Who Is Bahamut?

At last, Pete had gained Bahamut's trust. Although he still had no idea how he had managed it, all he wanted now was to leave the interrogation room as quickly as possible and have nothing more to do with evil gods or men in black robes.

The complex Arcane Lock runes on the metal cuffs binding Pete's hands gradually dissolved into the air. Once free, Pete hurriedly took the paper and pen, lowering his head to look at what was written on the page.

"What does this say...?"

Pete remembered that while the two of them had been talking back and forth, Bahamut had kept writing and pausing on the paper. There was indeed quite a lot written on it in golden paint, but the problem was that Pete could not understand the language Bahamut had used.

It was neither the common tongue of the Prantis Continent nor the runic language favored by followers of the Goddess of Magic for recording magical knowledge. It was a style of writing Pete had never seen before.

Elegant cursive linked the letters together into different words, with both delicate flourishes and smooth transitions. The lines were graceful and supple, carrying a unique beauty.

"It's not important. It's just a simple record document containing your information, and you need to sign it to confirm," Bahamut explained. "Although I personally believe that you truly have nothing to do with those cultist lunatics, according to Greenport Police Station regulations, if the investigation makes new progress over the coming period, you may need to be summoned again to answer some questions."

As if worried that Pete might not be reassured, Bahamut added another sentence after speaking.

"Don't worry. We won't treat you as an accomplice. The other survivors like you will also sign the same document. It's merely a required procedure."

Pete was stunned and blurted out, "Since when has Greenport Police Station become so diligent and responsible? Aren't the police station full of pigs who won't budge unless you stuff money into their hands whenever something happens... Oh, no, sorry, sir. Pretend I didn't say anything. I'll sign it right away!"

Only halfway through did Pete realize that his words had covered a rather broad target, clearly including Bahamut as well.

Bahamut snorted with laughter and waved a hand. "It's fine. I know exactly what Greenport Police Station is like. No need to worry about offending anyone."

Because of its massive free trade and its special status as a neutral port, Greenport was economically prosperous, but its public security management was indeed widely criticized.

From the courts at the top to the police stations at the bottom, the common trait across every trade was rampant corruption. Deals of power and money had nearly gone from unspoken rules to openly acknowledged ones.

When ordinary fights, neighborhood disputes, lost-property cases, and similar matters reached the lower ranks of the police station, they would push them away if they could and drag them out if they could not.

After all, most officers had bought even their positions with money. If you did not offer them benefits first, could you really expect them to work properly?

Of course, in a sense, this money-talks approach to public security was also a distinctive feature of Greenport.

After all, the city's owner—the hobgoblin tycoon Karon Lever—was an out-and-out fanatic for accumulating wealth. If the price was high enough, Karon might even sell the rope meant to hang himself.

By the same logic, if the money was sufficient, the police station could instantly turn into the most vicious pack of hyenas, obeying their patrons' every word and ruthlessly squeezing any soft targets they could bully.

Compared to that, Pete felt that Bahamut was so dedicated he hardly seemed like someone from Greenport Police Station at all.

In Pete's experience, Greenport officers had very little patience. No matter what case it was, once someone entered the interrogation room, they would definitely hint, openly or subtly, that he should pay up quickly. If the money was not enough, they would simply label him an evil god believer and send him to the gallows to close the case. Only after enough money had been stuffed into their hands would he have a chance to enter the normal questioning process.

He had already prepared himself to lose a fortune, yet Bahamut had never mentioned money from beginning to end. And that naturally imposing presence had made Pete too nervous to even suggest offering a bribe.

"Sir, are you really from Greenport Police Station?" Pete asked curiously as he signed the name "Pete Chinar" in the common tongue.

Pete noticed that the pen also wrote in golden ink, which reflected brightly under the oil lamp.

Bahamut did not answer Pete's question directly. Once he saw Pete sign his name, he stood up, walked to the door in a few strides, pulled it open, and called outside.

"It's confirmed. He's innocent and doesn't know those cultist lunatics. Come in and wrap things up, then let him leave."

As soon as the words fell, Pete saw an obese police officer, wearing the largest size of Greenport Police Station uniform and weighing at least two hundred pounds, squeeze hurriedly through the door. He gave Bahamut a highly improper salute.

"Yes! Chief Trun! You've worked hard!"

The man was clearly trying his best to look agile and crisp, but his bloated body, obviously lacking exercise, made every movement seem loose and sluggish.

"Mm." Pete watched Bahamut nod, step around the fat officer, and leave the room.

The moment Bahamut left, the fat officer immediately relaxed. His expression turned lazy as he walked listlessly to the table and sat down. Without even looking at Pete, he pulled over the paper and pen Pete had just signed and asked impatiently,

"Name?"

Pete froze. Hadn't Bahamut already asked that?

"Name! Hurry up, kid. Don't waste my time, understand? If the chief hadn't confirmed you were unaware of it, hmph, a clueless fool like you would most likely be one of those deranged evil god lackeys. They ought to all be sent to the gallows. Then I'd finally get some peace and quiet."

Pete gave an awkward sound. "Sir, but... hadn't the relevant information already been recorded during the earlier questioning? Why do you need to ask again?"

The fat officer frowned and raised the paper, waving it at Pete. "Quit making up nonsense to fool me, kid. This paper is completely blank! Hurry up and don't waste time. You answer whatever I ask, or believe it or not, I'll lock you up in solitary for a few days!"

Pete looked closely.

The "record document" that he had personally signed only seconds ago was now completely blank!

What the hell?

"Wait, wait, wait, sir! Really, I remember it clearly. There was a lot written on it, and I even signed it! It can't possibly be blank!" Pete said urgently. "If you don't believe me, call that gentleman from earlier. He can prove it!"

The fat officer sneered. "Go ahead and call for him, then. That's Chief Trun. He has plenty to keep him busy. How could he possibly have time to come back and testify for you?"

Pete had been puzzled ever since he first heard that title, and he could not help asking, "Chief Trun? But isn't his name Bahamut?"

To his surprise, the fat officer looked even more confused than Pete. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Who is Bahamut?"