Ruger's eyes widened in disbelief. He immediately cast Mental Boil on himself, focused his mind, and tried once more to open a spatial gate.
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He practiced this every day. Even if he could not claim much improvement, he was at least quite proficient.
A small dark-red hole appeared. He looked at it. It was probably only a little bigger than a fist—this was the result of his final effort.
Knock, knock, knock!
"Young Master, I'm coming in! Please forgive my rudeness."
The voice outside the door spoke with impeccable courtesy, but to Ruger, it sounded like a death-summoning curse being chanted.
In his panic, he took out that half-face and shook it back and forth in his hand.
Yet whether he tried speaking to it or shook it for dear life, Half-Man's half-face showed no reaction at all. In the end, he could only put it away in frustration.
Creak—
The door was slowly pushed open, stirring a faint breeze that blew half of the aged quilt on the bed to pieces.
"Young Master."
An old man in a black formal suit appeared in the doorway.
Ruger stared without moving at the figure by the door, watching for any movement he might make, while ten thousand ways for a dog-headed man to die flashed through his mind.
"Young Master, how can you be dressed like this?"
As he spoke, the old man clapped his hands. The wardrobe in the corner of the room seemed to be manipulated by an invisible pair of hands, its doors opening one by one. Only one opened normally; the rest toppled crookedly to the floor the moment they opened. Fortunately, they revealed a row of clothes inside, which was enough to count as fulfilling their mission.
The clothes floated over. Ruger did