Chapter 27
In the 1990s, gas streetlights were more common on the streets. They weren't very bright, but they were enough to help drivers see the road in the dark of night without a moon.
Sartre Bernhardt was dozing in the back seat.
He was so happy tonight that he drank a little more wine than usual. Now, the effects of the alcohol were kicking in, putting him into a tipsy, drowsy state, feeling quite satisfied.
The scenery outside the window was dim, and he had no interest in looking at it carefully, not to mention that the window was covered with privacy film, and the view outside was shrouded in a dim fog.
Until a shadow, like a spot of light, flashed past Sartre Bernhardt's eyes.
What……?
Just as he was about to squint to get a closer look, something unexpected happened.
A tall figure descended gracefully and landed lightly on the hood of the luxury car. Her light golden hair danced in the night breeze, and her pale, smiling eyes looked down at them with politeness and a superior air.
boom--!
What followed was a terrifying, inexplicable force pressing down on the moving car, preventing the tires from moving forward even a step, and causing them to screech violently against the asphalt surface.
The driver, gripping the steering wheel, was so frightened that his eyes were fixed straight ahead, and he even forgot to step on the brake.
Sartre Bernhardt's wife instinctively hugged their child, who was playing with building blocks beside her.
Gravity continued to increase, and one creaking sound after another rang out. The large piece of alloy twisted easily in the direction of the force, as if it were crumpled paper.
Even so, the young man standing on the hood was still smiling, his hands behind his back, his moon-white suit, which was slightly fluttering in the wind, was impeccably tailored.
“I have some questions I would like to ask Mr. Sartre Bernhardt.”
He spoke very politely, using very courteous language.
"Ha ha……?"
Faced with this unexpected turn of events, Sartre Bernhardt's soothing effects vanished instantly, and his mind returned to sharpness and clarity.
"So you're... a superhuman? Why didn't my guards warn me?"
This is beyond the capabilities of ordinary people—in fact, even ordinary superhumans cannot perform such a seemingly effortless attack.
He recognized the handsome young man in front of him as Paul Verlaine, who was renting a room in his mother's apartment.
"I have killed them all."
Even when discussing the word "total annihilation," Verlaine's tone remained nonchalant, as if he had merely accomplished a trivial matter.
“If you don’t want to, I can take off one of your arms and ask you again.”
"...Wait, I remember now."
Faced with this sudden life-threatening crisis, Sartre Bernhardt broke out in a cold sweat, but his composure remained unchanged despite his long-standing high position. "Your facial features, coupled with this power... you are that exceptionally capable and outstanding intelligence officer from the DGSS Special Operations Department, the one who has been missing for over two years..."
"Relatives and friends".
He uttered those two words. Accompanying those syllables was another violent metallic creak.
Verlaine did not answer a word, but merely gazed meaningfully at Sartre Bernhardt.
This is a warning about taboo words.
“…What do you want to ask?” Sartre Bernhardt took a deep breath. “Say it.”
Even for the sake of his family—his mother, wife, and children—he had to cooperate with their actions, even if the consequences might involve leaking state secrets and, if found out, would lead to his trial by the highest military court.
It's even more likely that he'll die right here.
If so, he hopes the other party will see that he is honest and cooperative, and that no one else will be harmed.
"For the sake of family?"
Verlaine, sensing the implication in his words, shifted his gaze slightly, a half-smile playing on his eyes as he looked at his wife beside him. "Well, I don't dislike that at all."
The stagnant and heavy atmosphere seemed to relax slightly, or perhaps it was just an illusion.
"Since you know Rimbaud, you must also know my identity."
Verlaine maintained his control over gravity and spoke slowly and deliberately.
The car under his feet was pressed down so hard that its rear end lifted slightly. Even though the four-wheel drive engine, which controlled the tires, was still working hard, the vehicle could not move forward an inch.
“…[Pan],” Sutter Bernhardt said, “the mastermind behind an anti-government movement. That was about seven years ago, when I was just a low-ranking officer.”
“Low-ranking officers wouldn’t know about this history.”
—Verlaine chuckled softly, “That’s right, I’m just a useful artificial superhuman.”
Even the name Paul Verlaine doesn't belong to him.
He was born—no, he was created seven years ago in an experiment.
The superhuman known as "Pan God" used a cylindrical glass petri dish instead of a uterus, a nutrient solution that submerged his mouth and nose instead of amniotic fluid, and even manipulated his sanity with supernatural metal powder, causing him to be born into this world alone and coldly.
His birth was never blessed by the gods, and he was an outsider in this world.
The "Pan" who attempted to overthrow the government ultimately died at the hands of his own country's intelligence agents, and Rimbaud took him back with him. The government required him to monitor, train, and tame him, turning him into the government's watchdog.
Composed of thousands of lines of imperative statements, he had neither a human identity nor was he ever treated as a human being.
Rimbaud's relatives and friends? Ah, perhaps that's something to be honored about, he thought.
After all, the name Paul Verlaine was one of the gifts he gave himself.
Before that incident two years ago.
"Of course, that's not what I'm asking."
—Returning to his senses, Verlaine's gaze settled once more on Sartre Bernhardt. "You should know the contents of the final chapter of a document; that's what I need."
The document was an operational guide for generating artificial superpowers, an instruction manual specifically for him; it not only recorded the secrets of the real monster within him, but also detailed how to control him as a safety switch.
“I’ve already read the part included in the government's records, but the final chapter, ‘The Secret of the Gentle Forest,’ is missing,” Verlaine said calmly. “I think you should know what it contains.”
"...I did see that document,"
Sartre Bernhardt's heart sank, "But when I was finally able to access it, it was also missing."
Verlaine remained noncommittal, clearly not believing what the other person said. "Is that so?"
“It’s true. I heard from my predecessor that when Mr. Rimbaud submitted this document, it was already incomplete.”
Sartre Bernhardt's voice was somewhat dry, and he even felt a slight bitterness in his mouth.
"……impossible."
After a moment of silence, Verlaine spoke, "If he knew, he wouldn't have kept it from me."
Even with such certainty, he didn't say anything like "I'll ask Rimbaud," but his aura gradually became heavy and dangerous.
Having said all that, Sartre Bernhardt probably guessed that the intelligence officer Rimbaud, who had been missing for two years, was most likely dead... and that he was very likely about to die as well.
There was no screaming or pleas for mercy; the inside and outside of the car were eerily silent.
Only the child in Sartre Bernhardt's wife's arms was unaware of what was happening, intently piecing together the blocks in his hands, occasionally making soft, mumbling noises to himself.
"This concludes our conversation."
Verlaine took out a cross carved from a birch branch, about wrist length.
This is proof of his work.
After each murder, he would place a cross at the scene, as if it were some kind of solemn ritual.
This time was no exception. He had no intention of letting Sartre Bernhardt go; Bernhardt was his assassination target this time, and the questioning was merely a side effect.
"I'll spare your family's lives because you're honest."
Verlaine, standing on the hood, took a step forward.
Sartre Bernhardt felt he could barely breathe; his heart was pounding so hard in his chest that he could hear it.
—Boom!
Just as Death was about to extend its scythe, a giant hand made of stone rose from the trembling earth, then cupped its five fingers into a bowl shape and slammed it down heavily.
Verlaine reacted very quickly, leaping backward almost at the same time as the anomaly occurred to dodge the descending giant hand—and also to create distance between himself and Sartre Bernhardt.
The car, already declared totaled, was held firmly between heaven and earth by that hand, gradually transforming into a huge, raised hill.
Verlaine calmly surveyed the artificial hills piled up in front of him, then slowly turned his gaze to the uninvited guest who had appeared there.
"Yes, that concludes our conversation."
The young man with long, moon-white hair revealed a subtle smile. Dressed in a gentleman's suit, he seemed to have been invited to a solemn high-society ball. "I'm sorry, Mr. [Assassin King] Verlaine, my master does not allow you to be violent towards them."
“…You know me,” Verlaine said. “Let me guess, the master you’re talking about is Dostoevsky.”
Ivan smiled but remained silent.
“Since you know who I am, you should also know that he sent you here only to die,” Verlaine sighed. “Perhaps it would have been better if he had come himself.”
“You are equally confident in yourself, even though you have never been on the path to happiness,” Ivan replied with a smile.
At his feet, countless grains of sand were stirring restlessly.
"What?" Verlaine frowned.
What I mean is,
Ivan raised his finger, and the manipulated sand, like a golden torrent, surged toward Verlaine in the night.
"Have you ever experienced what happiness is? Ah, for example, I am currently experiencing the supreme happiness bestowed upon me by my master—"
This guy is indulging in absurd emotions. He started by using countless tiny grains of sand, probably because he guessed that his obvious gravity ability couldn't control the parts of his body that weren't in contact with it.
Even if he could use gravity to bounce off the parts he touched, on this land that was at the opponent's beck and call, more gravel would gather in his direction, threatening to bury him alive—and there would always be parts that his body couldn't reach or bounce off in time.
Is this the other person's special ability, a manipulation type related to earth and rocks?
This attack method was indeed aimed at his weaknesses; the opponent was either following Dostoevsky's instructions or was intelligent enough on his own.
Since we can't confront it head-on, killing the opponent before this torrent catches up with us is enough.
Verlaine was very fast; depleted of his own weight, he was as light as a feather drifting in the wind, and he left his original position before the sand arrived.
While still in the air, he flicked his wrist and threw a pebble he had picked up from the ground at Ivan. Under [gravity manipulation], it possessed the kinetic energy of a cannonball and even produced a slight sonic boom due to its excessive speed.
Ivan tilted his head, a wide smile spreading across his face.
A similarly high-speed rock crashed into this "cannonball," and as if the orbits of asteroids were intersecting, they were both annihilated in mid-air.
“I also possess defensive capabilities, Mr. Verlaine.”
Ivan held up one index finger. "And you, you'd better not land on the ground."
Verlaine looked down at the ground and found that a vast area of the ground had turned into a swampy liquid—even though the gas lamps by the roadside could still provide some illumination, they barely emitted any light.
For a physical [gravity manipulation] technique that can only be activated through skin contact, these two moves are specifically designed to counter his ultimate attack.
"That's interesting."
Verlaine smiled.
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