Chapter 41
Pushkin was already quite used to his boss's habit of biting his knuckles.
In addition, he wasn't good at reading people's expressions, so he didn't understand at all what special significance the BOSS's actions this time had compared to the past.
Although he didn't understand what was so great about it... Did the BOSS particularly enjoy seeing him suffer?
Ugh... Never do that kind of thing!
"BOSS...?"
Pushkin grew increasingly frightened and finally couldn't help but tentatively speak out.
"Um?"
Dostoevsky responded with a low, nasal sound, which fell softly into the night. He was in such a good mood that even though he could see right through Pushkin's thoughts, he simply let the other man fill in the blanks with his own imagination.
"Uh, look how much weight I've lost now, and the food lately has been so awful... Ah, I don't mean to complain about your arrangements, it's just that, um, could I...?"
Pushkin's face gradually lit up with anticipation. "A good meal, like a hamburger stuffed with two pork chops, bread smeared with butter and caviar, fragrant roasted chicken with mushrooms, and raw cured pork with garlic..."
The more they talked, the more their mouths visibly watered, and their saliva was flowing freely.
Pushkin,
Without interrupting his subordinate, Dostoevsky waited until he finished speaking before speaking in Russian. He pronounced each syllable accurately and slowly, with a certain unhurried elegance. Although his voice was not loud and his tone was not harsh, it still made Pushkin's nerves tense up instantly.
What do I ask of you?
Upon hearing his boss's question, Pushkin nearly broke out in a cold sweat again. "Uh, well, the goal is to reduce body fat percentage to below 12%..."
A soft, low laugh escaped from between Dostoevsky's teeth.
"So, how much do you have now?"
"twenty three%…"
Facing those deep, indifferent eyes that were even more indifferent and intimidating than before, Pushkin, as if being questioned about what he should continue doing, immediately shrank back. "Well, I suddenly think that boiled food is quite nice, so healthy, it fascinates me..."
As expected, a devil in a good mood is still a devil!
Completely unaware that his boss had been replaced midway through the trip, Pushkin dejectedly shuffled into the hotel, only to find that Dostoevsky had also entered and even went to the hotel reception to ask for his room number.
Pushkin was utterly shocked.
It's true that the research institute booked hotel rooms for the two of them in advance, but hasn't our boss been staying with that guy named Oda Sakunosuke lately?
...They broke up?
...Or did the BOSS just deal with him directly, like he was a disposable tool?
"…………"
While waiting for the front desk to give him his room key, Dostoevsky only glanced at Pushkin, who quickly turned his head away, pretending not to have noticed anything, and went to take the elevator.
It's impossible to guess what your boss is thinking. Although Ivan talks about gods and masters all the time, praising them to an almost insane degree, he has to admit that it's quite reasonable for Ivan to become a fanatic.
Putting everything else aside, the fact that "The House of the Dead" caused such a huge mess in Britain before, yet Agatha Christie was still willing to release him—the BOSS's ability to manipulate situations and people's hearts is as terrifying as ever.
Forget it, compared to others, he's just exercising, what's there to complain about... Besides, he wouldn't dare...
I'll go check on Oda Sakunosuke tomorrow to see if he's dead or not.
After getting the room key, Dostoevsky followed the directions to the room that had been empty for a long time. He was not surprised that he had been living in Oda Sakunosuke's house for the rest of his life.
Pushkin seemed to mistakenly believe that he would be dissatisfied with the assassin's differential treatment and would take some retaliatory or punitive actions to vent his anger.
After all, while the actions of the "Rats in the House of the Dead" in the underworld were not particularly noticeable, their reputation was mostly negative—nobody likes to have a rat from the sewers suddenly sneak into their peaceful backyard one day.
Even he, as the leader, was feared as a "demon" by those who had fought him and survived.
However, the Demon doesn't care about his reputation, whether it's good or bad.
He knew full well that his goals were contrary to those of too many people, and it was only natural that he would be condemned as evil in the process of achieving them.
He would only regard the good and evil defined by worldly values as a standard of mainstream thinking, a human judgment after moral review—he could readily classify himself as [evil], but that did not mean he needed to pay for it with guilt, repentance, or more guilt.
In short, he did those "evil deeds" not to indulge his base emotions or desires, but merely as a means to achieve his ideals, rational, calm, and without any personal preference.
Even if it challenges the existing social order and rules.
The hotel's centrally controlled air conditioning kept the room at a comfortable, constant temperature. Tuosi took off his warm cloak and hat one by one and hung them on the coat rack in the entryway.
His shoulders are habitually slightly hunched inward, and his center of gravity is more forward when standing and walking. Each step of his boots is graceful and elegant, quite different from Ye Yihe's usually steady gait.
However, compared to the anemia and weakness of the body before, he is now in much better condition in terms of both complexion and physical strength.
Dostos stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom, carefully examining the changes in himself and comparing them with his past memories.
It is obvious that the other personality cherishes this body far more than he does.
Even if the other party did not leave any information other than the bite mark, Dostoevsky could still deduce more conclusions from other details that changed.
He picked up a strand of hair that had fallen in front of his eyes. His hair had also been carefully styled, with the ends neatly trimmed, unlike the messy hair he had when he used this body.
The nails are naturally rounded, carefully filed, and smooth to the touch, without any burrs.
Doss knew that in less than three days, it would be gnawed again by the sharp teeth, leaving tiny marks, just like a biscuit that had been gnawed by a mouse.
Thinking of this, he felt a little like smiling again—even from an outsider's perspective, his eyes still seemed to reveal only an extreme indifference and emptiness, shrouded in a dark shadow.
As for the words that had been carved on the inside of his forearm, Tuosi slowly folded up his left sleeve.
It's clear that the other personality has been trying to heal, attempting to restore the skin that was cut by the blade to its smooth, unmarked state—but this effort is destined to be in vain.
When the wound has penetrated deep into the dermis, no matter how much you want it to heal perfectly, the inconspicuous light-colored hyperplasia will still quietly occupy that pale skin, outlining an old scar that can never be erased.
When you touch it with your fingertips, you get a completely different tactile feedback.
Overall, the distinctive markings on his left arm did not bother him, and Dostoevsky did not think there was anything wrong with his actions at the time.
Just as he always habitually pressed his knuckles against his teeth when he was thinking—the grinding force of the bite was enough to leave deep bruises on that skin.
The familiar pain that arises can help the brain better organize its thoughts.
At this moment, it carries an additional layer of warning meaning.
Should we warn him not to lay a hand on Oda Sakunosuke...? If he still decides to do so, will it trigger another personality switch?
Compared to having one's body controlled by another personality, the fragmented loss of memories is a much more troublesome issue.
Even if what was created before was an illusion, at least there were traces to follow.
As for Oda Sakunosuke and Nakahara Chuuya, whom he met after waking up this time... it's not difficult to deduce the former's background, and his superhuman strength is also quite interesting; but clearly, he is more interested in the latter's identity.
Tonight, what he glimpsed by the warehouse was not only the fallen mafia, but also the reason that led to her death.
The radial cracks, the distinct dents, the weapons and even the enemy clearly embedded in the ground by violence—and the standard 9mm round bullet hole on Chuuya's clothes all conveyed a message to him.
The other party's superpower, or rather, the outward manifestation of using superpower, is no different from that of Verlaine, the "King of Assassins" who was active in Europe.
Perhaps there are many similar superpowers in this world, but in Verlaine's case, they are extremely rare.
Furthermore, when he regained consciousness, his other personality seemed to be about to make contact with him...
"This time, did I finally accept my true self and dispel the distorted illusions of memory, or did you deliberately choose not to leave me any clues?"
Facing his reflection in the mirror, Tuosi gave a thoughtful smile.
"No matter which one it is, it's my turn to set the questions."
…………
The next day, the Fourth Research Institute, located in the suburbs of Yokohama, was still busy, with researchers in white coats walking through the corridors everywhere.
Unlike the highly classified and fully enclosed Second Research Institute led by N, this institute has a relatively low level of secrecy. It is the most frequently used research institute for international exchange and learning, and it often recruits recent graduates and interns.
People arriving for work would first change into clean lab coats and casual indoor shoes in the office before heading to their assigned laboratories.
Bunian, who was in England on a business trip for a seminar and exchange, greeted his colleague, whom he had become quite familiar with over the past few days, as he swiped the door open and entered. Bunian greeted him cheerfully in his native language, “Good day, Mr. Dostoevsky. You look quite well today. Would you like a cup of black tea? I was just about to make it.”
"Greetings, Mr. Donald."
Dostoevsky's gaze fell on the friendly British man. He too wore a perfectly polite smile and called out the man's name accurately, "I have indeed had some interesting experiences, compared to a while ago… well, I think you know."
“That’s true. Speaking of which, I just heard a new rumor: the military and police, unable to find the murderer, are trying to re-examine all the people who stayed at the research institute that night.”
Holding a teacup, Bunian Donahue leaned against the lab table and shrugged, enjoying a chat with his colleagues before starting work.
Not to mention that most Japanese people tend to have strange accents when speaking English, which sometimes makes it quite difficult for even him to understand.
Speaking of accents, Bunian suddenly noticed that his colleague's English sounded more refined and elegant in pronunciation and rhythm today...? Almost indistinguishable from a native English speaker—or even better.
Just like asking someone from Birmingham or Scotland to speak English, even if they can understand it, doesn't mean they can be considered to speak standard English.
Liverpool's accent is even stranger.
But then he thought about it again and realized that he had heard the other person mention before that he would continue to study English after get off work. It was probably the result of his recent practice, but he only found out about it today.
"Do we need to conduct another investigation?"
He heard his colleague ask again, seemingly showing some interest in the topic.
"Yes, who would have thought?"
Bunian knew that the other party was Dr. Shelley's capable assistant, and it would be beneficial to build a good relationship with him. "If that N were an ordinary person, I can say for sure that he would be dominating the headlines—to date, the Japanese police can't even create a criminal profile of a suspect."
He spoke eloquently, and Tuosi, who was listening intently, encouraged him to continue, "Don't worry, although you spent a few days at the Second Research Institute, there is too much evidence to show that you had already left work on the night of the incident, so the police won't bother you."
“I hope so,” Dostoevsky said with a smile, continuing to guide the conversation. “So, have the police found out why the perpetrator killed N?”
"Who knows? Rumors are flying everywhere—"
At this point, Bunian's voice suddenly lowered, and his lips barely moved, almost turning into a soft hiss. "One of the most bizarre rumors is that he was killed by the vengeful spirits of the experimental subjects he created after they died."
"An experimental subject I created myself?"
Dosto slowly repeated these words.
"Shh... This is a secret. I only heard about it after I got to know them better."
This foreigner, Bunian, was clearly enthusiastic about group socializing—or perhaps it was the curiosity and thirst for knowledge that researchers are required to have—leading him to ask many insider tips, which he readily shared with his colleague who rarely showed such curiosity.
"Three years ago, that N was at the First Research Institute, mainly responsible for developing a special kind of supernatural weapon,"
Without even brewing tea, Bunian led Dostoevsky to a more secluded corner and began to tell him the whole story. "But no one knows exactly what that weapon was. Their secrecy measures were extremely strict. Even after the research institute and all its inhabitants were blown up, no one knew what was inside."
Tuosi calmly continued the conversation, "So, the murderer hasn't been found either?"
“Clever,” Bunian’s voice remained low. “After that, N went to the Second Research Institute. Although the secrecy there was also very strict, his death was so bizarre that no one could help but discuss it, even though the military blocked the news and explicitly forbade any discussion.”
"Thus, the scattered clues were pieced together, and this most bizarre rumor gradually gained the highest support from everyone. Some people said that N created many human test subjects in the Second Research Institute—undoubtedly, using methods that were not so acceptable to society."
"At the scene of his death, a forearm bone from which no fingerprints could be extracted was found, which was discovered to have come from a deceased experimental subject."
"So, he was killed by being struck by a bone?" Dostoevsky asked.
Shaking his head, Bunian gestured with his hand to form the shape of a gun. "Two bullets, Mr. Dostoevsky. One in the head, one in the thigh. Nobody knows who owns it, and the caliber of the bullets is different from those used by all the guards in the institute."
"Now, everyone is guessing if it really is the vengeful spirit of the test subject coming back for revenge... who will be next?"
"I see."
Bunian seemed to be trying to create an eerie or suspenseful atmosphere for his colleague in this corner, but Dostoevsky only smiled slightly, without the surprise or fear he expected. "This rumor is indeed very convincing."
What kind of vengeful spirit would kill someone with a handgun, let alone fire two shots—one of which was more like torture than a slip of the hand?
So that's what happened.
Dostoevsky and Mr. Donald Trump chatted for a few more minutes before parting ways. The latter, completely unaware of the conversation, told Dostoevsky that he had enjoyed the chat and had no idea that he had been tricked into revealing information.
In the short time it took to change clothes in the housekeeping room, Dostoevsky memorized all the researchers present and the content of their casual conversations. The complex clues extracted from them instantly intertwined and were sorted out in his mind, ultimately leading him to select Mr. Donald, the person from whom he could most easily obtain information.
With nearly two months until the hotel's handover date, Dostoevsky didn't intend to stay at the research institute for that long.
The truly important information had already been taken away by his other half; the assassin with the dark red hair probably wouldn't reveal a single word to him.
"What? You're going back to England early?"
Upon hearing this news, Bunian Donahue was quite surprised. "Does Dr. Shelley need you to go back and help? I heard that her 'Adam' project has been a great success, and those old men on the committee are practically jumping out of their skins."
The committees responsible for reviewing projects and approving funding always find fault with them and find various reasons to withhold funds, so that no one behind their backs shows them much respect.
"Indeed, there is another important matter."
When Tuosi came to complete the formalities, he neither admitted nor denied it, but simply smiled and said goodbye to him.
"Goodbye, Mr. Donahue."
After all, the other personality used their real name when infiltrating the research institute. Rather than letting their abrupt disappearance arouse suspicion from the military and police, it's better to go through the proper procedures for leaving early.
No questions were raised in Britain, and Dostoevsky speculated that it was at the behest of Agatha, the Royal Knight Commander of the [Chronicles Attendants].
His other personality must have clashed with her and won in order to obtain the status of a researcher and bring Pushkin back at the same time.
At this moment, Agatha Christie probably assumed that Dostoevsky's goal had been achieved in Japan and that she no longer needed the endorsement of the British government—in other words, she could finally relax and catch her breath.
However, she didn't know that Dostoevsky's next destination... was still England.
…………
Whenever you set foot on this island nation in the North Atlantic, the sea breeze and rain seem to be the constant themes.
Edinburgh, located on the east coast of Scotland, is an old city with ancient churches, royal castles and elegant theaters. Today, it welcomed a low-key visitor.
His attire was unremarkable, a common combination of a wool coat and casual trousers; he held a long-handled black umbrella, seemingly blending into the background of the drizzle and the street.
A child carrying flyers was rushing across the street in the rain and didn't watch where he was going, so he accidentally bumped into him. "Oh, I'm so sorry, sir...!"
“It’s alright,” the other person’s voice was low, their words carrying an air of upper-class elegance. “I just happened to want to ask you a question.”
"That Mr. Robert Stevenson lives around here, doesn't he?"
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