination statement:

“The purpose of searching for Ian Wright.”

Inside the gray, illusory dream, Klein again saw that same middle-aged gentleman.

He looked at Meursault and spoke in a low voice:

“You do not need to know why. You only need to act according to my instructions.

“I gave you a potion. I gave you money. I made it possible for you to become the person speaking behind the scenes for the Zmanger gang—not so you could ask questions, but so you could do things!

“Mm… You only need to know that Ian Wright may be involved with a very important item.”

As the scene faded, Klein once more withdrew from the dream.

A very important item… I really could not tell, Ian… What could it be…? Potion… So Meursault was originally a Beyonder. No wonder his combat strength was so powerful and terrifying. He should be a Beyonder specialized in this area…

As thoughts flowed, Klein felt fatigue. Responding to his own prayer truly consumed far too much spirituality.

If he wanted to recover his previous level in spirit channeling, he estimated that he would have to wait until he became Sequence 7.

Ending the ritual and removing the wall of spirituality, Klein looked at Meursault’s corpse and observed it carefully for a long time.

At last, he saw specks of spiritual radiance gathering around the wound in the man’s throat, slowly condensing into a sheet.

Carefully picking it up, Klein found a deep-red object in his palm. Its shape resembled jelly from Earth.

“So this is the Beyonder characteristic Meursault left behind? I wonder which Sequence potion it belongs to… That should be easy to confirm. I can divine it above the gray fog… Theoretically, even without supplementary ingredients, a low-Sequence Beyonder characteristic can directly grant the corresponding abilities. It is just that after consuming it, one is liable to go mad and lose control on the spot… The supplementary ingredients for low-Sequence potions barely contain spirituality…”

Klein let his thoughts spread, then forcibly drew his attention back.

A corpse lay before him just like that, and he had a great headache over what to do next.