The mist of Tingen City was as damp and cold as ever, soaking through Klein's trench coat and seemingly into his very bones.
In his mind, the stunning yet icy face of Triss still swirled, along with those desperate souls who had passed away in "mercy."
Captain Dunn's words of comfort still rang in his ears, but that misunderstood loneliness clung to his heart like a strangling vine.
Just as he stood at Nairn's doorstep, preparing to knock, a ripple suddenly appeared in the air beside him.
Without any warning, a figure appeared out of thin air next to him, as if he had been standing there from the very beginning.
The newcomer wore a sophisticated black formal suit, his face handsome with a hint of a playful smile. Who else could it be but Nairn?
"Don't be nervous, my 'Critic' sir," Nairn's voice carried a hint of laughter.
Just a few minutes ago, Nairn was still in Backlund.
In Backlund, his arrangements had reached a temporary conclusion. Although he hadn't met that little ice-cream-loving snake and the newspaper's founding would still take time, the things he could do for now were basically complete.
More importantly, Triss had already crossed paths with Klein.
And Klein was looking for him, having already arrived at his doorstep.
Since that was the case, he simply decided to return.
With a thought, the ability belonging to the [Lovers] Character Card quietly activated.
[Teleportation].
He needed a sufficiently clear Level Anchor, a coordinate with a deep "Connection" to him.
Looking at the present, only Klein was the most suitable.
In the next second, space shifted, and Nairn's figure appeared beside Klein without warning.
He saw the blatant depression and struggle on Klein's face, even "hearing" the countless silent screams and complaints the young Nighthawk had made in his heart over the past few days.
Interesting.
Instead of explaining, Nairn watched the other's expression with great interest, stimulating him in a near-cruel whisper: "Your reaction, your struggle, your thinking—all of this proves to me whether this script is written profoundly enough, and if it's... interesting enough."
"You—"
Klein whipped his head around, his pupils shrinking. He was like a cat that had its tail stepped on, his guard instantly reaching its peak.
He was so infuriated by this fallacious logic that his chest heaved violently, rendering him speechless for a moment.
What Critic? What script?
Was he being treated as a source of amusement to relieve boredom?
Senior is really too much; I'm clearly already very annoyed.
Seeing Klein's troubled look, Nairn seemed to find it even more amusing.
But he didn't provoke Klein too much.
Nairn stepped aside and made an elegant "please enter" gesture toward the door of the luxurious house behind him.
"Alright, don't just stand at the door. Come in and talk. Just in time to try the black tea I brewed."
Looking at Senior's relaxed expression, the frustration in Klein's heart actually dissipated a little.
He followed Nairn inside.
The living room was still the same; the fire in the fireplace blazed, making the entire room as warm as spring.
Nairn casually handed a cup of hot tea to Klein and then sank back into the soft sofa.
"Go ahead, what do you want to ask?" he said lazily. "Considering you've contributed so many 'reviews' today, I can answer a few questions for free."
Klein gripped the warm teacup, feeling his hands still trembling slightly.
He was silent for a moment, organizing his chaotic thoughts, then looked up, staring intently at Nairn.
"First question. That woman, is she really Triss?"
"Yes," Nairn answered straightforwardly, without any concealment.
Upon receiving the affirmative answer, Klein's heart still sank.
"Second question," he continued. "Why did you do this? Why choose this method for her to 'act'?"
"Why?" Nairn smiled. He put down his teacup and leaned forward slightly. "Klein, what do you think the core of 'acting' as a
Witch is?"
"It's... bringing calamity and spreading suffering." Klein recalled what Nairn had said before.
"Exactly." Nairn nodded, looking at him approvingly. "Then tell me, in this Tingen City, what is a greater calamity than poverty itself? What is a deeper suffering than silently waiting for death in despair?"
Klein was suddenly stunned.
His mind went blank; Nairn's words were like a thunderclap exploding across the wilderness of his thoughts.
"I'm not creating calamity, Klein." Nairn's voice turned low, carrying a strange magic. "I'm just... utilizing the calamity that already exists."
"What I had Triss do wasn't to spread new suffering, but to end the old. On the surface, she seems like an angel bringing peace and release; but in essence, she is still exercising the Authority of 'ending' life, savoring the 'beauty' of life slipping away through her fingers."
"This allows her to digest the potion without turning into a pure Lunatic who enjoys the wails of others. This is the 'Reverse Acting' method I designed for her."
Having said this, Nairn shrugged, his face returning to that punchable smile that would make any saint want to strike him.
"Isn't it perfect?"
Perfect...
Klein opened his mouth but found he couldn't refute a single word.
Logically and based on the results, it was indeed a nearly perfect plan.
It was like a precision-designed interlocking machine, one link connecting to the next, killing three birds with one stone.
It solved Triss's acting problem, allowing her to digest the potion without falling into depravity.
It "cleaned up" the backlog of "abnormal deaths" in the slums, returning official statistics to normal.
It even—incidentally—gave him, this self-righteous Nighthawk, a bloody "social practice lesson" about the truth of the world.
Indeed...
When a person falls seriously ill but has no money for treatment and can only wait for death in endless pain, what can a Nighthawk do?
When a worker is squeezed of their last bit of strength in a factory, loses their ability to work, is discarded on the street like a rag, and finally dies of hunger and cold, what can a Nighthawk do?
They can do nothing.
All they can do is go to the scene after these people die, confirm that their deaths were not interfered with by "Beyonder factors," and then stamp a cold "Case Closed" on the report.
Is this the "protection" he has always upheld?
Isn't this also a kind of... superior, disguised indifference?
At this moment, Klein's convictions underwent an unprecedentedly violent shaking.
He had always thought he stood on the side of light, using the sword and gun in his hand to fight the Darkness and evil lurking in the shadows.
But now, he discovered with horror that the so-called "light" place he stood might... only be a slightly brighter, insignificant speck within a larger, deeper, and more boundless shadow.
The flames in the fireplace danced in his pupils, flickering.
He fell into a long, deathly silence.
He had no answer.
Or rather, he didn't dare to think about the answer.
Because behind that answer was a heavy, suffocating despair capable of crushing any normal person.
He didn't know how he left Nairn's house.
Walking home in a daze, his mind was a mess, like a ball of yarn toyed with by a cat.
The last sentence Nairn had lazily tossed out while leaning against the door before he left echoed in his mind like an unbreakable curse, over and over again.
"Your 'protection'—where exactly is its boundary?"
He returned home; Benson and Melissa were already asleep.
He tiptoed back to his room and, without turning on the light, sat dejectedly on the edge of the bed by the light of the crimson moon, which looked somewhat eerie outside the window.
Looking at the familiar street scene shrouded in mist outside the window, for the first time, he felt a deep doubt about everything he had done.
Was the world he protected really the one he wanted to protect?
He thought of his own impoverished past, of his brother Benson running around for a few Soli in wages, of his sister Melissa studying hard to save on tuition.
He knew he was lucky.
Relying on his own efforts and a bit of unspeakable luck, he had successfully added enough "coal" to the "boiler" of his life, crossing that terrifying threshold called "survival."
But what about those who weren't so lucky?
What about those who didn't have enough "coal" from the moment they were born?
Did they deserve to be treated as useless "slag" by this cold social system, to be ruthlessly excreted?
No.
It shouldn't be like this.
In the deep Darkness, light slowly, bit by bit, reconverged in Klein's eyes.
That light was no longer the confusion of the past, but an unprecedented determination.
He might not be able to change the entire system.
He might not be able to save everyone struggling in suffering.
But he could no longer—like before—turn a blind eye to it and feel at ease.
He was a "Seer"; he could "see" the Threads of Fate that others couldn't.
This ability shouldn't just be used to seek good fortune and avoid disaster, nor should it just be used to play god at the Tarot Club, and certainly not just to help himself advance.
It should also—be used to do more.
From his pocket, he pulled out a cold coin stained with a bit of sweat.
He was going to perform a divination.
This time, it wasn't to divine a vague future or hidden dangers.
It was to divine—himself.
He was going to ask his own heart, his own soul, a question.
Closing his eyes, he balanced the gold coin on the tip of his thumb and solemnly whispered the divination statement: "I, Zhou Mingrui—a modern transmigrator who came to this era, what exactly should I do?"
However, before the coin could fall.
Mr. Fool already had the answer.