The Second Day, A Vicious Dog...

Old Whateley had the best bedroom in the entire Whateley family.

Though it was only slightly less cramped, with no more windows, and was just as dark and damp as Hope's room.

He lay there on his bed, feeling his own breathing—weak and feeble.

He knew that even this kind of breathing wouldn't last much longer. His appetite was fading, and his sleep grew increasingly erratic.

Lavinia was right. This old man was going to die.

And yet, at this very moment, someone had to come disturb what little sleep he had left.

"Come in."

He had finally grown tired of the knocking, which grew more urgent and louder by the second.

A figure in a black cloak entered, of average build, everything beneath the cloak pitch black, face unseen.

"Welcome, Robert Miller," Old Whateley said. "Is Karl Miller well?"

This was empty courtesy. Old Whateley neither welcomed Robert Miller nor cared about Karl Miller.

If he had to say he cared, he wished both of them wouldn't live out the year. Better yet, let them die along with him after he was gone.

And Robert... this man was rude and foolish, unwilling to even bother with pleasantries: "When exactly are you going to die?"

"Soon."

Old Whateley watched Robert pace leisurely, his expression as if this weren't the ancestral home of the Whateleys, but some newly purchased field of the Millers...

No, Old Whateley believed that on Karl Miller's turf, Robert wouldn't dare be so relaxed.

"I need a specific time," Robert said.

"No one knows when they'll die."

"That's Uncle's request. Old man, don't forget the contract you signed with him."

"It's practically an indenture," Old Whateley said. "Though the New Federation abolished slavery long ago, I've always suspected Karl Miller tricked me into signing a slave contract."

"Even if it were, you signed it willingly. Uncle didn't force you." Robert stared at him. "Don't play games with me. When exactly will you die—tomorrow or the day after? Old man, I know you have a way to know the exact time."

"Did Karl Miller tell you that? But I don't want to know. That would be too cruel for an old man."

Old Whateley sighed. "Bring me that notebook on my nightstand. Tear out a sheet of paper for me."

"What kind of evil artifact is that notebook?" Robert asked. He didn't step closer; instead, he took half a step back.

"Don't be foolish. Bring it here. It's just an ordinary notebook. The evil artifact isn't here."

Old Whateley took the torn sheet of paper. His long nails scraped across his withered arm, and a thin line of blood immediately appeared on his skin.

The paper swept across the bloodline, absorbing all the blood that had seeped out. When the paper was lifted, the skin beneath was perfectly intact.

Old Whateley handed the bloodstained paper back to Robert. The blood on it flowed strangely, following the paper's grain to form a string of numbers.

"How is this done?" Robert asked.

"You want to know?"

Robert licked his lips. "...No, I don't."

Robert took the paper and smiled. "Ah, so it's..."

"Don't read it aloud," Old Whateley interrupted. "Just give it to Karl Miller. Don't tell me. I don't want to know the exact time yet."

"Old coward," Robert sneered, tucking the paper into his cloak.

In doing so, he lifted a corner of the cloak, but even then, the inside remained pitch black, with no light penetrating it.

"Also, about..."

"Wait a moment, Robert," Old Whateley interrupted again.

"Let's talk about this when I'm dead. Have Wilbur come then. After I'm gone, you'll be dealing with him. For now, just tell Karl Miller: he'll get what he wants."

"Good." Robert nodded. He seemed to be thinking about who Wilbur was. "Have Wilbur come see me. Let's get acquainted."

"Not now. He's not here. Before dawn, he left with Lavinia."

Robert grabbed a fountain pen from the table—silver. He twirled it in his hand.

"Clatter!"

He fumbled, and the pen fell to the floor.

"Junk," Robert said, picking it up. "I'm taking it!"

"That was my brother's... Damn it, take it. My brother's soul is still attached to it! Get out!"

Robert paid no heed to Old Whateley's curses. He swayed as he walked out of the room.

But once he was out of Old Whateley's sight, he didn't leave immediately.

He remembered something: though Wilbur Whateley and his simple-minded mother were both gone, the Whateley house wasn't empty of just Old Whateley.

He had always known that Old Whateley had two grandsons. He had only ever seen Wilbur. The other one, named Hope, he had never laid eyes on.

Hope did not wake up voluntarily... at least, subjectively, he would have preferred to sleep a little longer...

But... was that thing called "muscle memory" or a "biological clock"?

He added another note after the name "Hope IV": a freak who forced himself into the habit of waking at the crack of dawn every day.

"Ah... ah..."

Hope rolled around on the bed, twisting his body, trying to slip back into dreamland, but he simply could not fall asleep. His body was rebelling against his mind, refusing his request to go back to sleep.

This body seemed to be showing me what it meant to be unyielding and faithful... Did it not realize it had a new master now, and should adapt to the times? No matter... we have a long time together, and I have plenty of time to train it. It will forget everything...

Since he could not sleep no matter what, Hope resigned himself to getting up. There were no toiletries here at all, but there was a toilet...

Damn!

There was actually a flush toilet here. Wasn't this a bedroom?

Hope looked up with a frown. He now knew where the stench that had been bothering him for so long came from. The living conditions here were truly worse than a college dorm.

Well, at least this era already had ceramic toilets, with a wooden toilet seat... It looked clean enough from the outside, at least...

Just in time. His lower abdomen felt a bit full after waking up.

Hope leaned against the wall and undid his pants...

He only got halfway before re-fastening his belt.

He remembered something and decided to take care of his physiological needs later.

Hope crouched down and lifted the bedsheet he had deliberately let hang down the night before. Beneath the bed, someone was still sleeping soundly.

Hope reached out a finger and carefully tested it under the girl's nose... Still breathing... Still asleep...

Hope placed his hand on the girl's shoulder, preparing to send her back to Old Williams's house.

Just then, a rustling sound came from the roof.

Hope stared hesitantly at the wooden ceiling.

Whateley House should only be two stories tall. There should be nothing up there.

"Creak!"

Hope jerked his hand back in fright.

He looked up at the ceiling in surprise.

In the small room's roof, several wooden planks even more crude than those on Old Williams's roof had been pried off entirely. The waterproof membrane laid over them had been violently pulled aside.

The Great Night Hawk... there couldn't be more, could there?

A hand holding a screwdriver appeared in the hole, and soon, a whole body emerged.

A handsome blond youth.

It was Paul.

"Surprise!" Paul said.

He looked at Hope. "What are you doing under the bed?"