A Cordial and Friendly Conversation

"Alright, enough idle chatter. Aren't you curious about how I produce those threads that control people? Let's find a suitable place, and I'll explain it to you."

Kurya was very enthusiastic.

One might even say he was overly enthusiastic.

Coleman raised an eyebrow and readily accepted the man's invitation.

This could be considered an act of arrogance.

Yet, the curiosity in his heart drove him to get to the bottom of it.

Moreover, he did not believe this fellow could kill him.

A mere puppeteer; he had seen plenty of them in his past life.

Among them, quite a few had even tried to turn him into a puppet.

What a pity, though—in the end, they all became part of Coleman's collection.

Their expressions of madness remained forever captured on canvas.

Together with their puppets, they were frozen in their own dark basements.

Following closely behind, Coleman discovered that this man had led him to an understated yet luxurious wooden villa.

Whoa, this guy was a wealthy one.

Pushing the door open, Kurya walked in slowly and turned on the lights.

At this moment, the sun was already setting outside.

The bright, shimmering sunset was not blinding.

But the brightness was far from enough for someone inside to see the furnishings clearly.

Perhaps due to the painter's own habits, the lights in Kurya's house were not very bright.

Even when turned on, they only allowed one to barely make out the corners of the room.

Coleman didn't mind; he stood where he was, waiting for the middle-aged man's arrangements.

Not entering the homes of others of his kind without permission.

This was an unspoken agreement among this group of eccentrics.

After all, you could never imagine what a pervert might turn his house into.

A moment of carelessness could lead an outsider to an untimely death.

Furthermore, every eccentric had different habits.

Perhaps a careless action of your own could touch upon his forbidden zone.

Leading you to fall into the abyss.

Becoming one of his flawed works of art.

Kurya finished brewing the tea before realizing that the child was still standing in the same spot.

He let out a soft laugh, as if remembering something, and spoke calmly: "Make yourself at home, come in. I don't have that many rules."

Hearing the man's words, Coleman shrugged and walked in slowly.

This guy certainly had very few rules.

Coleman thought to himself while surveying his surroundings.

If it were him, he would perhaps make a guest change their shoes before entering the house.

He would never allow an outsider to dirty his floors.

A gentleman's house should be spotless, clean forever.

Sitting on the sofa, Coleman's movements were very proper.

As if measured by a ruler, his back remained perfectly straight.

It was as if the upbringing of a noble was carved into his very bones.

Every gesture was polite and refined.

Full of elegance.

Inadvertently, Coleman's hand brushed against the sofa.

His fingers paused slightly as he felt the texture.

He raised an eyebrow in surprise, blinked, and spoke slowly: "Your taste is quite peculiar, isn't it?"

Rubbing his fingers together, if his senses were not mistaken.

This was a human-skin sofa.

Moreover, judging by the fine seams, it wasn't made from just one person's skin.

It seemed that the skin from people's chests had been cut, tailored, and stitched together to create the entire surface of the sofa.

"Ah, you're talking about this?"

Sipping his tea, Kuerya realized something belatedly.

"There are no shops in this godforsaken place, so I made most of the items in this house myself, but as you know, the available materials here are quite limited."

His words were pointed, sounding almost like an excuse to himself.

"I don't usually do this, it's just that those people were too noisy."

As if recalling something, Kuerya couldn't help but frown.

That group of people hunting him down had always been so loud and clamorous.

Even though he had sewn their mouths shut, they still kept whining and groaning incessantly.

It just so happened that he was lacking materials to craft some furniture.

Waste not, want not, right?

Besides, compared to ordinary materials, humans who had awakened their Nen were far more effective.

Their bones, for instance, were significantly sturdier than those of an average person.

Coleman smiled, remaining silent.

It was unclear whether he believed this explanation or not.

His gaze was fixed on the coffee table.

The glass tiles, which featured patterns resembling marble, were likely the result of crushed human skulls.

With a scoff, Coleman continued, attempting to provoke the man before him.

"Your methods for disposing of 'substandard materials' are certainly quite brutal."

Well then, have you been successfully provoked by me yet?

If so, might you show me those miraculous threads of yours?

I am truly, intensely curious.

Free in length, free in contraction.

They would be perfect for making a 'spider web.'

Coleman wanted them.

But from the moment he entered this house, Kuerya had shown no intention of revealing them.

Therefore, he planned to take them by force.

Unfortunately, his calculations were off.

How could a lazy, slovenly middle-aged man be provoked by a few words?

"Ah, it's alright. They were just substandard materials; if they're broken, they're broken. Isn't it possible to recycle some of the waste?"

Kuerya scratched his head, feeling a bit sleepy.

Yet, he wanted to chat with this kid.

Why were his methods for making dolls both so crude and so delicate?

How should he put it? Kuerya could tell from Coleman's technique that the boy had specifically studied how to manufacture life-sized dolls.

But, despite possessing such exquisite skills, why did he produce such rough, even violent, results?

Moreover, he was also curious about Coleman's specific methods for crafting these dolls.

He wanted to learn them.

So, Kuerya now had to find a way to steer the conversation in that direction.

"What about you? Don't you handle your waste like that?"

Coleman was puzzled by the question.

Why would one handle waste so violently?

My dear, that is not elegant at all.

Refuting the notion, Coleman intended to have a proper discussion with this 'violent artist.'

"No, I never do that. Under normal circumstances, I choose to let them go, or I burn them to ashes."

As he spoke, he smiled.

"After all, for substandard materials, one should ask God why He made them so defective when He crafted them in the first place."

And my task is simply to send them to meet God.