The judge took Scarface's words as the ravings of a madman.
Could anything be more absurd than a criminal who exploited children turning around and condemning them, the righteous men of the court?
"Summary judgment: Scarface is sentenced to hang!"
With the judge's final ruling, the foreman of the jury had already begun signing the verdict, as if he couldn't wait to see the ugly-faced criminal sent to the gallows.
"Be grateful that public hangings have been abolished. Otherwise, a scoundrel like you wouldn't be spared even the last shred of dignity."
Hearing the judge's final sentence, Scarface remained calm, no longer acting as brazenly as before.
He accepted his death with perfect calm.
Even though Scarface knew that because of his unusual ability, he was doomed to die in a manner ten times more painful than hanging.
The poor lived to survive.
That was what he had learned during his twelve years in exile.
So, on his very first day back in London, he had desperately robbed and stolen, all so he could experience life.
Unfortunately, fate had always been especially cruel to him.
Just like on that snowy night more than a decade ago, when he shouldn't have been born to a washerwoman who was starving until she was skin and bones. If only he hadn't been, perhaps he could have avoided beginning a life as a jinx.
The bailiffs escorted Scarface down from the platform.
Just as he was about to step down the last stair, an unfamiliar, aged voice suddenly rang out from the gallery.
"Are you Smarty?"
Ye Yan, seated in the gallery, looked in surprise at Oliver, who had asked the question. Of course, he knew who Smarty was, but the man in front of him was the wrong age.
No.
That wasn't necessarily true.
Ye Yan suddenly thought of his own situation.
He looked at the menacing scar on Scarface's face, suspecting that the man's ability kept his body vigorous.
Scarface didn't stop walking when he heard the question.
"Smarty? Who's that?" He didn't turn around, only grinned widely and laughed. "The only person standing before you is a jinx named Scarface, lucky Mr. Leeford."
Ye Yan's expression stiffened.
The man denied it outright, but that name said everything. Oliver, an orphan born in the workhouse, was named Twist, but Oliver, the illegitimate son of a nobleman, should have been named Leeford.
Scarface really was Smarty, the pickpocket known as Jack Dawkins in the original story.
Ye Yan had thought that, aside from the protagonist Oliver, all the other characters in Oliver Twist had died.
He never expected...
His knuckles whitened as he gripped the railing in front of him, thoughts roiling wildly in his mind.
Smarty had a Coordinate Mark for home, too.
He couldn't.
He couldn't let this man die!
As Ye Yan tried to work out how to turn things around, Scarface narrowed his eyes. His gaze swept over the ornate reliefs on the courtroom walls, then settled on Ye Yan.
His cracked lips twisted into a strange smile.
His eyes fixed on Ye Yan with undisguised scrutiny, as if he could see the deepest secrets of his heart.
"Billy, you jinx luckier than me."
Scarface deliberately drew out his words. His shackles clanked dully as he moved.
"I only hope he doesn't forget where he came from. A lucky break doesn't mean you'll be lucky forever. Naive children always like to put their hopes in the kindness of others."
Ye Yan sat frozen in the gallery.
Scarface's words, "doesn't forget where he came from," jolted him awake. The madness that had been stirring inside him vanished, replaced by a lingering chill.
I was just thinking about how to save a criminal!
Ye Yan had always known himself well.
He knew he wasn't a good person in the strictest sense, at most an ordinary person with a little conscience and kindness.
But no matter what.
He still had a basic sense of right and wrong.
Doing whatever it took to achieve his goals wasn't something a person raised under the red flag should do.
Ye Yan clenched his fists.
I've been assimilated by this world in just a few months. Should I praise myself for adapting so well, or mourn the fact that the past twenty-some years of my life were wasted?
Ye Yan felt his thoughts knotting together in a tangled mess, making it hard to distinguish what he truly thought.
He condemned himself inwardly even as he made excuses for himself.
It was practically like watching the left and right sides of his brain fight each other.
No.
That wasn't right.
Ye Yan jerked his head up.
His instinctive sense of danger brought him to his senses in time, stopping him from falling further into this inexplicable turmoil.
Realizing something was wrong with himself, he immediately checked his diary. His risky visit to the Rose Garden that morning had unexpectedly unlocked the contents of the fifth entry.
But during his earlier actions, Ye Yan hadn't had the chance to read the words carefully.
[April 17, 1881—London]
[Today is the trial of the case involving the murder of thirty-seven blue-eyed girls. After analyzing the case, the detective and I have finally determined...]
Ye Yan examined the diary's contents word by word, and finally found something he had overlooked.
[The moon spies; the sea returns.
Gazing at the phantom of the girl, I feel something hidden within humanity beginning to rise.]
When he first read these words, Ye Yan had thought the diary was once again distorting his mental state.
After all, things like this had happened before. He had only felt a little uneasy, yet the diary described him as "falling into despair"; he had been completely certain, yet it wrote that he was "hesitating."
But now, Ye Yan realized he had been wrong.
He had completely misunderstood the meaning of those words. They weren't the diary's invention; they were a true record.
Something really was awakening inside him.
Ye Yan suppressed his racing thoughts. It felt as if two fighting fish were living in his brain, snapping at each other for food and making his emotions surge and ebb.
So, without waiting for the judge to deliver his final verdict on Cyril Butler, Ye Yan left the courtroom first.
222 Baker Street.
The apartment renovations were now complete. The fresh pine paint still gave off a faint smell, but the bookshelves stood empty, without a single book on them.
Ye Yan went into the storage room beneath the stairs.
"Insight Door."
The strange rhythm of the Queqian Meter spilled from his lips, and a doorway appeared amid illusory ripples.
Ye Yan took out his key and opened the door.
He returned to the Statue Gallery, then headed straight for Samsara Bookstore.
[Welcome back, Administrator.]
The voices of Sam and Sara sounded in Ye Yan's mind.
Then, as if they had noticed something, they cried out in alarm. The candles inside the bookstore flickered despite the still air.
[Administrator, your Soul Essence has been afflicted by a disease. If you don't receive treatment soon, your soul may be damaged.]
The bookstore's voice carried an unmistakable urgency.
"How do I treat it?" Ye Yan asked.
[Read a book.]
Sam and Sara's voices intertwined.
[The Sherlock Holmes Casebook you left with us can cure the Shell-Crossing Disease caused by the Guidance.]
As soon as they finished speaking, the Sherlock Holmes Casebook flew off the shelf and landed neatly in front of Ye Yan.
[The Lamp will let you see what truly lies within you.]
Before you continue