Gria's office.
Rick stood with hands at his sides, head bowed like a scolded child, stealing glances at the man behind the nanmu wood desk. The man, of course, was Lord Gria, steward of the Pai Mansion—though at the moment, he pressed an ice pack to his forehead, the refraction revealing a prominent bump. No guesses needed: this was Rick's handiwork, and Gria the unfortunate VIP.
"Did I offend you?"
"No."
"Then did the trash can offend you?"
"No."
"Then who the hell offended you?! You took it out on us two!"
Gria couldn't remember the last time he'd been struck. Nursing a swollen head, he abandoned his usual gentlemanly demeanor, pointing at Rick and shouting so loudly spit nearly hit the boy's face.
Rick, skinny as he was, recoiled like a boat in a tempest under Gria's tirade, retreating until his back hit the wall. Gone was the bravado from earlier; he looked utterly cowed.
After his rant, Gria felt surprisingly invigorated—he'd forgotten how satisfying yelling could be. His irritation faded, replaced by sunny humor. Lighting a cigar, he propped his feet on the desk, eyes narrowing. "So why the tantrum today?"
Rick pouted. "What's the point? You'll fire me anyway."
"Fire you? Who said that?"
"Eh?" Rick gaped, pointing to himself. "You won't fire me?"
For some reason, the normally refined Gria turned hot-tempered around Rick. He hurled a teacup lid, snarling: "Keep blabbering without an explanation, and I will fire you!"
This spurred Rick to unload his grievances: how his colleagues had ostracized him, judged him by his appearance... To Rick's surprise, Gria listened raptly, then asked: "Why not take off your mask?"
Rick hesitated, fidgeting with his fingers. "I... I'm ugly."
"Ugly? Since when does that matter? Let me see."
"Really?" Rick asked warily.
"Of course. I doubt you'll scare me."
"Okay, here goes..."
"Take it off!"
The moment Gria barked the order, Rick ripped off his mask.
"Shit!" Gria sucked in a breath, not even flinching as the cigar burned his fingers.
"Scared?" Rick laughed bitterly, pulling the mask back on.
"Not... not really." Gria composed himself, stubbing out the cigar. After a long pause, he asked gravely: "How did this happen?"
"Poison."
"Poison?" Gria pondered, then nodded slowly. "I recall a toxin like that. There must be an antidote—give me time."
Rick hadn't expected this. They'd only met twice, yet Gria's concern felt genuine, touching Rick who craved friendship. To avoid prying into painful memories, Gria changed the subject: "What do you think is a bodyguard's ultimate goal?"
"To protect the client, of course." Rick answered without hesitation.
"And in your view, what's the most effective method?"
Rick thought briefly. "I wouldn't just stand there and take hits. I'd..."
"You'd what?"
"I'd strike first—take out the attacker before they strike. Problem solved." Seeing Gria's earnestness, Rick spoke bluntly.
"Take out the attacker first!" Gria's eyes lit up. He mulled the idea, realizing merging Rick's "proactive protection" with traditional tactics could be revolutionary.
"Not a bad concept." Gria smiled, signing a warrant and handing it to Rick. "Show this to your instructor. Starting today, we're doing combat training."
"Combat training?"
"Right. The instructor plays the client; your four colleagues protect him. You... play the assassin. Strike them anywhere, anytime, by any means." Gria stroked his chin. "Hmm, this could be fun. I'll add a personal bonus: two weeks, 500 Golden Beetles to the winners. Deal?"
"500 Golden Beetles! Hahaha!" Rick rubbed his hands, already picturing the coins. But then he frowned: "Why make me the assassin?"
"Because you said you'd find the attacker before they strike. How else will you learn their tactics unless you play one?"
"Ah, right..." Rick agreed, but outside, he realized: five against one! Unfair!
But then he thought: they'd split 500; he'd get all 500 alone. At the thought of money, the odds didn't matter. Chuckling, he headed for the training hall.
There, the instructor gaped at Gria's signed warrant, while Rick smiled sweetly at him, shooting provocative glances at his four soon-to-be opponents.
"Has the steward gone mad?"
After reading the warrant several times, the instructor irritably folded it and stuffed it into his pocket. Having served at the Pai Mansion for years, he'd heard through the grapevine that a VIP would soon arrive in Ison City. Combining that with Gria's sudden arrangement, he was certain this was a live-action drill.
"Training is good, but against this guy—will it really work?" The instructor sneered at Rick, jabbing a finger at his nose. "Listen, I don't know why Lord Gria didn't find a proper opponent, but if you dare—"
Rick grew impatient as the finger wagged under his nose. Then he remembered Gria saying the combat training started today—and grinned. In a flash, he flicked up his hand to grab the instructor's pointing finger mid-air, closed the distance, and twisted his elbow. A crack followed, and the pinned instructor howled like a slaughtered pig, slapping the floor with his free hand.
"You're dead. The 500 coins are mine."
Rick released the broken finger, maintaining a cool expression for all of a minute before leaping up, whooping: "That was too easy! Hahaha!"
The four colleagues nearby stood stunned, their formation practice forgotten as they gaped at Rick, bewildered.
A round of applause at the training hall door snapped everyone back. There stood Gria, cigar in mouth, leaning on the doorframe with a tall hat—no doubt to hide his swollen forehead. He smiled approvingly at Rick, but his gaze turned razor-sharp as it fell on the instructor.
The instructor, still in agony, shivered under Gria's knife-like stare. He scrambled up, whining: "Lord Steward, he ambushed me! This—this—"
"Silence!" Gria barked, flicking ash coldly. "When does an assassin strike openly? Brown, how long have you served at the Pai Mansion? You should be ashamed to spout such drivel."
"I..." Brown opened his mouth, but no words came.
"Though it would be dull if the game ended so quickly, wouldn't you agree, Rick?" Gria turned to Rick.
"Ah? You can't mean this doesn't count?" Rick's face fell at the thought of losing 500 coins.
"Of course it doesn't. I said 'start today,' but your colleagues hadn't been briefed yet." Gria knew it was a stretch, but Brown's performance had disappointed him. This was the only way to salvage the drill.
Seizing the chance to redeem himself, Instructor Brown cried: "Yes! That was a cheap shot—it doesn't count!"
Their tag-team argument made Rick feel winning so easily was anticlimactic. "Fine, it doesn't count. So we start now?"
At his words, Brown leaped back like a grasshopper, and the four men tensed, forming a circle around him—evidently spooked by Rick's ghostly speed.
Rick hadn't expected such a reaction. Seeing all five don battle stances, he rubbed his nose and chuckled: "I'm out. Brute force isn't a killer's style."
Grinning widely as he left, he ignored their dumbfounded expressions.
Leaving the training hall, Rick paced the Pai Mansion corridors, plotting his strategy. From the five men's transformations earlier, his experienced eye quickly sized them up: Instructor Brown wielded a Royal-Class Ironclad Battle Insect, a high-defense tank type likely at Insect General Level 3. The others were weaker, using common Ison City Lance-Tailed Wasps, all around Insect General Level 2.
Going head-to-head, even at last night's peak, Rick wasn't sure he could win. Breaking through their formation was easy, but assassinating the thick-skinned Ironclad Brown within it would be another story. Thus, the only opening was when Brown wasn't transformed—after work. His first priority: scout Brown's routines and movement patterns.
Influenced by Shust, Rick quickly grasped an assassin's key traits. With Gria's full support, he obtained Brown's lifestyle files. But Gria, not wanting Brown to lose too quickly, tipped him off about Rick's after-hours plan, sending Brown into another panic. Maybe to Gria this was just a game, and maybe after this drill, they wouldn't even protect the incoming Lady Manny. But Rick and Brown had fully embraced their roles—it was no longer just a game.
At 6 PM, Brown and his four bodyguards clocked out on time. Pai Mansion guards worked double shifts, giving day-shift Brown 12 hours outside the mansion—prime time for Rick. But today, Rick only tailed them until they entered Brown's apartment, observed the interior from a treetop by the window, then slipped away.
Under Shust's influence, Rick knew a target was most alert at the start—poor for ambushing. This tested an assassin's patience; only by seizing when the target's vigilance waned could one truly enter the assassin's path.
Returning home alone, Rick found Anna still out, but signs of her return: a trash can overflowing with used tissues. "Is she sick? Ugh... sick and still running around..." He cleaned up, made a simple dinner from yesterday's groceries, then hit a supplies store, returning with a haul: a dozen 2m² white papers, various markers, thumbtacks, and odds and ends.
Spreading them in his room, Rick began drawing a topographic map from memory—from Pai Mansion to Brown's apartment. Mapping was a skill he'd been clueless about, but while crossing the Hell Corridor with Moya, he'd learned it for money. Though nowhere near Moya's expert level, he grasped the basics.
After two hours, a simple map took shape. Uncertain about details, he left them vague, but the 3D-effect map looked professional. Next, he placed a translucent tracing paper over it, marking Brown's route, four colored lines for the others, and dated it—evidence of a long-term plan.
Stretching, Rick checked his watch—hours had passed. Exhaustion hit as he stepped onto the balcony for night air. His mind wandered to last night's drunken frenzy, stirring his young blood. Licking his lips, he rationalized: "Just drinking, not whoring. Not betraying Lav or Anna."
Men always excuse indulgence. After self-hypnosis, drinking at taverns seemed justified. He dressed and went out. The next day, after a short nap, he reported to the Pai Mansion as usual.
Last night, he hadn't seen the old man who called himself Arthur—likely enjoying family time with his daughter. But he found the young barmaid. Though Rick had cost her business the first night, he and Arthur had spent enough that the tavern owner gave her a fat cut. So she happily accompanied him again.
With a woman flattering him, even stingy Rick spent freely. His life philosophy was shifting—he no longer rejected spending to please himself, though he drew the line at more than hugging. The barmaid was fine with that—it was mutually beneficial.
At the Pai Mansion, Rick signed in, then dove into the training hall. With so much equipment, why waste it? He wouldn't let peaceful life stall his progress. He had countless martial arts to practice, and his Insect-Human identity gnawed at him. Mastering human combat instincts, breaking free from relying on insect instincts—only then could he slow the Insect Cell invasion and cling to his humanity a little longer.