"You!"
Quân glared at Ron Irus, his grip on the figure pinned to the ground not loosening for even a fraction of an inch.
"Tell me, on what day did the first vessel touch the moon?"
Ron blinked, looking momentarily stunned. This wasn't the code they had agreed upon.
"I... have no idea."
"Good. It really is you."
Reluctantly, Quân released his hold on the stranger's collar. The pressure he had applied to the other man's throat had been so intense that the figure lay there gasping, unable to find his voice. Quân stood up, looking toward Ron with a long sigh before slumping back into his seat.
"Originally, the signal was 'The first ship to fly to the moon' and the answer was 'Apollo 12'. Why did you change the question?"
The logic of having mismatched questions and answers was to create a gap in knowledge and information. It was designed to distort general knowledge if someone were to probe their memories. According to the protocol, the true answer was Apollo 11, but for every memory probe detected, they would add one to the number, making it 12, 13, 14, and so on. This moved the information from the category of general knowledge to calculated data.
Ron looked around. This bizarre, fractured space was enough to drive any ordinary person to the brink of insanity.
"Quân, are you on drugs again?"
Ron asked with a heavy layer of suspicion. Quân hesitated, then shook his head.
"Why would you think that? I only asked to make sure you weren't an impostor. If you had answered that question correctly, I probably would have had to kill you on the spot. Forget it. Why did you just reveal yourself to this person so casually?"
Ron carefully navigated through the shattered moments of reality, avoiding the violet-pink crystal shards embedded at the boundary lines. As he walked, his eyes scanned the perimeter.
"Cover your neck. Besides, killing isn't that easy."
Ron approached the dazed figure on the ground, extending a hand to help him up.
"Furthermore, this isn't an enemy. This is my colleague, and soon, yours as well."
"Ah... thank you."
The stranger grabbed Ron's hand and stood up with agonizing slowness.
"This is Moris. A Grade 2 Hound-Guard from One Line, Branch 5. I don't expect you to know him."
Moris, the stranger, adjusted his aching back with a groan. He leaned against the wall and stamped his foot twice. Instantly, the space around them began to fuse back together. The layers of crystals acted like adhesive, sealing the fractured images of reality.
"And why exactly did you have to involve me in this?" Quân asked, his voice flat from lack of sleep as he leaned his head against the wooden chair.
Ron looked toward the woman who was about to be overtaken by the crystal branches. He went to her, hoisted her onto his shoulder, and picked up the child with his other arm.
"Dealing with her here would cause complications. We follow the protocol."
With the targets in custody, Ron and Moris prepared to leave. Before departing, Ron handed Quân a slip of paper with a meeting location written on it.
"Why should I care?"
Quân made a move to throw the paper away, but he caught Ron's gaze. It was indifferent, yet piercingly cold.
"You stole a gold coin from me and fled the mansion over a week ago. I know you burned an entire month's worth of a butcher's wages on gambling."
"Tsk!"
Quân clicked his tongue and lapsed into a sullen silence. He remained there until the tears in reality were fully mended and the two silhouettes vanished.
"The Hound-Guards have arrived."
This time, the voice didn't come from within his own mind. It was Old Man Keil, his tone sounding far more intrigued than usual.
"Whenever the Hound-Guards appear, they are gone in the blink of an eye. It's quite miraculous. The strange thing is, they aren't standard guards, so no one really knows where they come from."
The butcher stepped out from behind his counter, carrying a bundle of food for Quân to enjoy.
"Hey. Kid? Did you fall asleep already?"
The old man wasn't greeted by a hungry youth or a drowsy mutter. He found someone truly asleep, slumbering with a profound indifference to the world around him.
"How did you let him outplay you like that? He didn't even use magic."
Inside a magnificent building of European architecture, bathed in golden light and furnished with exquisite, sophisticated decor, the conversation echoed. In the drawing room, a boy who looked about fifteen years old questioned a man seven or eight years his senior, who stood before a breathtaking painting.
Ron sat up from the sofa and looked at the artwork hanging on the wall. The brushstrokes were delicate and artistic, but the canvas was now splattered with human blood.
The painting depicted a woman holding a black umbrella, wearing a white evening gown. She gazed at the high heavens through the thin fabric of her parasol. A man lay in the grass below, clutching his stomach. He wore the clothes of a peasant, yet he looked strikingly handsome in a crisp white shirt and a neat, earthy-brown overcoat. The girl stood on a glazed brick path, while the young man had fallen into the lush green grass. Beside the girl stood an elderly man, poised and dignified, his composure giving him the air of a professional butler.
The sky in the painting was difficult to describe. Darkness had blurred the colors, leaving Ron unsure if it was blue and gold, bright daylight or a fading sunset. All that was certain was that the clouds were few. It was a beautiful piece, though it was a pity the red blood had stained the girl's white dress.
This was a cursed work titled "Eyes of Sorrow, Love of Leisure."
The young man with short black hair, dressed in the jet-black uniform of the Hound-Guards, mused over the painting as he spoke.
"That guy... I thought he was just buying time, playing around in a panic. I thought he had that 'mad' streak you mentioned. Turns out he's just an idiot who happens to be insane. If you hadn't stopped me, I probably would have hit him."
Moris sighed. He hadn't expected that among Ron's three disciples, one would be blinded by love, another would be an extremist, and now this one—a boy who seemed utterly contemptuous of his own life.
"Calm down. This part is simple enough."
Hearing Ron's words, Moris burst into laughter. He couldn't fathom what part of this was simple. He looked at Ron, his curiosity piqued.
"So, what did you do with that Grade 9 drug dealer?"
"He was difficult to kill. Even after I cut down his physical form, his soul concept remained bound to me, attempting a possession. Luckily, I'm not stupid enough to forget how to dismantle spatial geometry."