"Ah?" Lucy's brow furrowed in confusion.
Richard Angley, ascending the tower stairs toward the upper laboratory, explained patiently, "When recalling a real event, people's eyes tend to unconsciously drift to the upper right. When fabricating something that never happened, the gaze often shifts to the lower left."
"Why is that?" Lucy asked, blinking rapidly, utterly baffled.
Richard paused mid-step, tapping his temple as he continued. "Let me put it simply. The human brain can be roughly divided into left and right hemispheres. The left handles memory, the right handles imagination. When a particular function is engaged, the eyes subtly drift toward the corresponding area."
Lucy tilted her head. "But Master, isn't that opposite to how you looked just now?"
"Indeed," Richard said, letting a faint sigh escape. "The reason theory and result sometimes differ is a phenomenon called contralateral control. Simply put, the left brain controls the right side of the body, and the right brain controls the left. So while the eyes do drift toward the function's location, the ultimate result can appear reversed."
"Ah…" Lucy nodded slowly, more out of politeness than understanding.
"Furthermore," Richard continued, "the vertical component—looking up or down—is often an unconscious effort to reduce visual information. Contralateral control ties into evolutionary biology and neurophysiology. That's enough for now; we'll go deeper into the science later."
Lucy's head nodded again, her mind swimming with new terms: contralateral control, evolutionary biology, neurophysiology. Despite years of serving Richard, she often felt utterly outmatched, like a small child trying to grasp a scholar's lecture. She resolved to memorize these terms, hoping someday they might make sense or earn her a nod of approval.
The principle was simple: eyes upper-right when truthful, lower-left when lying. But then, was Master Richard always lying when he stared down-left in thought? Or was it more complicated? Lucy's mind spun with uncertainty, lost in the paradox.
Richard, noticing her thoughtful hesitation, turned briefly. "One more thing. This technique only works on those unfamiliar with it. Anyone trained can intentionally display opposite signs—myself included. So don't put too much faith in it, and definitely don't try it on me."
Lucy shrank slightly under his half-smile. "I… I won't, Master. I promise."
"That's settled," Richard said lightly, pushing open the door to the tower's upper laboratory. Though modest in size, the room held technology centuries beyond the world outside.
"If we are to capture a Firebear, preparation is essential," Richard muttered, stepping over scattered instruments. "Unlike a lycanthrope, the Firebear's size and combat capability are far greater. So… we'll need more distilled alcohol. And…" His hands began moving with practiced precision, arranging tools and measuring vials.
Lucy followed, slipping naturally into her role. Though she could not perform the experiments, she could assist: handing instruments, cleaning flasks, organizing materials—freeing Richard from trivial labor. This had always been his reasoning for personally training a dedicated assistant.
"Bring me the largest crucible," Richard called.
"The glass bottle marked No. 3," Lucy replied, setting it beside him.
"Hold that vibrating bamboo tube steady," he instructed, gesturing toward an apparatus.
"And clean these clay jars. For the final rinse, use the water from jar No. 8."
Days passed in this rhythm. The sun burned like a massive orb in the sky, heat shimmering over the fields. The river near the baronial castle flowed quietly, undisturbed. Even the dust along the castle road seemed to pause, as if anticipating the coming event.
Suddenly, a sharp clatter-clatter-clatter pierced the stillness.
The drawbridge fell, the gates swung open, and thunderous hoofbeats echoed across the stone and dirt. A cavalry unit surged forward, dust flaring around their steeds.
At the vanguard rode Turk Hale, towering above the others. In the middle of the column rode Richard, expressionless, flanked by guards maintaining a protective perimeter. At the rear, the hapless hunter, recently released from the dungeon, was bound and dragged along the ground by the horse, struggling against the ropes.
This was Turk's idea. A commoner who dared deceive the barony's heir deserved punishment—twenty lashes at minimum, horseback dragging entirely appropriate.
Richard's thoughts were simpler: as long as the man survived and could lead him to the legendary Firebear, his methods were inconsequential.
The party galloped northwest across the baronial lands, wind whipping at faces, dust and leaves swirling in chaotic eddies.
An hour later, the dense Black Forest rose before them.
Tall black pines, trunks charred gray and needles a smoky green, lined the edge of the forest—the source of its ominous name.
The unit halted at the forest's edge. The hunter, exhausted from being dragged, gasped heavily for breath.
With a thud, Turk dismounted, armor pressing into the ground with a muffled indentation, and glared at Richard for instruction.
A subtle nod from Richard was enough. Turk's expression hardened, and he strode to the rear, loosening the ropes binding the hunter to the horse. With a harsh tug and a cold voice, he barked, "Quit wheezing like a dying dog! Lead us forward! If you fail to find the Firebear today, I'll gut you myself!"
The hunter shivered, nodding quickly, and darted ahead to guide the group.
One by one, the cavalry dismounted, reins in hand, ready to traverse the dense undergrowth of the forest, while Richard and his small entourage followed, eyes sharp, instruments ready, and minds focused entirely on the hunt to come.