"What are you doing?"
Carls, whose arm had been found, couldn't help asking.
Ever since the kid had finished his "work of art," he'd been carrying a bucket around and painting everywhere.
He glanced at his watch. It was already eleven in the evening.
This was the first time he'd seen an assassin stick around to paint and draw instead of running after wiping out an entire family.
Wasn't he afraid someone would come?
Carls was once again grateful that the boss had chosen such a good place.
There was nothing around.
Just barren mountains.
No one came here, either.
Otherwise, they should have run long ago.
Who had time to dawdle around here?
Carls didn't get it.
He really didn't think he had an artistic bone in his body.
He couldn't understand a thing about what this "little artist" was doing.
"Hm? I'm finishing my masterpiece."
Coleman looked up, set the bucket aside, and replied calmly.
Then, a little curious, he asked, "Why are you still here?"
He'd found his arm. Why wasn't he hurrying off?
"Ah, I'm out of a job now. Aren't you going to take responsibility for that?"
Carls joked.
Honestly, he wanted to leave, too, but his damn curiosity had made him stay.
He wanted to see what the kid was up to.
He was really, really curious!
He also wanted to see this supposedly breathtaking work of art.
After repeatedly pushing past his limits, the hunter named Carls had completely let himself go.
He had no principles at all, following only his own heart.
Now, his heart had chosen to stay, so he'd stay.
What if he really did get to see some breathtaking painting?
"Take responsibility? What, you want me to send you to see your boss?"
"I'll pass, thank you."
Carls gave an awkward grin. "Just think of me as an audience member here to admire your art. Indulge my curiosity, will you?"
Well, Coleman had now single-handedly shattered Carls's preconceptions about hunters as a profession.
Oh, so there were hunters who were carefree, and who acted one way in public and another behind closed doors.
Coleman stretched and glanced over at him before saying casually, "If you want to see it, come with me."
He picked up the bucket and headed outside at an unhurried pace.
As he walked, he looked over the few photographs in his hand.
One was a "family portrait."
One showed the castle's servants.
And one was a view of the entire castle.
As he stepped out of the castle, he casually tossed a lit lighter.
Following gravity, it traced a graceful arc and landed on the trail of oil Coleman had drawn beforehand.
The flames caught quickly and rose high.
Carls didn't understand.
Good grief, had he gone to all that trouble just to set the mansion on fire?
Then what was the point of all that work?
In the end, it would all burn to ashes anyway!
Coleman caught his look and gave him a disdainful glance.
Tch. A fool who couldn't appreciate art.
"Do you know what that is?"
Coleman pointed to the damp lumber around the house.
"? The boss's decorative wood."
Carls knew about it. The wood came from the famous Silgert Archipelago, after all.
The boss had gone to some trouble to ship it here.
He'd seemed to have plans to build something with it.
Now, though, it was just decoration.
The man was dead, after all.
"Tch. Wet wood, piled together like that, makes a firebreak."
Coleman explained slowly.
He didn't want the flowers filling the garden to perish in the flames.
Besides, the contrast between light and shadow gave the scene more impact.
Just imagine: a house engulfed in flames, alongside those vivid, blood-red roses.
Destruction and new life.
It would be absolutely beautiful!
"Also, I applied fire-retardant coating to some of the rooms."
Coleman yawned and explained lazily.
"That way, as long as I control the fire properly, those rooms and some of the 'people' will survive the blaze."
Watching the flames leap, he silently calculated the timing.
If all went according to plan, what survived the fire would be the "work of art" he wanted.
Vivid roses.
Guards standing tall.
A warm, harmonious scene inside the daughter's bedroom.
And at the center of it all, nothing but ruins.
All that beauty set against desolation.
A scene that left so much to the imagination—that was a masterpiece!
That was the final work of art!
The way Coleman wanted it.
And besides...
"Have you ever wondered why, out of all the families hired to attack the Zoldycks, I chose this one in particular?"
His wickedness and ill intent were plain to see.
Coleman was like a child playing a prank.
His eyes held both innocence and cunning.
Yet what he did sent a chill down one's spine.
Who could imagine that a young child could painstakingly plan such a grand finale?
Carls's expression was complicated, but he soon went back to acting as though it had nothing to do with him.
"Time, place, and circumstance. Right?"
He looked around. The place was silent and desolate.
Only the flames towered into the sky.
The boss had certainly gone to great lengths to choose himself such a fine-looking grave.
Coleman didn't deny it. He took one last look at the delicate garden.
It was so beautiful.
He'd plant a patch for his mother when he got home.
Only roses this exquisite would do justice to her beauty.
He considered it silently, then spoke.
"Didn't you want to see the artwork? It's not finished yet. Come with me. I'll show you the final chapter this family wrote."
It would stay with him for the rest of his life.
As he spoke, he tugged Carls along by the sleeve and made a phone call as they walked.
"Hello."
"Hello, is this the fire department?"
"Yes. How can we help you?"
"Oh, there's been a fire at an estate at the foot of Yali'er Mountain—the castle belonging to Lord Collei. Could you send someone to help?"
"Oh! Has something so terrible happened? Don't worry, we'll dispatch a team right away!"
As he spoke, the operator hurriedly called the staff on duty.
"Thank you so much."
Coleman thanked them sincerely.
After all, this was the only way to see that painting.
His gratitude was all the more genuine for it.
"Not at all. We should be thanking you. Without your call, Yali'er Mountain might have suffered a disaster."
After exchanging polite words, Coleman left the castle and headed up the mountain.
He looked up at Carls, who seemed unimpressed, and spoke with fervor. "It won't be long now. You'll see it in less than two hours."
The scene he'd dreamed of.
"You're not leaving?"
Carls asked, puzzled.
Wasn't he going to leave the scene after committing the crime?
He was bold enough to call the fire department himself, too.
"Oh, sir, I need to take photographs to remember it by."
As he spoke, Coleman held up his camera.
His little face was completely serious.
It was adorable.
Carls felt utterly drained.
Fine. He'd better not try to understand a madman's world.
There was no way to understand it.
Who knew what those strange minds of theirs would come up with next?
Coleman, however, busied himself setting up the camera and finding a good angle, trying to capture the scene.
He'd calculated that it would take about an hour and a half for the fire department to arrive. Given how intense the fire would be by then, it would take at least another half hour to put it out.
At that point, the fire would have burned just enough to create the scene he wanted.
So, naturally, he had to keep an eye on it.
"...Young sir, have you ever considered becoming a puppeteer?"
Unable to think of anything else to talk about, Carls decided to try understanding the madman from another angle.
After all, they were just standing there. Staying silent really was awkward.
"Hm? No. Why would you think that?"
Coleman adjusted the lighting and found the question very strange.
He didn't have the skills of a professional puppeteer. Even if he made something, it would only be a shoddy imitation.
Carls shrugged. "Because your strings are arranged so perfectly. Like those three in that family."
Coleman stopped what he was doing and looked at Carls seriously.
"No, sir. This isn't perfect. An experienced puppeteer would hollow those three out and fill them with something else to preserve the puppets' structure and extend their shelf life."
Chemical products, preservatives, and the like.
Not knowing what the chemical terms were in this world, Coleman chose to avoid them.
"Besides, puppeteers make much better work than I do. At the very least, they can pull them around with strings."
Like real puppets.
Not sculptures like the ones I make.
Before you continue