I Fought Kal'tsit? Seriously? Chapter 11

By the time Saria finished speaking, she had silently arrived at an answer. "But if you really can see things ordinary people can't, then even if this guess goes against reason and logic—it would indeed be a sufficiently plausible explanation for all your strange behavior so far."

"I'm curious." After wrestling with himself, Gerald slowly raised his face, his tone full of curiosity. "How did they describe me in the records? What was left?"

"Not much," she said.

"Joined Kazimierz's military at fourteen. After that, there were almost no records. Around three years ago, he was confirmed dead on a battlefield in western Ursus, only to return to Kazimierz half a year later as a 'dead man.' Another half year later, he came to Columbia and skinned and dismembered a capitalist who had once belonged to Kazimierz."

"Hmph." Gerald shrugged. "That basically sums it up."

In the library, once meant for quiet study, only the remnants of Gerald's voice remained. The sound gradually slowed, then returned to silence.

Saria didn't speak or ask questions. She knew some people's pasts shouldn't be mentioned. It was enough to leave them buried in history.

But Gerald still spoke.

"People with nothing left to care about can easily do the wrong thing." He closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. "I'm not talking about myself. Aside from not being able to spend more time with my family, I don't think I've made any wrong choices in my life."

"It's just that I was never strong enough, so the ending always fell short."

"Yeah."

He said softly.

"It always falls short."

Bang bang ka-bang~! A New Teammate Is About to Appear!

Compared to usual, this morning was genuinely busy.

Being able to use Originium Arts in prison felt fresh. He tested this piece of cloth's uses a few times, and the results were, unsurprisingly, baffling.

First.

Just as it had previously caused Saria to misunderstand, this cloth didn't exist in other people's eyes.

Even when they touched it, all they felt was the texture of skin. Saria had even specifically gone to the surveillance room afterward, and the result was the same when she observed it through machines.

Second, compared to bypassing the disruptor to use Originium Arts, this cloth seemed more like a way for him to come into contact with Originium itself in a purer manner.

Because everyone knew that Originium Arts were methods by which humans guided the energy within Originium into specific forms through certain means and used it for special purposes.

But the key lay in that word—guidance. Even the reason Saria had been so shocked earlier, and why she'd concluded he was hallucinating, lay there.

He wasn't an Infected.

There were no Originium crystals inside or on his body, yet he could use Originium Arts out of thin air. It was like grabbing a hamburger from the air and taking a bite—it simply couldn't happen, unless he carried some carefully crafted casting medium containing high-purity miniature Originium crystals.

Or, according to some rumors he'd once heard, there were certain Behemoths in this world capable of wielding authority.

But that was obviously far too unrealistic for someone as weak as a Pegasus like him.

Matching the first deduction, every time he used Originium Arts, the cloth's color dimmed slightly. The black-red on it gradually became an utterly empty black as the intensity of the Originium Arts increased.

Perhaps once the mystery upon it was no longer preserved, no matter what past this relic carried, it would eventually be discarded as a useless scrap of rotten cloth.

But that brought up two more questions.

First, why did this cloth show such an obvious reaction to liquids, especially blood? And was it possible to replenish its "color" through testing?

Second.

Considering that this cloth couldn't be observed by others, or that its effects appeared to be part of his bodily functions...

If he kept dreaming, and kept obtaining these unknown relics...

What exactly would he become?

The bell signaling the afternoon's work rang out. Gerald had already returned to his room.

It took him fifteen minutes to clear out a clean patch in his messy little nest. Then he sat cross-legged on the spot and read the book in his hands.

Now that he knew the cloth had limited uses, there was no need to waste those chances.

One advantage of staying in C Section was that prisoners from A and B Section would come up specifically to clean C Section.

After all, everyone here wore heavy shackles to prevent any possibility of violence. They weren't even allowed to work, merely left here to decay until they rotted and stank.

One reason Mansfield had become Columbia's pilot prison was that it took in inmates most prisons wanted nothing to do with.

The ones who killed without blinking, the cold-blooded ones, the smooth talkers skilled at deception.

No matter what crimes they had committed before, once imprisoned here, they could no longer continue their legendary lives.

Gerald hadn't personally seen how the other prisoners in C Section were treated, but he was certain it wasn't anything good. Otherwise, he wouldn't still have never actually met a "real" C Section prisoner.

Thud, thud, thud.

Along with the sound of the elevator reaching this floor, heavy footsteps came from afar. Gerald knew Anthony had returned.

The tall figure was escorted back into his cell by two guards. But when Anthony saw rubble scattered everywhere, he truly couldn't maintain his outward calm and let out a deep sigh.

There wasn't even a place to stand in the enormous room. Enduring the occasional pain of small stones tormenting the soles of his feet, he stepped on them with his furry beast paws and made his way back to the bed.

Only after the two guards suppressed their laughter, glanced at the huge hole in the room, and put shackles attached to the wall on each of them did they cough a few times. One of them explained.

"Ahem. Even though we're all familiar with each other, the A and B Section prisoners coming over later aren't. Barton just told us these chains are only to make them less scared. There's so much rubble today that it needs to be finished quickly. There's no time for them to be timid."

The other guard rested his baton against his shoulder and joined in with equal familiarity. "Hey, it's mostly because a few newcomers are coming. Some of the old hands deliberately described C Section as a place that eats people without spitting out the bones, just waiting for a show... Ah, right, Gerald. I'll be bringing people to clean this place later, along with your sweetheart."

"Those shackles are just for show. Tug lightly and they'll come off. If you're going to do anything, be careful. Let's not blow our cover. Maybe we'll even get to watch something entertaining, heh heh."

So that was it.

Gerald nodded thoughtfully. It seemed Barton had really taken his words to heart this morning and had come up with a testing method in just half a day.

However, Anthony frowned when he heard that, though he didn't flare up on the spot. He merely silently arranged his expression into politeness.

After the two guards left, he couldn't help looking at the figure beyond the large hole. "That isn't a good term."

Anthony had thought Gerald would show at least some anger upon hearing that word, even though he'd never seen what this person looked like when angry.

After all, his friend had recently grown somewhat close to a certain guard. Whenever Anthony went to the library to read, he would sometimes see Gerald's interactions with her.

Love was just like that.

Even if you met the right person at the wrong time, it was never an emotion one could control.

And even setting that aside, even if the two of them were still only friends, he wasn't wrong. No one would fail to get angry when their friend was called that.

What he meant was—people were already gossiping about the two of you like this. Why didn't you hurry up and clarify your relationship to ease everyone else's curiosity?!

"You seem very indignant about this." Gerald pulled his gaze away from his book and looked at him, nearly speechless. "I suggest you rein in the gossip in your eyes before asking questions."

"In that case, I apologize for my rudeness." Anthony put on an exaggerated show of politeness. "So, you don't deny that you and that lady have had a... beautiful encounter?"

"If you're talking about these anatomical illustrations in the book." Gerald flipped to the last few pages and showed him the grisly images. "Then yes, they're quite beautiful. Maybe people with certain peculiar tastes would like them, but I'm definitely not among them."

"Ah, a former doctor who enjoys sharing her books." Anthony nodded. "A very elegant hobby, and also fortunate—to find someone in prison with whom she can discuss shared interests. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised by the overly intimate distance between you."

"'Overly intimate distance'?"

"Sorry, that wording sounds a little vague." Anthony gathered his thoughts. "But there are simply too many specific examples. The day before yesterday, I saw her sitting beside you, the two of you writing and drawing on paper together."

Oh, heh heh.

There had happened to be several insane questions on the test that day... Damn it, Saria. Seeing that he was about to finish the book ahead of schedule, she'd used absurdly difficult questions to test him.

He should've done something else this morning while he had the chance. At the very least, he ought to teach her a lesson.

"Shut up, Anthony."

Gerald shot back, "A playboy who's never experienced love is talking about this? You've never lost to anyone in verbal sparring, but you've never tried the real thing even once, have you?"

"If possible, I'd prefer you phrase that as 'waiting for a kindred spirit'... perhaps."

Anthony fell silent in the middle of their conversation.

The shackles on his body constantly reminded him that he was in prison, and that he shouldn't forget what he needed to do.

Lovers and kindred spirits were both extravagant concepts to him. He didn't even know whether he had a future where he could escape.

At that moment, Gerald's ears suddenly twitched nimbly twice, and a trace of confusion appeared on his face.

"What is it?" Anthony noticed his friend's expression and asked.

"Something's wrong." He carefully listened to the sounds carried by the wind, then looked once more at the hole between their cells. The confusion on his face gradually turned solemn. "Metal clinking in pockets. It's hidden well... A prisoner brought a weapon."

"Twelve sets of footsteps total, excluding the two guards. Most of them are very weak, but there are two you'll need to deal with seriously."

Gerald raised his head and looked at his friend.

He recalled the explanation Saria had given him when they first met.

"Heh. Someone really is coming to kill you, Anthony."

Only Death Doesn't Lie

The approaching footsteps weren't orderly. The sound of Saria's heavy boots striking the floor was especially noticeable to him.

She placed her weight and steps perfectly, and her breathing was the same. It was a sign that a warrior remained vigilant at all times, a textbook-level response.

One of the smaller prisoners was probably a habitual thief. She carried many tiny metal parts, which made faint clinking sounds in her hair and around her heels.

Her steps were fragmented, often dragging now and then, and she habitually concealed the sound of her feet hitting the ground—the habit of lower-city gangs in Columbia. Those people liked to parkour around street corners, disguising themselves and blending into crowds.

The other prisoner seemed somewhat out of place.

Her footsteps were light, but not like a professional's. The items in her pockets had clearly been carefully assembled. Prisoners rarely had access to assembly skills at this level... Not an assassin, nor a dedicated weaponsmith. She was more like a police officer... or rather, a bodyguard?

None of the rest required any special attention.

It wasn't that these two were especially formidable. It was only that the remaining armed prisoners were truly beneath notice. Their footsteps alone revealed a purely reckless, brawling style of combat. Even if they went looking for trouble with Duma, they would die beyond any hope of dying worse.

"Someone's coming to kill me. Understood."

The brief confusion on Anthony's face instantly changed. He immediately sat up straight, tensed his body, and prepared for battle. "I'll follow your command. Is there anything you need me to do now?"

"Don't rush." Gerald placed the book beneath his pillow, closed his eyes, and rested. "So you don't overthink things, we'll discuss everything else afterward. The tactic is to wait for their response. Don't strike first."

There was an essential difference between suicidally devoted killers and people bought with money.

The difference was that the latter weren't worth mentioning at all.

The corridor lights shone on the guard leading the prisoners toward C Section, casting an endlessly stretched shadow that engulfed the crowd behind him like an inescapable dark cloud.

That shadow made Robin's mood even heavier.

Her story was plain and unremarkable: her parents had divorced; her father, who had taken her with him, drank himself into oblivion every day after his company collapsed and ended up in the hospital. So this dutiful daughter accepted a difficult commission and came to the prison to try to kill a... powerful inmate.

It was a fairly common occurrence on this land, but when it happened to any one person, it still became a crushing mountain, making it impossible to lift one's head.

Yet only after actually entering the prison did she realize the problem was even worse than she'd imagined.

If Anthony was a "free prisoner" in the prison, someone even A and B Section inmates treated with respect, then Gerald, his widely known friend living next door—

Was a "monster you couldn't provoke even in death."

Rumors about him were widespread below. At first, they'd only been that he had "dragged an enemy out of a villa and torn out his tendons and bones." Later, they gradually turned into "a mad slaughter in downtown Columbia, where he stacked heads into a mound until the vice president arrived with an army to suppress him and seal him inside Mansfield."

Otherwise, no one could explain why he could ignore so many prison rules, or why even Barton treated him so amicably.

And today's task wasn't simply cleaning C Section like ordinary prisoners usually did.

They needed to clear the rubble remaining from the partition wall between two cells.

In other words, someone had smashed through the wall, and that person definitely couldn't have been Anthony, who always followed rules and acted politely... Just thinking about it made it clear where those rumors had come from.

If that really had happened, then these assassins hired for the job would have to confront head-on a savage capable of smashing a Heat Alloy wall barehanded—

Robin tightened her grip on the dagger in her hand. Her pockets also held traps she'd hastily assembled over the past few days.

For her father's medical bills, she could only gamble everything on this.

...That was all.

Just as she stood there blankly lost in thought, wondering where exactly to set the traps, her forward steps quickly crashed into the guard at the front.

She didn't move him in the slightest. Instead, she felt like she'd rammed into a solid wall, staggering and falling straight to the floor.

Pfft.