"Wow, Mr. Bede, look. What an incredible composition."
Piaget was lying on the balcony of a house outside the Mansion, looking ahead through the railings.
A black leather blanket covered him, bearing a special pattern. It served as a special identification marker to distinguish friend from foe. Without it, anyone lying here could easily receive an arrow from the Eagle-Falcon Knights overhead.
Mr. Bede, beside Piaget, received the same treatment. Both lay there like "war correspondents."
Alfred had, of course, arranged this specially. He knew very well how devoted these two "artists" were to art, and understood even better that those lunatics from the Wall God Church really were capable of anything;
To Alfred, no matter how perfect the plan, if it sent the Young Master's good friend and future father-in-law to their deaths as well, it would be an utter failure.
Mr. Bede asked, "Isn't this the painting you painted?"
"Is it?" Piaget frowned in thought, then shook his head firmly. "No, it's different."
"How is it different?" Mr. Bede shifted closer to Piaget. "Look at Kallen in the air. Isn't he the very image of the Six-Winged Angel in your painting? The flowing magma below, the lingering Undead Fire, and the corpses dressed in black Clerical Robes and armor-it's exactly the same."
"No, that's not it. I don't think it is," Piaget said firmly.
"Oh?" Bede felt a faint stirring of excitement. He sensed that Piaget was about to gain some insight.
"Mr. Bede, it's true that I painted that painting, but only because that scene happened to be in my mind at the time, and my hands suddenly felt an indescribable urge to express it, to paint it. You told me not to resist that feeling, to cherish it and seize it.
"But in fact, I wasn't