The Strongest Person in This World

Ian studied the profile picture for a while.

That face bore some resemblance to Brandon's—the same blond hair, the same blue eyes, the same arrogance. But he was older than Brandon, harder, colder.

"That guy's father?" he murmured.

The little Xenomorph hissed on his shoulder, as if answering.

Ian ignored it and kept walking. At the end of the alley was a small square. It wasn't big. In the center stood a fountain, its jets of water glittering in the sunlight with tiny shards of light.

Around the fountain were several rows of benches. A few old people sat on them, basking in the sun, chatting, playing chess. On the east side of the square stood a bronze statue about three meters tall, depicting a man in a long robe with one hand raised, palm facing forward, as if stopping something.

Ian walked closer and took a look. A line of words was carved into the statue's base: "Walter Jupiter—He Brought Us Peace."

He stood before the statue and looked at that bronze face. Unlike the man in the graffiti, this face was younger, gentler, with even the faintest hint of a smile at the corners of its mouth. But the eyes were the same—blue, deep, as if hiding some unspeakable secret.

"He brought peace?" a voice came from beside him.

Ian turned his head. An old man was sitting on a bench by the fountain, holding a cane and looking at him. The old man's hair was completely white, and the wrinkles on his face were deep, but his eyes were bright—the kind of brightness that only came after seeing too much.

"You're from out of town, aren't you?" the old man asked.

Ian nodded.

The old man smiled, and there was something bitter in that smile. "Out-of-towners are