Stop Talking!

"No! You're lying!"

Old Neil's voice exploded from behind the door, shrill and piercing, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.

There was not only anger in his voice, but fear-the sudden, instinctive fear of having a knife plunged into one's most vulnerable spot.

Klein instinctively took a step back. His foot landed on the layer of dark red moss with a soft squelch, as if he had crushed a rotting fruit.

"Old Neil, calm down-" Klein called, obvious panic in his voice.

But before he could finish, a violent crash suddenly came from behind the door. Something struck the piano strings, producing a dull hum.

Leon did not retreat. He did not even move. He simply stood beneath the porch, his cane upright before him and both hands resting one over the other on its head.

His gently swaying cloak revealed his chest, and several charms glowing with different lights clinked softly against one another.

"Did I lie?" His voice was quiet but clear. It passed through the thin door, carrying every word to Old Neil's ears.

"You don't really think a ritual full of stench and rot, performed with the withering of life, can bring back a healthy Celeste, do you?"

Leon was like a teacher correcting a student who had gotten a problem wrong, unhurried and composed, but every word had a barb.

"When she opens her eyes and sees a body corrupted by an evil god, its skin rotting and stinking little by little as time passes, will she think of that as 'resurrection'? Or will she think you've turned her into a monster?"

He paused, his tone growing colder.

"You'll only make her slowly die under your watch again, suffering every torment, perhaps in even greater despair. Making someone who should be at rest die again-that must be an unimaginable feeling!"

Leon tilted his head slightly, his voice full of mockery.

"Speaking of which, I'm truly curious. Do you love her, or do you hate her? You actually want to torment her like this."

There was a moment of silence behind the door.

That silence was more frightening than a scream.

Stop talking!!! Klein screamed inwardly.

His spirit was warning him with unprecedented urgency, as if someone were ringing a bell in his head, each peal more urgent than the last.

He instinctively reached into his left pocket, his fingertips touching the cool edges of the sleeping charms, his heart pounding like a drum.

"You don't know anything..." Old Neil's voice had changed. It was no longer hoarse, but sorrowful, filled with a heavy sorrow that seemed to have risen from the bottom of the sea.

"He promised me... He said... as long as the seed blooms... she can come back..."

Old Neil's voice began to tremble, like a string pulled too taut.

"She'll definitely come back!"

Sorrow turned to anger at that moment, and the hysterical voice swept toward the two men along with countless whispers.

Those whispers were unlike human speech, full of indistinct, viscous syllables.

The door began to tremble, its wood fibers groaning under the strain.

The anticipated attack did not come in the next moment. Instead, there was silence.

Deathly silence.

A long time passed-so long that Klein thought Old Neil had fainted from anger. Or perhaps only a few seconds had passed.

At last, a voice came from behind the door, very soft and somewhat helpless, like a child's.

"...Then what should I do?"

Klein's heart leaped. He really did calm him down!

That means Old Neil hasn't completely lost control. He still has most of his rationality!

Now we just need to slowly persuade Old Neil to open the door.

"Open the door," Leon said. "Let us in. We'll find a way together."

There was no response from behind the door.

But the scarlet gas pouring through the crack grew thicker, and the nauseatingly sweet, bloody smell was so strong it seemed to be right under their noses.

Here he comes! Old Neil's getting closer!

Klein turned to Leon and found that his expression had never changed, as if everything were going according to his plan.

Klein held his breath, his fingers already gripping a sleeping charm.

He did not dare blink. Although he did not approve of this method, he did not want to miss the chance Leon had secured to restrain Old Neil.

Bang!

Just as Klein was waiting for Old Neil to open the door himself, he saw Leon suddenly turn and kick backward at it when the footsteps drew nearest.

His foot struck the gap between the door and its frame.

The force was astonishing. The hinges let out a piercing screech, and the entire door slammed inward, striking something with a heavy crash.

The door and Old Neil's body slammed into the wall together.

With a dull thud, the back of Old Neil's head hit the wall. He slid down it like a pile of mud and slumped motionless in the corner.

Klein stared blankly, at a loss for words.

He looked down at the sleeping charm still clutched in his hand, then at Leon's face, which looked extremely punchable at that moment, and suddenly felt like a fool.

There had been no soothing, no persuasion, and no gradual coaxing.

Instead, Leon had chosen to provoke him, then seized the chance to kick the door open, slam both the man and the door against the wall, and knock him unconscious.

You call that restraining him?

I'm so stupid, really!

I actually trusted you just like that!

Klein was completely numb, his mind filled with that single thought, circling wildly.

Before he could say anything, he saw that Leon had already gone inside and was prying Old Neil off the wall.

"What are you standing there for?" Leon dusted off his hands, stood up, and turned to look at Klein. "Come help me carry him!"

"Then put the door back in place, or it'll be bad if the people nearby call the police."

"Oh, poor Ince Zangwill. He discovered that one of the Nighthawks showed signs of corruption by an evil god. Years of obsession and a mind strained for a long time would affect this Nighthawk's mental state and lead him into the abyss of losing control. The Nighthawks would have no choice but to eliminate him, and the death of his old friend would also be a step toward Dunn's loss of control.

"This seemed perfectly reasonable, but unexpectedly, it instead allowed that respectable and powerful being who descended upon Leon to notice and thwart it once again. Ince Zangwill's plan could no longer succeed. What a pitiful fellow."

In a certain house with a red chimney, a quill once again danced across the page, writing those words.

It seemed to be lamenting Ince Zangwill's shoddy scriptwriting skills.

At that moment, Ince stood before the quill, his scalp tingling with anger.

He paced back and forth in distress, racking his brains over how the script he had written should proceed.

Gradually, another perfect plot emerged in his mind. After a moment's thought, he picked up the quill again and wrote in the open notebook.

After writing the final line, Ince suddenly fell back into his chair, his face full of delight and admiration.

At that moment, he felt that such a perfect script perfectly matched the logic of every faction. No one could stop him again!

"No one understands stories better than I do!"