Mu still felt a dull ache in his abdomen from the wound, but in some ways, what this file contained weighed on him more heavily than the shot that had pierced his abdomen-a leaden feeling he could not put into words.
Murrue lowered her head and opened the file. The paper rustled softly in the quiet infirmary, like some cautious warning.
Her gaze fell on the photograph tucked into the first page, and her fingertips involuntarily stopped at its edge.
Mu turned his head as well, looking at the photograph with her.
It was a rather old photograph. Its edges had begun to yellow, and one corner bore a scorch mark left by intense heat.
The background was a stone-paved path in front of the main entrance to a mansion, the sunlight bleaching even the grain of the stones.
A tall man stood in the center of the picture. His light blond hair, exactly like Mu's, gleamed almost blindingly in the sunlight. His features were sharply defined, but the line of his mouth was cold and hard, as though smiling for the camera tried his patience.
The man's hand rested on the shoulder of a little boy, perhaps five or six years old. His light blond hair stuck up haphazardly, and his pale blue eyes narrowed into two slits as he grinned at the camera, without the slightest trace of reserve.
Looking at that little boy's silly grin, Mu could not help letting out a soft snort.
The man was his father, Al Da Flaga. The little boy was Mu himself.
For as long as he could remember, the expression his father had most often shown him was the one in this photograph-as though everything tried his patience.
Al had little patience for anything. Only in managing the assets passed