Chapter 509

The French was startled for a moment, but quickly stopped.

“Ah, yes. Who are you?”

“I’m an officer here.”

Elias said it roughly in fluent French. The short French looked him up and down, taking in his uniform, then nodded.

“Yes, so what seems to be the matter…?”

“Are you an artist?”

“What kind of question is that? No one’s ever asked me that before…”

“I asked if you are!”

When Elias snapped at him for no reason, the French looked at him as though wondering what was wrong and answered cautiously.

“Does someone who has published a book count as an artist? If so, then I suppose I am.”

“Then what kind of book did you write?”

“Pardon?”

Ugh, why does he keep asking questions back? Elias widened his eyes and scrunched up his nose, making the French take a step back and frown.

“Do officers normally ask questions like this? I’ve written a self-help book. Do you suspect I entered the country illegally? I was originally in Bavaria, but I flew here because a major figure from our homeland was holding a press conference. Naturally, I went through the proper immigration procedures beforehand.”

“Ah! Not that. Something more artistic! Something like that… You know what I mean, right? Nothing like that?”

“Self-help books are art too, you know. Are you looking down on art?”

“Shouldn’t you be asking if I’m looking down on self-help books?”

“Fine! Are you looking down on self-help books?”

Elias thought for a moment. He looked up at the sky, pondering, then held out his hand.

“I don’t really know what you mean. Give me a copy and I won’t look down on it. I think I need to know what you actually wrote.”

“I don’t have one with me. My latest book is an investment guide. Look for How to Succeed at French Stock Investing 200% at a bookstore. I also have a sequel, How to Succeed at Overseas Stock Investing 200%, but it hasn’t been published yet.”

“Go away.”

“Listen here. I consider myself an artist. Stock investment, which delves into human psychology to acquire funds while contributing to capital, is clearly a form of social art. When you consider the essence of investment, it’s an activity that helps companies produce added value, which makes it all the more worthwhile. It integrates economics, psychology, administration, and management all into one—surely it’s the very embodiment of the spirit of this age! And even if you know how to invest in stocks, writing a book about it is an entirely different matter. Besides, if I had devoted myself solely to business and economics from the start, I wouldn’t have come here. I’m also preparing to make my literary debut as an art critic.”

“Your inner world certainly seems original, though I can’t decide whether you’re simply eccentric or just insane. Anyway, if you consider yourself an artist, why did you hesitate earlier?”

“Because people don’t usually ask strange questions like whether they’re artists. But now that I think about it carefully, I’m certain I am.”

Elias considered leaving, but the man was so utterly convinced of himself that he nodded, curious to hear what kind of nonsense he would come up with next. Elias checked his watch and got to the point.

“Then, as an artist, what do you think Sir Eugène Lamour got right, and how far do you agree with him? I know it’s just your personal opinion, so feel free to speak your mind.”

“I’m not sure. I’m beginning to think art criticism may not be my calling…”

“What a damn waste of time, seriously, ah…”

“What was that?! An officer swearing? I don’t know because it’s a different field! If you think being an artist means I must understand or sympathize with Eugène Lamour, that makes about as much sense as your rumor that the French eat frogs. Well, frogs are technically food, but anyway, painting and writing are different. Poetry and criticism are different, painting and criticism are different, and self-help books are different, too… Do athletes all play the same sport? Do all working people do the same job? Can a banker win a contract to build the Berlin railway?”

The French fired back at him like a madman, seemingly matching Elias’s intimidating expression. He glanced up at Elias warily before asking in a quiet voice, “Can I leave now?”

“Bring me another artist… please. Someone who does something a little more artistic.”

“I told you, I’m an artist, too.”

“Ah!”

Only after Elias shouted did the French finally run off. Thinking he had simply fled, Elias wandered around outside the theater, looking for another French. But a little while later, the same French returned with another French in tow. This one was tall and wore glasses. Elias pointed at him.

“What do you do?”

“I heard the story. I write, too.”

“Then why don’t you paint?”

“…Everyone here is a critic or a journalist. If you’re asking why we don’t paint…”

“Never mind. Then you’re a critic?”

“Hmm. There’s one more thing, but what exactly is this about? May I have your rank and name?”

“It’s just a random inspection. Germany’s been a little rough lately. Karl Hahn, Munich Police Department.”

Elias pulled an ID from his inner pocket, showed it for approximately 0.1 seconds, then put it away. Seeing how readily he answered, the new French folded his arms and gave a little scoff. After scrutinizing Elias suspiciously for quite some time, he answered with an air of importance.

“I write essays.”

Only then did Elias clap his hands. An idea flashed through his mind like lightning.

“Now that’s a little closer. You write about your own thoughts and psychology, right? Eugène Lamour expresses himself through paintings, and you express yourself through writing! You’re both doing essentially the same thing, aren’t you?”

“That’s right. Eugène Lamour is essentially a poet and essayist with a brush. So why are you looking for an essayist?”

“No, I wasn’t actually looking for an essayist. It just happened to line up perfectly. Anyway, do you understand what Sir Eugène Lamour was saying?”

“Understand him? I wouldn’t know. I’m not famous.”

“You just said Eugène Lamour was a poet and essayist, so why don’t you understand him when you’re an essayist yourself?”

“I’ve only sold 200,000 copies in France over five years. I can’t really relate.”

“Isn’t that a lot of copies?”

Elias rubbed his chin, and the new French looked offended.

“Officer, when it comes to fame, Eugène Lamour has practically sold tens of millions of copies in France alone. That’s an entirely different league. Everyone knows Eugène Lamour’s paintings and can recite them by heart. He’s not exactly an ordinary rich man, either. Who’s going to relate to someone like that? If my essays ever sold that much, then maybe I’d understand what the man is talking about. Honestly…”

“You might be a little obsessed with money…”

Elias thought this one was a dead end too. He anxiously tapped the raised glass of his pocket watch. How far had Luka gotten by now? If I hurry after him… What could I even say?

Elias thought back to why he was asking these questions without even knowing exactly what he was looking for. It was because his friend had acted strange. Even though something was clearly wrong, Luka had smiled and acted casual, as if nothing were wrong, in a situation that wasn’t even remotely funny…

No. He had done that to keep himself under control.

Then what about before that? Luka had left in the middle of the conference. He hadn’t left to rest. Then what had he left for? Elias didn’t know.

Why hadn’t I followed him then?

It had been an exhausting conference, so it was understandable that his friend might have been worn out. As his friend, Elias should have looked after him at a time like this. Because, as he knew, Luka had genuinely wanted to be alone. Or at least, that was how it had felt. If you don’t allow someone their solitude simply because you call yourself their friend, then ‘friend’ is nothing more than a pretty name.

Pain was part of his life too. What right did I have to take that time away from him?

But once he later chose to return to them, that was different.

Most importantly, Luka had returned looking completely fine, to the point that even that not-quite-a-senior of a senior had sensed that something was off. That was what made it so troubling.

So he wanted to figure out exactly what had triggered that reaction in him. What was it about Eugène Lamour’s personal experience that had struck a nerve with Luka? Was it the fact that he was famous? That he was an artist? Both? Luka was certainly famous. Famous in more ways than one…

What he had been through in the past was enough to cause him pain today, but for some reason, Elias couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it than that.

Elias realized that they had all reacted differently. Luka, too, would sometimes go still and desolate in the face, as though the press conference had been as painful for him as it had been for Elias. But his reaction had been different from Elias’s. The difference was that Elias had felt the sheer horror of death beside him. Luka hadn’t. Elias had been angry and helpless too, but he hadn’t been swept away by tens of thousands of festering, indescribable emotions, nor had he felt himself helplessly crumbling beneath them.

Of course, Luka hadn’t looked like that either. It was Elias’s own intuition—an intuition he was sick to death of, but was more grateful for than anything now—that had caught Luka’s unraveling.

Knowing something that someone hasn’t told you can sometimes be an intrusion. Even if they react openly enough for everyone to see, it can still be one. Luka might not welcome having someone else dig into him. Was it really right to encourage someone to speak about what they hadn’t said themselves? Yesterday, the two of them had both known that ‘one has read something in the other person,’ so they had struggled to bring it up from somewhere deep inside. But today was different. From what Elias’s own intuition, perhaps because he was so much like Luka himself, told him, Luka generally didn’t want to talk to anyone about his problems.

But if his friend, who had been perfectly fine, had suddenly become strange, was it really okay to leave him alone without even knowing why? And yet, wasn’t trying to dig into the cause itself an intrusion? There was no way to know.

Even so, Elias shook his head.

“Then is there anyone famous?”

The new French pursed his lips and nodded.

“That man from earlier is the most famous. Mr. Vernell Guéret is a highly renowned artist known by everyone in France. His poetry collections sold a hundred thousand copies a year, so he’s certainly among the greats. His historical novel about Africa is less popular because, well, the subject matter is what it is… Hmm, but now that he’s driven Eugène Lamour into retirement, the backlash is going to be enormous. He’s practically the main culprit, isn’t he? The culprit. Sir Eugène Lamour was kind enough to treat him well until the very end, but that only means there’s nothing left for Mr. Vernell Guéret but to watch his reputation fall from here on out. Ah, if only they’d made up on good terms at the end and left it at that. Wouldn’t that have been so much better?”

The other French beside him chimed in, apparently agreeing with the new French’s smug, analytical assessment.

“The press is going to turn on Vernell Guéret, and yet he rejected Sir Eugène Lamour’s help without realizing it. He brought his own downfall upon himself. He should’ve shown a little more goodwill.”

Elias frowned and waved a hand dismissively.

“This is getting tiresome. Who’s the next most famous person?”

The new French lifted his chin and placed a hand against his chest.

“Me.”

“Didn’t you just say you weren’t well-known because you’d only sold 200,000 copies?! You lot better give me a straight answer!”

“No, I meant relatively speaking! I’m famous in France! And how old are you, young man?”

“You said you weren’t famous, and now you’re famous… So why can’t you, as a famous artist, sympathize with that retired old man?”

“Are you really a police officer? Because you look more like some street thug…”

“You may not be able to return to France.”

“Good grief…”

The French eyed Elias suspiciously once again. Elias pulled his ID halfway out from his chest, waved it at them, then tucked it away again. Still suspicious, the French answered.

“He seemed to go on about his personal grievances for far too long. It also rubbed me the wrong way that he seemed to be blaming us when we hadn’t done anything wrong. On the other hand, I’m glad we’re witnessing a moment in history, but I don’t really understand why we had to listen to all that complaining. Honestly, I wondered if he was trying to get sympathy or understanding, but it wasn’t exactly pleasant to watch him suffer like that. I suppose he’s as soft-hearted as he is kind… But there are plenty of people as famous as I am, while Eugène Lamour is practically the king of the art world. I can’t sympathize with what a king has to say. Well, maybe if my essays ever sell that well, I’ll consider sympathizing with him. Besides, Sir Lamour has probably entered his prime now that he’s retired. Painters are different from people like us who write little books—they make fortunes on an entirely different scale once they retire…”

“People actually pay money to read your essays?”

“Of course.”

“I have no idea what those 200,000 people are doing with their lives.”

“Hey. You do realize that’s an insult, right?”

As the mood turned hostile, Elias gave a sharp whistle.

Now he knew. Simply being famous wasn’t enough to make someone deeply sympathize with Eugène Lamour. Elias moved on to another question.

“Then I understand that you can’t sympathize with him as a famous person. What about what Eugène Lamour said as an artist? Can you sympathize with that?”

“Ah, I have plenty to say about that as a fellow artist.”

“Really? How did you feel about it?”

“This isn’t a question of who’s right. Sir Vernell Guéret writes poetry, but he’s primarily a critic. He also writes historical novels. Historical fiction is a field where criticism has its place. There are several reasons for that, but if I had to name one, it’s because the reconstruction in historical fiction generally has to be based on fact and reality.”

“So what?”

“If you’re writing about the emotions Napoleon experienced during the Battle of Waterloo, you can’t just change the entire Battle of Waterloo from beginning to end into a completely different story. And unless you have some special device to justify it, Napoleon’s emotions can’t be completely detached from what everyone would expect him to have felt, either. If you want to subvert those expectations, it’s Sir Vernell Guéret’s job to come up with a device that’s plausible within the limits of the story and use it to create something that feels like an accurate portrayal of those emotions. That’s why historical fiction is a field that can develop through criticism.”

“So can you sympathize with him or not?”

“Wait, I’m getting there! But this is a little different. Say I went to the market and saw a fish and felt sad. You can tell me that feeling sad was irrational all you like, but you can’t change it so that I felt happy when I saw it. I felt sad, after all. Instead, it would be better for me to write an essay about reading a critique of the irrationality of feeling sad about it. If you were to put Sir Eugène Lamour’s current paintings into literary terms, they aren’t historical novels but essays. Meanwhile, the academism Sir Guéret advocates is fairly realistic literature, but realism is too broad a term and doesn’t quite fit either, so if I had to compare it to something, it has a great deal in common with the tendencies of historical fiction. Anyway, the two take very different positions, and what Sir Guéret did was essentially force an essayist to rationally revise his essay. On that point, I have no choice but to disagree with him as well.”

“Sorry for asking why you sold 200,000 copies. That was helpful.”

“If you understand now, that’s all that matters.”

“I’m not actually apologizing. So you do sympathize with Lamour as an artist. Would a lot of artists be able to sympathize with him?”

“As an artist, I do think Sir Guéret was being rather frustrating. But that’s all. I can also understand that Sir Lamour has had a difficult time all these years, but that’s all, too. Like I said, it’s difficult to sympathize with this press conference. But why are you questioning me so much?”

Elias narrowed his eyes. Not enough. This man was an artist just like Eugène Lamour, yet he couldn’t sympathize with him. Then what was it that made Luka react that way, and what was it that made these people react like this? Elias had been going around asking these questions because he wanted to find the answer, but he still hadn’t found it. He needed to understand why this man couldn’t sympathize with Lamour despite being in circumstances similar to his own. It couldn’t simply be because this French was less famous than Eugène Lamour. Compared to the general public, he was still quite famous himself.

After thinking for a long while, Elias snapped his fingers.

“Have you ever been criticized?”

“Of course! I consider it an honor, so I’ve kept clippings of every one at home.”

“No one has ever read between the lines of your essays and claimed you were an alcoholic?”

“There aren’t many reviews of my work in magazines, so something like that would stand out immediately if it were written. Would anyone really say that just because they wanted to meet with me at the police department?”

“No, forget critics. I mean people talking among themselves. In bars, in newspapers, in the streets.”

“I’ve never heard anything like that. It’s not as though I’m Eugène Lamour…”

“And no one has ever read between the lines and gone around claiming you had a mistress?”

“Why are you doing this to me? Do you actually want there to be such vulgar insults?”

The new French was genuinely offended, his cheeks and forehead twitching.

Elias looked up at the empty space above their heads. It wasn’t difficult to recognize something he already knew once again. The surface of a phenomenon was an illusion, while the real answer lay in its underlying nature. He couldn’t afford to let himself be distracted by appearances and forget that. There were tens of millions of Dukes here.

He had to redefine the necessary and sufficient conditions. Eugène Lamour had spoken of famous people, but fundamentally, this wasn’t a problem with fame alone. That was merely a strategic choice Lamour had made because he was afraid people wouldn’t understand what he was really talking about. Did this man even understand what he was talking about? Whether it was the claim that ‘rude speculation is an irrational attack, but I can’t understand how Eugène Lamour could be so mentally incapable of enduring such attacks when he makes so much money,’ or ‘you must have changed your mistaken way of thinking because you were influenced by my criticism,’ or even ‘he should be killed because the ability to understand the language from before Babel is inhuman’—they all began from the same place.

Maddeningly, every phenomenon had surfaced from the ground looking entirely different from the others, yet all of them were connected to the same root… His childhood, his uncle, the painter’s press conference, his friend’s disillusionment, and everything else were all connected. And Elias burst out laughing.

They were no different from Duke Orsini, who had declared that someone he didn’t know deserved to die!

There were people who deserved to be insulted and people who did not. People who deserved respect and people who did not. This arbitrary distinction was being driven further and further from injustice by the psychology of the crowd, to the point that it was even putting on the guise of justice.

They were all Orsinis who didn’t even realize they were Orsinis, surrounded by other Orsinis just like them. These people thought the bullets they fired weren’t real, so they pointed guns at other people’s heads and pulled the trigger. But someone who believed he had earned the right to point a gun at another person’s head like that could also fire a gun loaded with real bullets.

And because they weigh their own lives differently from those of others, they pull the trigger without hesitation when playing Russian roulette with someone else’s head, never realizing that one day, they would be the ones shot dead by the same game.

His chest felt unbearably tight, and his face twisted. Everyone looked at him strangely. Elias calmly composed his expression and spoke to the new French.

“I’ll recommend a new name for you. From today onward, change your name to Orsini.”

No. That was avoidance—something Elias had done without even realizing it himself. It was merely an attempt to underestimate what was happening. Orsini was particularly dangerous because he was a powerful mage, but his way of thinking was nothing special. He had seemed especially problematic because he had singled out one particular person as his target, but the underlying psychology was nothing unusual.

Today, Elias had confirmed that Duke Orsini was not special after all.

The ones who brought Eugène Lamour to this press conference today were none other than the critics and journalists, and the public that devoured the bait they threw out like piranhas. Most people treated others this way, differing only in how far they took it.

So that was why you left in the middle of it. Elias understood it well because he had already experienced it through the world around him. Duke Orsini was a bad person to them, but if you asked whether he was nothing but a completely and uniquely evil person, the answer would probably be no. To the young mages, he might even have been a good mentor.

These people in the audience probably weren’t particularly bad, either. Somewhere else, they were ordinary people. Ordinary parents, teachers, siblings, colleagues, children, ordinary people from the neighborhood. Respected professors, doctors, critics, writers, journalists…

They thought of themselves as ordinary, and in reality, other people thought of them as ordinary, too. The world considered them ordinary people. Had Elias ever seen a folktale where ordinary people were condemned? No. Had Elias ever seen a crowd condemned? That was the crowd’s hope and despair—Narke had said that once.

This gathering of ordinary people had tried to kill Eugène Lamour, and Luka had left after seeing it. Elias was certain that he had been putting on an act. He had been playing a role. What role? The role of someone who knew nothing. Perhaps, seeing all that, he had truly wanted to become one of those ordinary people.

Those ordinary people would keep charging forward like a tank that could never die. Elias had never heard of a plaintiff or judge in this world who could hold a tank accountable for its crimes…

Luka had known.

Dozens of Duke Orsinis, hundreds of them, thousands, tens of thousands, had driven Eugène Lamour across the printed pages of death. The tens of thousands of Duke Orsinis seemed like a different breed from the real Duke Orsini, with less conviction and more driven by curiosity, but whenever they tore into Eugène Lamour or other famous people, they believed themselves to be in the right. And, most importantly, they believed there were people who deserved to die—people who deserved to be condemned.

Duke Orsini was not the only one. They were all Duke Orsini.

But they could not be evil, because they were the crowd. And so no one could condemn them. The current of the crowd was the right answer of the age, after all.

It was his only hope, the driving force behind his life, and sometimes his despair. The crowd that had been a source of hope for him almost every day was always a source of despair for his friend.

Something could be powerfully good at one moment and the most powerful evil at another. He was nearly driven mad by the fact that one group could possess good and evil at the same time. If good people and evil people existed separately in the world, like in a folktale, they could simply identify the evil ones and punish them. But both existed within the same person, and you couldn’t just cut one half away.

Those thoughts ran through Elias’s mind. The French approached as if he were about to grab Elias by the collar.

“Young man, you’re quite something. Are you really a police officer? If this is how it’s going to be, why don’t we just go somewhere and—”

With his thoughts suddenly clear, Elias felt the corners of his mouth sink endlessly downward. Before the French could finish speaking, he tipped the brim of his hat in farewell and turned away.

Elias couldn’t simply wallow in frustration.

The day he had seen a horse and a human overlap, he had done nothing but drink and vomit over and over. But he couldn’t do the same on the day he had come to see every human being overlapping with Duke Orsini.

The brightness his friend had shown at the end kept him from running to a bar. He hadn’t forgotten his friend for even a moment, so he didn’t even feel like drinking.

Realizing the problem was one thing. Now he needed a practical solution.

If Luka really was feeling disgust and frustration beneath that carefully composed expression of his, then Elias still didn’t fully understand what had drawn his friend so deeply into that terrible disgust and frustration. But he knew what his friend, who was so much like himself, needed right now.

“Leooooo.”

After entering the Crown Prince’s Palace, Elias opened the door without permission, walked in, and lay down with Leo’s stomach as his pillow. Leo, who was reading a book floating in the air, casually asked.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing~”

“You’re being creepy.”

“Aaaaah!”

Feeling wronged, Elias lifted his head and brought it down against Leo’s stomach. Startled, Leo frowned slightly before speaking.

“Why are you doing that? I can’t keep my balance if you move around. Just stay still for a bit.”

“I don’t want to. You can keep your balance just fine.”

That was true. Leo nodded and turned the page with mana. Elias asked quietly, “Is there anything you haven’t told me? Like a secret.”

Leo hesitated for a moment, caught off guard by the question, then answered, “Yeah.”

“What?!”

Elias abruptly sat up, grabbed Leo by the chin, and shook him. Leo slapped his hands away with a look that clearly said, What the hell are you doing? and sat up.

“You have secrets too.”

“That’s true.”

“Exactly. That’s what I mean. Elias, how can anyone tell someone everything? I try to keep myself in check enough that I can say everything I’m thinking out loud without worrying about it, but that’s a different matter.”

Leo continued answering in his usual unconcerned manner, while Elias fell into thought for a moment before asking, “Even if there are things you don’t tell me, you’re still going to be friends with me, right?”

“What am I supposed to do if I don’t stay friends with you?”

“Even if you have secrets, you’re still close to me, right?”

At that, Leo closed his book and asked carefully, “…What am I supposed to do when you ask me things like that? Have you already forgotten what happened early this morning? Did I not make you feel reassured enough?”

“No! That’s great.”

Elias sprang to his feet and waved both hands around in wide circles.

“Get up. Get dressed! You’re coming too. Even if you just show your face.”

“Huh? No, I’m supposed to avoid moving around as much as possible until tomorrow morning…”

“You’re good at keeping your balance!”

Elias dashed into Leo’s dressing room and came back clutching a suitable formal outfit. Before Leo could say anything to stop him, Elias tossed it onto the sofa. He grabbed Leo’s buttons and started ripping them open as he shouted, “I need you right now. What’s the point of having a friend?”

“Haa… I don’t think having a friend is doing me any good right now.”

Before Elias could ruin his shirt, Leo pushed him away and moved a good distance back. He watched Elias stomping his feet and hopping around in the corner of the room with a pathetic look, then changed and left the room. Elias immediately followed at his side. Grabbing Leo’s good arm, he practically flew down the stairs with him.

“Okay, we’re heading to the estate. I want to see the look on Luka’s face.”

“Lukas’s face? My heart’s already hurting as it is—”

The moment they stepped onto the warp point, Elias snapped his fingers. Leo silently stared at Elias, who had warped them before he could even finish speaking. Knowing he’d been rude, Elias gave him a wink. Leo could only let out a hollow laugh as he looked around the Bavarian estate he had never seen before. They were standing outside the estate.

Just as Elias was about to lead him through the front gate, a messenger pigeon began circling overhead.

“Wait…!”

Leo stopped where he was and held out his hand. The pigeon landed on his knuckle. The moment he untied the long strip of paper from its leg, his expression hardened.

“The entire alphabet is written so it can be read vertically.”

“Oh?”

“It’s a scytale cipher. We need to wrap it around the cylinder we received before.”

“A cipher~?”

Elias checked his pocket watch as he answered halfheartedly. Leo cast a soundproofing spell, brushed the hair the wind had blown into his eyes aside, and said firmly, “Einsiedel contacted us. He must have given us a clue to the next step. It looks like he’s been keeping an eye on us all this time. Was he waiting for me to leave the palace?”

“Not important!”

“Not important?! Heike is important, you idiot!”

“Heike is important! I mean the surveillance isn’t important. We need to go, now!”

Elias snatched the white strip bearing the scytale cipher and stuffed it into his pocket before grabbing Leo by the arm and running. He silently gestured to the servant standing by the gate, even widening his eyes at him. The servant took one look at Leo’s face and hurried inside in alarm. When Elias turned to check, Leo was indeed looking down, clearly a little uncomfortable. Before Elias could tease him about it, the servant came running back out and opened the door.

The moment Elias stepped into the mansion’s entrance hall, he started running without a second thought. He didn’t know the layout of the house, but he wanted to run anyway. The servant hurried after him, shouting directions, while Leo sighed behind them. Elias threw open the door the servant pointed to as if he were about to tear it off its hinges.

“We’re here! We got here fast, didn’t we?!”

The first person Elias saw was his awkward senior, seated near the entrance. For some reason, the senior had a complicated look on his face, but Elias didn’t care. His eyes went straight to his friend.

His friend’s eyes, cold and almost completely expressionless, turned toward the doorway. At that very moment, the tension in his cheeks and around his mouth loosened.

“…….”

Elias let the sight of Leo pulling him back and holding out his hand to Eugène Lamour first pass through the corner of his vision. Soon, the vitality that had risen in his friend’s cheeks spread across his entire face, and the terrible sense of revulsion and emptiness Elias had felt beside the stage was gone without a trace. He smiled without a hint of death about him. Elias raised the corners of his mouth in the same way and quickly dropped onto the sofa as if diving into it. Luka leaned closer and whispered.

“You said you were going ahead. Did you take so long because you went to get Leo?”

“Yeah!”

Actually, I wanted to find out what had made you act that way, too. And we got some damn scytale cipher from Einsiedel, so once we make sure Eugène Lamour is safe, we might have to head somewhere else again—but he didn’t want to mention that yet. Elias rested his head on Luka’s shoulder, wearing an expression that practically begged him to say, Good job.

Luka kept the corners of his mouth raised as if nothing was wrong and whispered, “I didn’t expect you to come back. And how did you end up bringing Leo with you? I told you to rest.”

“We need him at times like this. Like yesterday.”

“What are you talking about?”

Leo, who had taken a seat, whispered with a slight furrow between his brows. It must have sounded nonsensical at first, but Elias pushed Leo away from where he had settled beside him and looked at Luka.

“You know, right?”

Luka stared quietly into the air, as though he had something to think about. Then he turned slightly toward where Elias and Leo were sitting and nodded.

“It’s not whether I know that matters. You seem to have figured it out.”