"I'm sorry, sir. I... I had nowhere to go, and I was starving."
As Lorry explained, he slowly lowered his right hand and took two loaves of rye bread from his coat, showing that he had no intention of resisting.
"I didn't take anything except these."
The old man remained silent, his sharp gaze fixed on him.
Seconds ticked by. Just as Lorry began inwardly berating himself, overwhelmed with regret, the old man's gaze suddenly softened, and he tilted the muzzle to one side.
Lorry froze for a moment, then asked uncertainly:
"You're letting me in?"
The old man took his index finger off the trigger and nodded.
Lorry silently exhaled and raised a hand to wipe the cold sweat from his forehead. Seeing that the muzzle was still trained on him, he steeled himself and walked toward the door.
Creak!
The wooden door scraped against its frame, giving a harsh squeal.
The old man leaned against the windowsill and glanced toward the kettle on the table. Nearby lay a half-full, open box of matches and some old newspapers. A stove stood beside a table leg, while coal was piled farther away in a corner.
"Boil some water?"
Lorry ventured the question. When the old man nodded, he couldn't help grumbling inwardly. So I happened to run into an old man getting up for a drink in the middle of the night?
Just my luck...
Did transmigrating use up all my good luck?
This task, at least, was not beyond Lorry.
He picked up a few pieces of coal and put them into the stove, used a match to light the old newspapers as kindling, then placed the kettle in the center of the rack above the stove.
Soon, choking smoke rose from it.
Lorry knew this was a sign of poor-quality coal.
Looks like the old man isn't doing too well either... As he boiled the water, he surveyed the furnishings out of the corner of his eye. Throughout it all, the old man remained motionless against the windowsill.
The crimson moonlight streaming through the window, together with the firelight from the stove, kept the room from being especially dark even without a lit kerosene lamp.
Lorry saw a photo frame on the wooden cabinet on the other side.
The room was not dark, but neither was it bright. Even with the eyesight of Half a Marauder, he could barely make out the outlines of two people in the photograph.
Behind them stood a Gothic church with a pointed roof. Holy emblems were set into its walls at regular intervals, their deep black backgrounds dotted with brilliant specks surrounding exactly half of the Crimson Moon.
Is the old man a believer in the Evernight Goddess? Is that a picture of him with a family member?
Lorry pondered this, then shifted his gaze elsewhere.
Another wooden bed stood against the wall opposite the window. Its bedding was neatly folded at the head, almost mirroring the old man's bed.
It looks like the owner of this bed hasn't been back in a long time.
Lorry considered this silently.
The folded bedding offered a clue.
If its owner returned often, they probably would not have folded up even the mattress pad.
There were also two chairs beside the wooden table near the center of the room. One had been pulled out at an angle, while the other was pushed under the table.
One cup sat upside down on the tray on the table, while another stood outside it.
These, too, were signs that the old man lived alone.
Is this another benefit of the potion?
My powers of observation seem to have become much sharper, Lorry thought without betraying anything. Hearing a shrill whistle from the kettle's spout, he reached out and lifted it.
Taking the hint, he filled the upright cup more than halfway with water.
The old man pressed his lips together slightly but did not move, his gaze shifting toward the tray.
For me?
Understanding dawned on Lorry. He did as indicated, then tapped four points over his chest, tracing the shape of the Crimson Moon. "Goddess above, thank you for your generosity."
"You're thanking me too soon..."
The old man spoke quietly. Carrying his shotgun over, he sat down and gestured for Lorry to take the other chair. "I hope you can give me a reasonable explanation."
"I used to work at a police station. I was particularly good at interrogating criminals."
He laid his Double-Barreled Shotgun on the table and patted it. "If you don't want it going off by accident, you'd better not think about lying."
Lorry pulled out the chair with a rueful smile, sat down, and slowly began to speak.
Pfft.
A wisp of smoke rose, and the kerosene lamp cast its light.
"Praise the Goddess. You soaked in sewage for an entire day and still survived."
The old man's gaze settled on the wound on Lorry's forehead. He stared at it for a while, then rose and took a cloth bundle from the cabinet.
Lorry accepted it and opened it to find alcohol, gauze, and scissors inside.
"Thank you for your generosity."
He dispensed with further courtesies and began treating the wound on his forehead. He was well practiced at this; he had suffered plenty of injuries during his days as a pickpocket.
Sometimes he had been caught in the act; other times, he had been punished for failing to complete his tasks.
A few minutes later, Lorry returned the supplies to the old man.
"If you have nowhere to go, you can spend the night there." The old man returned to his bed with the gun and pointed toward the other bed.
"But you'd better not come near me."
He waved the shotgun in his hand, then laid it beside his pillow.
"Make yourself comfortable. If you leave, remember to close the door behind you. If you stay, please keep quiet while you eat."
"I'm old. Any noise will wake me."
The old man shrugged and glanced at the rye bread on the table.
Sleep on the streets or spend the night in a soft bed? Lorry needed only a second to decide, and he sincerely thanked the old man.
Then, thoroughly puzzled, he asked:
"You trust me just like that? After all, I used to..."
Lorry had just given him a rough account of the original owner's experiences, leaving out the potion and the secret that he was a transmigrator.
Naturally, he had embellished a little.
For instance, the original owner had felt no qualms about joining the Pickpocket Organization and had actually been delighted, but in Lorry's account, he had been forced into it.
The old man said calmly:
"I paid 2 soli for that kettle. Even after being used for a while, it could still sell for at least 1 or 1.5 soli."
"That's worth far more than two loaves of rye bread. But you didn't take it with you. You only stole some food."
"So I believe you really were starving."
"The other reason is that words can lie, but eyes can't. An evil person wouldn't have eyes as bright and clear as yours."
"Straying from the right path for a time isn't the end of the world."
"As long as we sincerely turn toward goodness, the Goddess will forgive us."
"Besides, I still have this old friend."
He chuckled and patted the Double-Barreled Shotgun, then lay down, closed his eyes, and said nothing more. Before long, his breathing grew steady.
Lorry sat at the table, staring blankly at the old man for a while. He silently filled his stomach with rye bread and hot water, then blew out the kerosene lamp, gave himself a quick wash with the remaining hot water, unfolded the bedding, and lay down.
Crimson moonlight shone into the room.
Lorry lay with his eyes open, staring blankly at the ceiling.
What an eventful night. First I came back from the dead, then a sewer worker taught me a lesson. After that, a dog chased me, and someone pointed a gun at me.
Fortunately, I met this kind old man.
He smiled silently and began seriously considering his plans for the future.
First, I have no legal identification. I'm undocumented. Even if I return to Backlund, I'll have to stay within the East Borough.
That's the only place where I'm less likely to be questioned by the police.
Without identification, I won't get anywhere in the other boroughs.
But the East Borough is where the Wanderers Mutual Aid Association operates. If any pickpockets or enforcers who know me spot me, it'll bring a whole host of problems.
I have to avoid them!
Ideally, I need to get hold of some identification and move to another borough.
The Wanderers Mutual Aid Association was the name of the Pickpocket Organization the original owner had belonged to. Some members specialized in keeping up appearances and recruiting street children who knew little of the world.
It was a Pickpocket Organization, yet it went by a name like that.
There was no denying it:
It was a perfect irony.
More importantly, I need to advance along my Beyonder Pathway. After all, I'm only Half a Marauder. If I don't take a complete Marauder potion, I'm afraid I'll remain Half a Marauder for the rest of my life.
The Wanderers Mutual Aid Association is one possible lead.
Even if they don't have a complete potion, I should at least be able to get some clues.
Then there's... the protagonist Klein's Tarot Club! With my advance knowledge of the plot, I could absolutely become Mr. Fool's most loyal lackey-no, blessed.
Before you continue