Does He Want to Kill Me?

Mr. Hoffen lay on the floor, and Karen stood before him. At this moment, if Karen wished, he could send Mr. Hoffen on his way ahead of time. For earlier, Mr. Hoffen's expression and words had put immense pressure on him. Having reincarnated into this world, he already lacked any sense of security. Up to now, he had been surviving solely by clinging to "this identity." If he lost this skin, into what kind of unknown would his life plunge? Moreover, this didn't just involve "life" in the conventional sense; there were clearly other factors far beyond Karen's comprehension. If it were merely a matter of "running away from home," Karen wouldn't have felt so pressured. What terrified him was that it wouldn't be as simple as being "cast out of the house"—and it couldn't possibly be that simple! Karen could feel the frantic dread of a medieval witch facing persecution. Step forward. Bend down. Karen reached out a hand. All it would take was squeezing the neck once more, or cradling Mr. Hoffen's head, pretending to wake him while slamming it once more against the tiles to finish the job. Then, before it swallowed him whole, this sudden vortex of crisis would dissolve into nothingness. So... do it or not? Having such a thought wasn't actually strange. Even the most ordinary, normal, and gentle person in daily life would have moments where emotions flared out of control and malicious impulses suddenly surged. Yet in the end, Karen remained rooted to the spot, motionless. It was only when Mina came down from the second floor and started calling for help, when Aunt Mary came up from the basement, and when Paul hurried over to lift Mr. Hoffen, that Karen snapped out of his daze amid Aunt Mary's shouts. He stepped forward to help support Mr. Hoffen and carried him into the Inmeles family hearse. Paul started the engine, while Karen stayed in the back with Mr. Hoffen. This modified "Nutshell" was an extended version of an ordinary sedan to begin with. The front passenger seat had long since been removed to free up more space, leaving more than enough room for a coffin. Mr. Hoffen lay there, not moving. He was lucky. In this era, ambulances weren't widespread, yet he immediately had a vehicle to take him to the nearest hospital. Even luckier... even if the doctors couldn't save him, he already had a ride back, and a dedicated, matching one at that. Furthermore, out of respect for his relationship with Grandfather, the funeral expenses might even get a steep discount. The only one suffering through all the extra trouble would be Aunt Mary. "Heh..." Karen suddenly chuckled aloud and raised a hand to gently rub his face. Just then, the golden retriever that had followed its master into the car sidled up to Mr. Hoffen and licked his fingers. After lingering by its master for a moment, it padded over to Karen. Karen reached out. The retriever didn't pull away, letting him stroke its head. Seemingly enjoying the petting, it simply lay down against Karen's legs. When Karen paused, it nudged his hand with its snout, prompting him to keep going. "Sigh..." Looking at Mr. Hoffen lying there, Karen couldn't help but sigh. Leaning his back against the carriage wall, he gave the dog's head a couple more scritches. "Whatever happens, happens." ... The car drove into the hospital, and Mr. Hoffen was rushed into the emergency room. While Paul bustled about handling the admission procedures, Karen held the golden retriever by its leash and sat on a bench beside a flower bed. After sitting there for about half an hour, Paul jogged over with a smile: "Young Master Karen, the doctor says that although Mr. Hoffen is still unconscious, he's out of danger." Karen let out a long breath, feeling a slight sense of relief mixed with a twinge of disappointment. This old man was truly resilient. With such a massive pool of blood... he had actually pulled through. "The bills have all been charged to the family's account," Paul added. The Inmeles family ran a mortuary and naturally maintained excellent ties with nearby hospitals. Just how good were those ties? Aunt Winnie, who managed the family's finances, even had a list of critically ill patients in the hospital on hand. Sometimes, even while someone was still being resuscitated, Uncle Mason was already outside in the parking lot having a cigarette while waiting. Wherever there was profit, an industry chain was bound to form. With that connection, sorting through the paperwork naturally took no time at all. "Does someone need to look after him?" Karen asked. "Uh... we can hire a nursing attendant." "Hire one, then." "Um... alright, Young Master, I'll go arrange it." "By the way, Paul, do you have a cigarette?" "I do... Young Master, would you like one?" "Yeah." Paul pulled a half-empty pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket and handed them to Karen. "Thanks." "Don't mention it. I'll go hire the attendant first." "Alright." Karen pulled out a cigarette and held it between his lips. In this era, smoking bans were far from strict; even in the hospital courtyard, Karen could see plenty of people puffing away, and passing nurses didn't reprimand them. He lit it and took a drag. Once again, his brain sounded an alarm against the invasion of "toxins," and his body mounted a rejection response, bringing on an immediate wave of nausea and dry heaving. Yet Karen ignored it. He felt that just like "smoking," he was utterly foolish. A habitual smoker had forced themselves through bodily discomfort to acquire a vice that constantly harmed their health; as for him, he had actually let Mr. Hoffen be brought to the hospital to escape danger, sitting back and watching himself slide step by step into an unknown abyss. He was reproaching himself, though not too intensely; he was regretting his choice, though not too intensely either; he felt he was stupid—and yes, that feeling was overwhelmingly strong. "Phoo..." With the smoldering cigarette between his fingers, Karen leaned back against the bench. Right at that moment, a shadow fell over him. Karen froze, sensing the cigarette plucked from his fingertips. "You... Grandfather?" Standing before Karen was Diss. Diss still wore the clothes he had left home in, but Karen noticed visible stains around the cuffs of his trousers. The hand holding the cigarette also seemed to have black smudges on it. Was it mud? Diss dropped the cigarette to the ground and asked, "When did you learn?" "I..." Karen hesitated. In truth, an impulse to tell "Grandfather" the truth had just flitted through his mind, because after stringing together today's "dream," Mr. Hoffen's "interrogation," and everything else, he instinctively detected an unusual flavor to it all. After all, Grandfather Diss and Mr. Hoffen were old friends. It wasn't that he was worried about what Mr. Hoffen might tell Grandfather upon waking up; rather, compared to a retired philosophy teacher who merely loved "divination" or "the occult," Grandfather—who ran a mortuary while moonlighting as a priest—seemed to be... no, ought to be the most mysterious one. Could something Mr. Hoffen knew really escape Grandfather's notice entirely? So, if resistance meant strict punishment, would leniency come with a confession? Yet looking at Grandfather's face, the "truth" swirled in Karen's throat before he swallowed it back down. He said, "Uncle Mason taught me." Hearing that, Diss frowned slightly. "Mr. Hoffen is inside. The doctor says he's out of danger," Karen reported. Diss nodded and asked, "Mary told me what happened. Were you frightened?" "No... um... yes, I was." Karen answered somewhat incoherently, though he felt it wasn't his fault. "I'll go see him. Wait here." "Alright, Grandfather." Diss walked inside. About fifteen minutes later, Diss and Paul walked back out together. Karen stood up as well and followed them to the parking lot. "When did you learn to drive?" Diss asked Paul. "Not long ago. I watched enough and picked it up," Paul answered somewhat shyly. "Did you get a license?" "Yes, I did," Paul replied at once. "Starting next month, your monthly wage will increase by a thousand lubi." "Thank you, Mr. Diss! Thank you, Mr. Diss!" Paul and Ron stood in stark contrast in personality. Ron loved drinking and playing cards; today, as soon as he finished his tasks in the basement, he had immediately clocked out and slipped away, probably hanging out in some tavern by now, whereas Paul had stayed behind to wipe down the hearse. "Let's go back," Diss said, glancing at Karen before repeating, "Go home." Paul was driving as before, while Karen and Diss sat in the back. Because there were no seats, the two sat facing each other on mats. "Should we notify Mr. Hoffen's family, Grandfather?" "No need. His children cut ties with him long ago, and they aren't in Rojia City anyway. In a few days, remember to come check on his condition again." "Alright, Grandfather." After that brief exchange, Karen saw Diss reach out his hand and roll up his sleeve. To Karen's shock, a third of his grandfather's left arm was charred black, as if it had been rolled over burning coals. "Pliers," Diss said. "Huh?" Karen blinked, then immediately caught on. He moved forward and opened the black case beside his grandfather. Inside was a small surgical tool kit alongside items clearly not meant for ordinary use: several bottles of bizarrely colored liquids, translucent beads, oddly shaped iron plaques, a whip made of an unrecognizable material... and most conspicuous of all, a hollowed-out sword hilt. To the left and right of the hilt were two exquisite carvings: on the left was a contorted skull, and on the right, a benevolent holy maiden. Though the hilt lacked a blade, Karen took care to avoid it when reaching in, as if an invisible edge might truly sever his fingers. Karen handed the pliers to his grandfather. Taking the pliers with his right hand, Diss clamped onto a corner of his charred skin and slowly peeled it back. Even with the engine running, Karen could clearly hear the crisp sound of tearing, like paper being ripped. Beside them, the golden retriever that had accompanied them back curled into the corner, eyes wide, shivering violently. As if no one else were there, Grandfather peeled off two patches of charred skin with the pliers, then said, "Tweezers." "Oh, right." Karen handed the tweezers over. Instead of taking them, Grandfather placed his arm before Karen while holding out the pliers with his right hand. In "Karen's" memories, no such scene had ever occurred. Still, pressing his lips together, Karen took the pliers in his right hand and the tweezers in his left. He first used the tweezers to pull an opening in the charred skin, then used the pliers to strip away the entire patch. Beneath the charred skin lay raw, red flesh, faintly oozing blood. From start to finish, Diss never uttered a sound of pain; his expression didn't even twitch. By the time all the charred skin had been stripped away, Diss's left arm looked as though it had just been boiled in scalding water. "It's done," Karen said. "Mm." Diss reached out, picked up a bottle containing purple liquid, flicked off the stopper with a fingertip, and poured all of the liquid onto his left arm. "Hiss..." Karen inhaled a sharp breath. For he saw white smoke billowing from Diss's left arm, accompanied by the sizzling crackle of hot oil hitting a pan. After a long while, Diss let out a slow breath and pulled his sleeve back down. Karen asked with concern, "Doesn't it need to be bandaged?" Diss shook his head. Karen said no more, remaining seated upright. At that moment, the hearse came to a stop. They had arrived home. Leading Mr. Hoffen's golden retriever, Karen got out of the car, while Paul pulled over by the roadside outside the courtyard gate. "Mr. Diss, Young Master Karen, I'll be heading home first. I'll come early tomorrow to set up the mourning hall." "Alright." Diss nodded. Thrilled by his raise, Paul ran off happily toward his home. Karen, meanwhile, lingered by the gate without rushing inside, because Diss hadn't gone in. Two people, one dog, standing just like that by the courtyard gate. On the windowsill of the villa's third floor, Purr stood up, its feline eyes staring fixedly at them. Inexplicably, it felt as though the background music of a stage play had suddenly shifted into a different key. It was that abrupt, yet that unmistakable. Karen felt his lips begin to tremble, his breathing turning rapid and shallow. The golden retriever Karen was holding looked up at him in puzzlement, having noticed the leash vibrating... because the hands of the person holding it were shaking. Humans had a sixth sense. It could be whispered by the wind, revealed by the sunlight, or even conveyed by the flowers and weeds behind the fence. Karen didn't know whether dying once and coming back to life enhanced one's sixth sense. In fact, he had no mind to ponder such idle thoughts right now. He felt as though he were an egg freshly taken from a coop, being tossed back and forth between the hands of a mischievous child. Run? Karen turned his neck as far as he could to glance sideways. There lay the street, where he could sprint at full speed all the way to the end... Next, Karen began turning his neck in the other direction, but halfway through, he involuntarily lowered his head. Looking down, he saw his own pant legs, he saw Grandfather's left arm, and even more so, he saw the sword hilt in Grandfather's left hand—the very hilt Karen had clearly put back into the black case, yet which was now gripped in that hand. In that instant, Karen felt tears welling in his eyes and a stinging sensation in his nose as if mucus were about to run, while the muscles in his face twitched in faint spasms. Before his eyes, it no longer seemed like the Inmeles villa at 13 Mink Street, but terraced ground descending into the depths. He himself stood at the center of an elevated platform, and beside him stood the gallows prepared for his execution. "Karen." Diss's voice was like a clap of thunder exploding beside his ear. "Grand... Grandfather..." Karen's teeth were chattering. Yet in stark contrast, his heart was astonishingly calm—a tearing dissonance between mind and flesh. "Karen, where is this place?" Karen parted his lips. In the corner of his vision, he noticed Grandfather's left arm had already lifted, reaching behind Karen's back. At that razor's edge of life and death, Karen snapped his spine straight and, in a hoarse, deep voice... almost bellowed: "Home!"