Chapter 29
Doss could even feel the corners of his mouth curving into a reassuring, friendly smile at them.
The memory is intact, but the current situation is unpredictable.
Perhaps, we can infer that... "he" has reappeared.
Dostoevsky's lips slowly relaxed, returning to his usual expressionless and indifferent demeanor.
Hidden beneath the pure black cloak with white fur trim, his thumb slowly rubbed against the knuckle of his index finger and the edge of his nail.
The skin on the knuckles is soft and smooth, and the nails on each finger are neatly trimmed and feel very smooth to the touch.
Was this also just a whim of his?
Or was his memory trying to prove to him that he himself wanted to break this bad habit?
Doss raised his right hand, pressed the knuckle of his index finger against the tip of his teeth, and bit down.
The familiar dull pain made his thinking clear and sharp, like a fast-acting emotional placebo.
"...Mr. Dostoevsky...?"
Unable to express his gratitude, Sartre Bernhardt realized that the other person wasn't paying any attention to him at all, but this unusual silence sent a chill down his spine.
The handsome young man who had saved their lives at the last second with a friendly smile now looked at them with darker, more somber irises under the gas lamp, appearing more like a gloomy, distant deep purple.
There was a subtle change in his aura that was subtly altered.
Just being stared at by those calm eyes, Sartre Bernhardt found himself even more nervous and timid than when he had faced the assassination attempt earlier.
They were as if they were being targeted by some kind of demon.
Compared to the increasingly rapid pounding of their hearts, the other party merely curled their knuckles and, with each slow, deliberate knock on the door, gradually tightened their grip on their throats with a chilling intent to kill.
abyss.
Facing Dostoevsky, who kept staring at them without reflecting any emotion in his eyes, Sartre Bernhardt felt his legs go weak.
Make a deal with the devil, or be killed by a tyrant?
Sartre Bernhardt only wished he had a choice at that moment.
Under the dim light of the gas streetlights, Dostoevsky finally spoke.
"No need to thank me, Mr. Bernhardt."
He spoke slowly, “I just did what I should do; I couldn’t bear to see a high-ranking official killed like that.”
His precise vocabulary and standard accent allow him to effortlessly compose complex French sentences.
It was as if... I had completely become a different person.
"It is your compassion that allows me to continue living in this world. If you ever need my help in the future, please don't hesitate to ask."
Sartre Bernhardt finally succumbed to the increasingly suffocating pressure and offered him a deal.
Even if a high-ranking government official on the military side only wields full power in France, he is still worth paying a price for it.
When Ivan returned, Dostoevsky was sitting on top of the wrecked car. Part of his long cloak was weighed down, while the rest hung down with gravity, softly covering the car window.
His fingers were interlaced on his lap, and his posture on the roof of the car was not entirely in accordance with etiquette—his shoulders were even slightly hunched inward under the white fur collar, revealing a slight hunchback that was not easily noticed—but even in this casual sitting posture, he still exuded an air of effortless elegance.
The gas lamp could not illuminate his face, leaving it shrouded in deep shadows hidden by his raven-black hair.
His owner didn't take care of it during this time, causing the ends to grow longer.
There was no one around. Not even the driver who brought him there.
Ivan was certain there was no smell of blood at the scene—people like them were naturally more sensitive to dark-related odors, especially certain signs that indicated danger.
Tracking Verlaine's location was no challenge for him; the slightest tremor of the earth would give him all the clues. Like a hunter lying in the middle of a spider web, he relied on the feedback from each strand of the silk to distinguish and capture his prey.
As for the fact that the course of the battle was almost entirely within his master's expectations, Ivan was not particularly surprised.
This is his master, who opened his eyes in place of the omniscient god, looking at this world that is gradually sinking into the mud.
—But this moment was fleeting, and his eyes, which had been gazing upon the world, closed once more.
Ivan didn't ask anything, but simply placed his hand on his chest and bowed to Dostoevsky.
They left on foot.
Dostoevsky seemed to guess what Ivan was thinking, and withdrew his gaze from the deep darkness of the night, fixing it on Ivan.
“The driver knows the way, and the apartment isn’t far from here. They’ll be safe.”
"Yes, my master."
Ivan smiled and replied without any objection, "Verlaine agreed to the deal, in exchange for 'The Secret of the Gentle Forest'." — He was merely stating the outcome on Verlaine's side.
"Really... what are the details of the transaction?"
Dostoevsky spoke up, "Say it to me again."
“No action against Sartre Bernhardt and his family, and no assistance whatsoever,” Ivan replied truthfully.
Sizzle.
In a fraction of a nanosecond, so short that no one could perceive it, Dostoevsky heard a sound like a radio tuning.
“A favor from [the Assassin King],” Ivan replied truthfully.
“…”
A smile crept across Dostoevsky's lips—a cold, knowing smile, as if he were picking up a black king piece from the chessboard once more.
"I see."
He sighed softly as if he were humming a nursery rhyme.
"My memory is deceiving me,"
"My eyes are fooling me,"
"My ears are deceiving me."
"I am awake, yet it feels as if I am already asleep in a dream."
"Does that also belong to the real me?"
The illusion created by all of this makes his past logically impeccable.
Want to hear his memories of this period?
Tuosi raised his hand, his index finger pointing lightly at his forehead. As he tilted his head slightly to the other side, a subtle smile still appeared on his lips.
Before the wound appeared here, the plan was progressing smoothly.
Those bank robbers put on a wonderful show for him.
At the cost of his own injury, he successfully gained the trust of Bernhardt's mother, allowing her to move into the apartment as a tenant while maintaining a positive initial impression of him.
The reason is that he has just arrived in France from Russia and is trying to find a job, but he doesn't even have a place to live yet. He hopes to find a place near the city center where the rent won't be too high to afford.
Such sympathetic lines easily won over Bernhardt's mother, who offered to offer that there was a vacancy on the second floor of her apartment.
Next, he successfully made contact with [The Assassin King] Verlaine, who was located on the third floor, but the other party recognized him and remained sufficiently vigilant.
However, this was also within his expectations and would not disrupt the plan itself.
Verlaine's target was Sartre Bernhardt, and so was he—except that he didn't want the man's life, but rather to exploit Verlaine's weakness.
The concept of transforming a dual singularity created by a self-contradictory ability into a programmable core and then using it within an artificially manufactured, perfect life form is intriguing. He wanted to see this masterpiece from the Pan God with his own eyes, and even more so, he wanted to try using it—even just once.
For this reason, he specifically called Ivan from Russia.
After realizing that Verlaine planned to make his move at the Grandmother's Day dinner, Ivan stayed by the apartment, ready to strike at any moment.
He deduced that Verlaine would also inquire about the contents of the document first, so he had Ivan, who could hide in the earth and rocks, lie in wait to hear the results of the interrogation before deciding whether to take action.
It cannot be ruled out that Sartre Bernhardt could deceive Verlaine with lies and do his best to save the former's life—that's what he said at the time.
This is a rather foolish command. Verlaine, as the Transcendent, could kill Bernhardt with ease. Even if Ivan succeeds in thwarting him tonight, Bernhardt would not survive until the next day's sun.
The worst outcome was that Ivan also died in his battle with Verlaine.
The only way to make this instruction come true is to make Verlaine back down voluntarily through some promise.
But in his logic, what appeared in his memory might make sense, but to him it was utterly absurd.
He didn't care about Bernhardt's life or death at all. The only purpose of "Rat" going to the scene should be to gather intelligence, whether true or false.
The so-called deal was completely superfluous—unless, at that moment, something was worth Ivan proposing a deal on the spot.
Analyzing the outcome, which resulted in the Bernhardt family escaping unharmed, Verlaine must have agreed to some kind of deal, including letting the Bernhardt family go.
The memory ends here. Apart from his "spur-of-the-moment" desire to save people, everything else is still acceptable.
The premise is that everything that happened in my memory is true.
If his memories are true, then if he hypnotized himself and reconstructed some of his memories, what he heard from Ivan should be the same transaction as in the original memories.
"I brainwashed myself and changed the order to ensure Bernhardt's survival to that I didn't care whether he lived or died."
Dostoevsky smiled, even with obvious interest, “But at the same time, I’ve retained some of the original clues, which allows me to deduce the correct answer you should give.”
"But to me, your answer fits the memory that has been altered by hypnosis."
The system judges the rationality of its auditory and visual processing based on memory.
It never imagined that there would be such a ruthless person as Tuosi, who could actively modify memories through hypnosis. As a result, it used the modified memories as a standard reference, based on the memories it had processed and that the original owner considered reasonable, to rationalize its auditory and visual perceptions.
This led to the conclusion that Dostoevsky heard from Ivan, which contradicted what Dostoevsky had deduced from the original memories.
In short, the rigid program was tricked a second time by cunning humans who exploited bugs.
Am I creating illusions to avoid my own reality?
Sitting on the roof of the car, Tuosi stretched out his arms and looked up at the sky, where only thick clouds covered the sky, and there was no trace of the moon or stars.
Those wine-red eyes widened slightly, and obscure Greek words were uttered from his mouth, each syllable falling slowly and quietly into the dark dome.
“Ah, if I had said, ‘Darkness will surely cover me, and the light around me will become night,’... But now, darkness cannot cover me so that you may not see me, and night shines as brightly as day.”
"Do you see light and darkness as the same thing?"
…………
Throughout the long, silent period, Ivan remained respectful, his gaze lowered.
"Ivan."
Dostoevsky's voice came from above, still calm and composed, taking each step with ease.
"Yes," Ivan replied.
"Find me a handgun."
"I think," Tuosi said calmly.
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