Reversal

There's something in his sleeve!

Hope realized it, but had no time to react.

A blinding flash of light suddenly erupted, forcing Hope to shut his eyes.

The light burst from Robert's sleeve without warning, catching Hope completely off guard. It wasn't as bright as Wilbur's flash grenade, but it was enough to cripple Hope's already limited vision.

A miniature flashlight... Hope instantly understood what Robert had hidden in his sleeve.

And it was custom-made... sacrificing battery life for a stronger beam, paired with an almost undetectable activation mechanism...

This flashlight was specifically designed for self-defense, capable of temporarily blinding an opponent at close range.

The moment he sensed the light, Hope threw his full weight onto the scythe in his right hand, aiming to slice straight through Robert's trachea.

At the same time, his left hand, clutching the ruby ring, swung down toward where he remembered Robert's wrist to be...

The ring hit nothing but air. The first thing Robert did after turning on the flashlight was pull his arm back.

And the razor-sharp scythe refused to descend any further, as if something had blocked it, holding it utterly still.

Blocked by what?

In his panic, Hope felt himself being shoved back.

He tried to pinpoint Robert's position again, but a cold object pressed against his forehead.

Circular.

Hope had touched something similar just yesterday.

"You can calm down now," Robert said. "I'm feeling very patient."

Hope opened his eyes again. Traces of afterglow still lingered in his vision, but he could barely make things out.

The scythe was intact, with no sign of what had stopped it.

Pressing against his forehead was a silver revolver, held firmly in Robert's hand.

His gaze traveled upward. Robert now looked completely at ease, leisurely adjusting his black robe, acting as if none of what had just happened mattered at all.

"Calmed down yet, little guy?" Robert asked.

"No. I'm still furious, and I kind of regret not killing you right away. But I know my situation isn't good right now."

"That's enough."

The revolver tapped twice against Hope's forehead with smug satisfaction: "Hope, why get so worked up? That guy was just an ordinary person. Someone like you has a long future ahead. Honestly, I did you a favor—if Old Whateley found out you had such a close friend, he'd definitely punish you. Now you can use this corpse to suck up to him."

Hope looked at Paul. The numbers were still there, but his chest showed no sign of rising or falling: "Now you can tell me honestly. Can he still be saved?"

"No saving him, Hope." He spoke in a tone one might use to soothe a child, dripping with smug mockery that even an idiot could catch: "He's dead for sure."

He grinned excitedly and spat toward where Paul lay. It missed, landing on the floor instead of Paul.

"See that?" Robert said. "He's dead. His breathing's stopped!"

Already dead?

"No..." A faint sound squeezed from Hope's throat.

He stared at Paul. That body showed no movement at all...

"He was already dead while you were still looking for the antidote," Robert continued. "Too bad, isn't it?"

Hope was silent for a long moment, then nodded: "Feels like I was just playing a kid's game with you."

Robert froze: "What do you mean by that?"

"I'm talking about you," Hope replied. "The way you're acting now—isn't that exactly what you're trying to tell me? That you've seen plenty of these childish little games before."

Hope's words made Robert shift uncomfortably: "Good that you understand."

"You're such a vain person, Robert. A complete waste, yet you have to act like you're used to seeing corpses."

The gun muzzle pressed harder against his forehead: "Damn it, Hope, you know I..."

Hope cut him off: "We both know you were scared shitless just now."

"What?"

"When I had you by the throat, when I was about to kill you, you were terrified. That's why you stabbed Paul with the ring instead. You've never killed anyone, and you don't have the guts to. I saw it."

"I..."

"Haven't you noticed? You've been shaking this whole time. You act like you don't care about human life, but you've probably never even killed a chicken."

Hope stood up.

The movement made Robert instinctively step back, then he remembered the gun was in his hand.

"Don't move!" Robert warned him. "Sit down! Or I'll shoot!"

"Stop wasting time on this pointless crap." Hope pressed forward against the gun barrel. "You won't shoot. I said you're an idiot, and I wasn't wrong. I'm Old Whateley's grandson. With Old Whateley around, you don't dare kill me. Pointing that thing at my head just proves how stupid you are."

Robert trembled. At first only his legs shook, then it spread through his whole body. He shifted the muzzle to aim at Hope's shoulder: "Then I'll shoot here... You won't die from this, but you'll lose that arm... You can try me, see if I dare..."

Hope took another step forward, the gun muzzle pressing against him again.

He glanced at Paul—a life that had been vibrant just moments ago.

He and Paul had gotten along well, but it could only be called "a few meetings' acquaintance"; it didn't even count as familiarity, let alone friendship.

Yet Paul... this man about to head off to university, was willing to go through so much trouble for a scrap of paper, seeking him out... all for a friend who had "lost his memory."

He would regret this, wouldn't he, having lost his life...

Perhaps Hope's silence stretched too long, for Robert found his nerve again: "Scared? Good, scared is right. I'll leave now; you deal with the dead man yourself... Tell Old Whateley or don't, I had my fun today."

"That trick of yours blocking the scythe—you'd better use it again." Hope said in a low voice.

"What?" Robert didn't catch it, but he soon realized he didn't need to.

Hope raised the gleaming scythe once more... legend said Death himself wielded a scythe... and swung it down.

In panic, Robert pulled the trigger... he pulled it repeatedly, but the revolver gave no response.

His expression shifted; hesitating, he raised his other hand, clutching a torn piece of paper that was rapidly vanishing.

A curtain-like thing, red in color, appeared between the two, yet it was as hard as steel, blocking Hope's scythe.

The scythe clashed against it, making no sound at all.

So this was what blocked the scythe earlier... a paper inscribed with some extraordinary spell—a magic scroll, then... He hesitated; perhaps this was his only one... The revolver had no bullets...

Sure enough, after the paper stopped Hope, Robert immediately chose to flee. He ran for the door; the curtain seemed able to hold for a while longer.

Hope tried to touch the red curtain—its texture was soft, truly like velvet—but no matter how hard he pushed, it didn't budge.

Robert had already grasped the doorknob...

Hope closed his eyes, imagining what lay on the other side of the red curtain...