Chapter 30
What Ivan ultimately gave to Dostoevsky was not just a pistol.
The darkness of the latter half of the night was deeper and heavier, like a boundless maw that could swallow all light.
Everything seemed cold and lifeless, and a suffocating fear spread outward like a thin mist, slowly and quietly eroding even the nerves, just as the candlelight grew dimmer and the oil soaked in the cotton wick was about to run out.
Verlaine has left Bernhardt's apartment and his whereabouts are unknown.
At this moment, only Sartre Bernhardt and his wife, exhausted from their walk back, remained in the apartment, sitting in the living room.
His mother was already asleep, and Sartre Bernhardt chose not to wake her.
The bedroom was well soundproofed, and unless he deliberately opened the door to wake her, his mother would never know the harrowing events they had faced that night.
As for the fact that the assassin king disguised himself as an ordinary teacher and moved into his mother's apartment in order to kill him, Sartre Bernhardt had no intention of telling his mother these truths.
Even the fact that Mr. Dostoevsky later arranged for someone to rescue him... was not something he could talk about with his mother.
Sartre Bernhardt knew very well that his life was not worth the effort the other party had put in, or even the enmity with that king of assassins.
There must be a more crucial factor that led to this result, and he vaguely guessed that it was related to the complete change in the other party's aura at the end.
“Do you think… that Mr. Dostoevsky came specifically to save us?” his wife asked softly. “Will he come back?”
The child was tired from playing and was sleeping soundly in her arms.
It's a good thing he's completely unaware of the near-death experiences he went through tonight.
Sartre Bernhardt shook his head slightly, his voice low, "Judging from the tone of his final words when he told us to leave, he probably won't be coming back."
His wife didn't think so.
"But I always feel like he'll come back."
She hugged the child tightly and calmly stood up from the chair. "I'll take him to my mother's room first; the sofa in that little study will also work..."
—Ding-dong.
The doorbell rang.
Who would come to visit so late?
Mrs. Bernhardt's shoulders visibly trembled, and she abruptly stopped her next step on the floor.
She was wearing high heels, and walking on the wooden floor would definitely make a noticeable creaking sound, letting the uninvited guest outside the door know that someone was in the apartment.
But it was futile to pretend no one was home; the living room light was still on, even if it wasn't very bright, just a regular tungsten bulb the size of a palm.
Sartre Bernhardt had once suggested to his mother that the lamp was too old and the lighting effect was poor, and that it should be replaced with a modern enamel-inlaid crystal chandelier—but at this moment, he wished that the lamp's lighting was even worse, or better yet, that it would break down completely.
He knew that the subordinates he had just contacted could not possibly arrive so quickly, nor could they simply ring the doorbell once.
The atmosphere in the apartment gradually shifted into a heavy, silent stillness.
For a long time after the doorbell rang for the first time, neither the person inside nor the person outside made any move.
Just as Mrs. Bernhardt was about to breathe a sigh of relief, she heard the soft sound of a key being inserted into the lock outside the door.
……!
The other party has a key to the door. Is it the resident on the second floor, or the one on the third floor? Whichever it is, their return won't be good news for him.
Sartre Bernhardt was barely able to maintain his composure.
Finally, the key was inserted all the way in and turned—click, the handle was pressed down, and the crack in the door gradually widened—
The figure of Mr. Dostoevsky, who had let them go earlier, was now gradually reflected in the eyes of Sartre Bernhardt and his wife.
If he had to choose between [The Assassin] Verlaine and Mr. Dostoevsky to return, Sartre Bernhardt would naturally prefer to see the latter.
—This thought lasted for less than three seconds.
This continued until Sartre Bernhardt noticed the other man smiling, raising his left hand to untie the cloak that was big enough to cover his entire body, and hanging it on the coat rack by the door.
His right hand, which remained hanging down, held a pistol.
What shocked Sartre Bernhardt even more was that a large amount of blood had seeped into his left sleeve, the dark red and moon white intertwined and spreading outwards, a truly shocking sight.
He had no idea what had happened to the other person, just as he had no idea that this seemingly seriously injured and weak demon could still calmly raise a gun at him.
“You are his target this time, Mr. Bernhardt.”
The demon's voice was low and calm, even with a slight polite smile, and his eyes, which looked in his direction, were neither cruel nor insane.
"And I might need you to verify another hypothesis."
Just as the other person would take off their cloak upon entering, they still paid great attention to etiquette even in seemingly insignificant details, and their speech was still respectful.
"What...what do you need?"
Sutter Bernhardt, facing the gun barrel, dared not move.
At this moment, he began to frantically urge his subordinates in his mind why they hadn't arrived yet.
“Your death, Mr. Bernhardt.”
"Dossi spoke softly."
He pulled the trigger.
———Sizzle.
The slender, pale knuckles of the bent index finger paused at the last second, just before the hammer struck the firing pin.
The average time it takes for a human to blink is 200 to 400 milliseconds.
In that fleeting moment, Ye Yihe opened his eyes.
"………hiss."
Before Yeikh could even process the sight of him pointing a gun at Sartre Bernhardt, the excruciating pain in his left hand immediately dominated his mind.
No, this wound hurts even more than when I woke up in the bank last time. Who the hell hurt this body again?!
He had never felt this much pain when fighting before!
Moreover, the man in front of him, Sartre Bernhardt, was someone he had managed to save with great difficulty. Why is he now pointing a gun at him, as if he is about to fire?
Cleaning and bandaging the wound can wait; Ye Yihe's gaze suddenly sharpened as he stared at the other man. "Please explain, Mr. Bernhardt."
Could it be a story like "Mr. Dongguo and the Wolf," "The Farmer and the Snake," or "Ye Yihe and Bernhardt"...?
"Eh, ah... explain...?"
When he thought he was going to die for the second time, the situation suddenly took a turn for the better. Even with his strong mental fortitude and resilience, Sartre Bernhardt was left looking bewildered and almost dumbfounded.
"You...you suddenly rushed in and tried to shoot me..."
"..." Ye Yihe moved his left hand, "...while already injured?"
"Even while already injured."
"You didn't instruct anyone to attack me?"
"What? Of course not! I've only just managed to contact my subordinates!"
Ye Yihe: "…………"
[Please explain, Xiao Ai.]
He started frantically calling out in his mind.
Unlike before, this time the system went online exceptionally slowly, and the response was unusually hesitant. [Yes, host.]
"[Tell me what's going on here," Ye Yihe said, "[Why did I wake up so quickly again?]"
In the past, there were intervals of ten days to half a month, and sometimes even three or four months.
This time, he glanced briefly at the wall clock—it probably hadn't even lasted a night.
[...] After a moment, the system spoke again, [The system's monitoring and review still show that all past data is normal...]
[If this is considered normal, then when I open my eyes tomorrow, I'll be thrown into a French prison. Is that...the Bastille again?]
Ye Yihe retorted expressionlessly, "[And clearly, I myself am also quite injured. Since you continued to monitor the original owner's every move even after I fell into a deep sleep, you should have recorded everything he said.]"
[Wait, this system needs to check the conditions for granting special permissions to the host...]
Its voice was no longer in his mind. Ye Yihe guessed that it was probably flipping through various operation manuals or issuing decrees, or trying to find special cases similar to the current situation in past work logs.
Sartre Bernhardt was still being held at gunpoint, looking terrified and on high alert. His once meticulously groomed sideburns were now soaked with sweat and limply stuck to his forehead.
He silently lowered the gun he was holding in his right hand, thought for a moment, and then placed it on the shoe cabinet by the door, a little further away from it.
Ye Yihe pretended not to hear the once powerful military official, who now seemed to have survived a disaster and was breathing heavily.
“It seems this is a misunderstanding,” Ye Yihe said quietly. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Who would understand? He opened his eyes to find that the family who were still being grateful to him had suddenly become the victim of an attempted murder—and he was the murderer.
"Yes, that's right, it's a misunderstanding."
Sartre Bernhardt wiped the cold sweat from his brow, thanking his heart for its resilience tonight. "It seems that some villain attacked you after we left, and even misled you into thinking that I was the mastermind behind it all."
He wisely offered a way out, not daring to utter a single word of anger.
What if—and he meant what if—the Dostoevsky before him was actually a madman, kind and gentle when not having an episode, but cruel and ruthless like a murderer once he did…
Otherwise, it would be difficult to explain the other party's series of behaviors tonight—whether it was their fluency in French, the complete change in temperament, or the style and mannerisms they displayed in their actions.
But there was no need to say such things aloud; he didn't want to provoke the other party again and have them experience a third near-death experience... assuming they could escape.
[Permissions granted,] the system finally reappeared, even Xiao Ai's voice sounded sweeter. [Please select a viewing time.]
Needless to say, Ye Yihe immediately selected all the voice recordings from the night after he returned his body, and listened to the system use a remarkably realistic voice simulation to recreate the conversation at that time.
Ye Yihe, who originally thought it would take a long time to find the truth, couldn't help but look up at the sky speechlessly after only hearing the beginning.
[This is what you call a rationalized memory? Never a single mishap? Without the slightest flaw?]
—The system that couldn't understand Fyodor's implied meaning was stupid, but Ye Yihe wasn't. [You're about to get hit in the face with a powerful attack.]
If you scroll back further, there might be more surprises.
[This is why the host was urgently awakened...]
Xiao Ai's voice grew softer and softer.
It hadn't expected that a resolved incident would face another crisis, and from the original owner of this body no less...
In a moment of desperation, Ye Yihe had no choice but to switch to emergency response.
[The only good news is that he didn't realize you were still in my consciousness, and he believes all this abnormality stems from himself, that his subconscious is constructing illusions to avoid my existence.]
Indeed, this phenomenon can already be explained by dual personality disorder; who would have thought that there would be a Russian nesting doll in their own mind?
He had been communicating with the system for quite some time, and Sartre Bernhardt was probably waiting for his response, but Yeyhe didn't have any extra attention to spare for the moment.
As the simulated dialogue continued to play, his gaze fell on his left forearm, which was still throbbing with sharp pain.
Even though the sleeve, soaked in blood, was very loose, it still clung tightly to the skin as the blood dried, and any slight movement would cause the fingertips to tremble with pain.
But he still raised his forearm and slowly, firmly rolled up his sleeve.
Until the deep wounds, carved by the tip of a dagger, were revealed on his forearm, stroke by stroke.
【нашёлтебя. (I've found you.)】
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