Rasma

"Simon, is this the report you plan to submit to the regional administration?" "Yes, Lord Rasma. Actually, this report has already been submitted to the regional office, but the regional administration took no action. I then submitted it to the Whip of Order, yet after doing so, I received no response there either." With a smile on his face, Rasma leafed through the pages in his hand and chuckled. "So, you took this opportunity to deliver it into my hands?" "Yes, Lord Rasma. Your subordinate believes Inquisitor Diss is suspected of abusing the *Code of Order*. According to the disposition report he submitted after the fact, there was almost no attempt at concealment; one can clearly see he deliberately widened the scope of his targets, inflicting a massive impact on Rojia City's social order and directly interfering in the city's mayoral election." "A local consortium boss died, a journalist died, a councilman died, and a mayoral candidate died. Four people in total." "They all died in a single night. There was also a mid-level member of the Berry religion—though of course, he deserved death." "Were they conspiring together?" "Yes. According to Inquisitor Diss's report and your subordinate's own verification, that has been confirmed beyond doubt. They were indeed conspiring together, utilizing the abilities of that mid-level Berry member." "Mm. So is there still an issue?" "Your subordinate believes that Inquisitor Diss had the means to handle it with greater composure while minimizing the negative impact, yet Inquisitor Diss chose not to do so." "People have bad days. It's understandable." "But..." "There is no 'but.' Even if you deliver this report to me, it remains completely useless. Would you accuse a man of slaughtering the innocent just because he stepped on a few ants while walking?" "Your subordinate feels that analogy shouldn't be made." "Indeed, it shouldn't—it's unfair to him. Simply walking normally is already his greatest contribution to upholding Order. In fact, that he doesn't rebel against Order, that he remembers to recite the *Code of Order* before taking action, and that he remembers to submit a report afterward is already enough to move the officials in charge at the regional office—and even Headquarters—to tears." "Your subordinate..." "You've met Diss, haven't you?" "Yes. In recent days, your subordinate has been responsible for dispatching documents from the regional administration to the surrounding areas. I met Inquisitor Diss several times, and even delivered a counterfeit Source of Sin copper coin from his hands." "Then what sort of person do you think Diss is? Setting this report aside." "A very rigorous, grave inquisitor. Setting aside the improper handling in this report, Inquisitor Diss's professional skill and sense of responsibility far exceed the average of any other inquisitors of our church that I know of today." "Mm, good then." Rasma handed the report back to Simon, the Whip of Order squad leader standing before him. "Lord Rasma, does this report need to be destroyed?" "No need. You may keep it; save it for now. A minor mistake like this—a petty oversight that can't even count as an error—cannot bring down an elephant. But if one day the elephant truly falls, this can be brought out to splash a bit of dirty water on its carcass. All right, you may leave. Go attend to your duties." "Your subordinate takes his leave." Simon respectfully departed from the rooftop of the hotel building. High Priest Rasma, with his crew cut and neatly trimmed stubble, stood there alone for a long time. "Sigh..." Rasma opened his hands and rubbed his face vigorously until his skin turned bright red. "I've tried my best to exercise restraint, but there really is no helping it, Diss. Every time I hear your name, I cannot suppress the stirring of my emotions. Especially now that I've come to the city where you live, that feeling has been haunting my heart." Rasma drew a small knife from his cuff, a beaded cord attached to the end of its hilt. Then, swinging the cord back and forth, he made his way down the building. By the time he stepped out of the ground-floor lobby, the solemn, black-clad Rasma had transformed into an old man in a battered leather jacket. The dangling dagger combined with the roguish smirk at the corners of his mouth made him the very picture of an aging scoundrel. He strolled through the city at a leisurely pace, slower than a woman window-shopping with no intention of buying anything. Yet his form shifted forward in rapid succession, as if he had just been at the end of the street one moment, only to appear at its head the next. He was taking a walk. He was clearing his mind. A journey that would normally cost nearly thirty lubi by cab was quickly covered on foot. The soles of his rubber boots stepped into a puddle, splashing dirty water. Before him lay Mine Street, the most famous flea market in Rojia City. Crowds swarmed the area, a dense and complex mix of people. It was no exaggeration to say this was the liveliest spot in all of Rojia City, yet one that had nothing to do with prosperity. Rasma took a deep breath. *Yes.* *This is the place.* He needed somewhere like this. Here, he could recall his childhood; here, he could find peace within himself. He walked up to the entrance of a pastry shop. Mine Street was lined with many such cramped pastry shops. Each had only a single narrow doorway beneath low eaves, and beneath the glass counter beside the door lay little more than a single tray of the cheapest sponge cakes. Some shops didn't even bother putting out a full tray, displaying only two or three that had visibly gone moldy long ago. Never sold and never replaced, those few cakes served as dutiful, enduring veteran actors in the display case. The sex trade was prohibited in Rojia City—more precisely, across the entirety of Ruilan. Yet the ban existed only in the letter of the law. Culturally speaking, Ruilan had long been influenced by Wien and maintained a certain degree of openness, and the market demand for the industry had always been unmistakable. As a result, a new business model had emerged throughout Ruilan—such as these pastry shops. From the cramped, workshop-style stalls packed tightly along Mine Street to the grand, lavishly decorated establishments downtown, all of them hung "catering licenses" on their walls. A customer entered the shop to buy a pastry. Infused with the vendor's "affection" and rich with the flavor of "craftsmanship," the treat was priced far higher than an ordinary confection. Yet it was a willing trade on both sides, wasn't it? After buying the pastry, the shop assistant and the customer became acquainted. They exchanged a few words, affection blossomed rapidly, and in an instant, they were lovers. Naturally, they couldn't help wanting to engage in what lovers do. Once it was over, their feelings cooled instantly, and they parted ways. Yet love was hard to sever completely; lingering attachment was the true norm. So the next time the former flame appeared at the storefront, all it took was buying another pastry for their passion to rekindle at once. Dalot, one of the greatest poets in Rojia's history, had written in a poem composed in his middle years: *"My youth was entrusted long ago to the pastry shops of my hometown. I know full well that even in old age, I may return here to savor once more that departed youth."* Rasma arrived at the entrance of a small pastry shop. The tray of sponge cakes inside the glass counter looked reasonably fresh. A woman sat on a low stool knitting a sweater. Looking up, she spotted Rasma standing by the door. Setting aside her needles and yarn, she stood up and pulled open her coat, showing off her figure. Rasma glanced at her, smiled, and placed five hundred-lubi bills on the counter. The woman frowned slightly. "For the whole day?" Rasma sighed, remarking, "Has it gotten that expensive?" The woman shook her head. "You misunderstand. It doesn't cost that much. Besides, I have to go home this evening to help my child with homework." "Just for the afternoon." "All right, come on in. But take a few bills back—even with a tip, this is too much." "No need." Rasma slid out the tray holding the sponge cakes. Exactly five remained. He picked one up, took a bite, and walked inside. The woman expertly lowered the wooden door slats into place. It was pitch-black within until she switched on the light. The room was austere: a bed, a worn sofa, a squat toilet, and a bare water pipe without even a showerhead. Rasma lay down on the bed. The woman sat beside him, reaching out to massage his leg, and asked, "Have you been drinking?" Rasma shook his head. The woman felt relieved. Yet just as she moved to proceed, she froze. She saw the man set a small knife before him, and an eerie sight unfolded: though the beaded cord above the knife was suspended from nothing, it hung fixed in midair as if anchored to the ceiling. The man tapped the blade with a finger, and the knife began to sway back and forth on the swinging cord. The woman gasped in delight. "Are you a magician?" Rasma nodded, then gestured to the side. "I'll lie here for a while. You stand there and do nothing. When the time is up, I'll leave." "Is that all right?" the woman asked, puzzled. "Mm." Having received confirmation, the woman rose, retrieved her knitting, and stood leaning against the wall, continuing to work on her sweater. She had seen plenty of customers with bizarre quirks; this one wasn't even the strangest. Lying on the bed, Rasma watched the swaying dagger before him. He was trying to bring his inner self back into Order, shaving away the undue emotional ripples stirred by that certain person ever since arriving in Rojia. It was like trimming a beard; he was accustomed to neatness and precision. And this blade was the razor for his mind. The vision before Rasma's eyes began to fade from color into monochrome. As he fixed his gaze on the swaying blade, his ears caught the rhythmic creaking of bed slats next door, heavy panting, cries of pleasure—some genuine, some feigned—and false praise. His nose picked up sharp, pungent scents: ointment, grime, disinfectant, cold air, damp musk... Gradually, his senses spread outward. He heard the hawking of street vendors, heard several men huddling to comment on someone's wife's figure, heard a few women gathered to gossip about the size of someone's husband. He heard the cries of antique dealers in the flea market, even catching their silent appraisals of the customers before them: *Oh, this one knows his stuff.* *Heh, a fat sheep to shear.* His nose scented the street's damp air, the decaying smell of the elderly trapped indoors, and the fragrance of cheap soapberries. Once his "vision" turned drab and colorless, his other senses blossomed with extraordinary richness. Like a spider, he rapidly expanded his web of perception. He was searching—searching for the childhood self in his memories, sitting on a street riddled with puddles, staring blankly at the passersby. Back then, the world was unfamiliar and bewildering to him, yet at the same time, completely objective. Every so often, he chose this method to recalibrate his "perspective." It was how he purified his faith. Time and again, he summoned his younger self, borrowing those "eyes" to scrutinize the present world over and over. Now, his vision spread as well. He saw black-and-white figures living and working here, their paths tracing a certain Order. Though petty theft was rampant and gang fights broke out, making public security far worse than in the downtown districts, even so, Order still held sway. People gathered here, believing in whatever Order they required, and then arranged their lives within the grid of Order. They were walking, yet at the same time, they were hopping across squares. It was the same for the thief and the victim; each had merely leaped into the square where they were meant to be at that moment. "Say, fixing these shoes will cost three lubi. Don't worry, for three lubi I'll make them look brand new! If you add another two lubi, I'll slap on an extra layer of leather on the soles for you." A voice drifted into Rasma's ears, carrying a subtly distinct resonance. His gaze "shifted" toward it. At the corner of the street, he saw a one-legged man sitting behind a stall, bargaining with a customer who had brought shoes for repair. "Ask around! When it comes to shoe repair on this street, who doesn't know Roth the Cripple?" Rasma remained lying on the bed in the pastry shop, yet his form appeared right before Roth. Roth couldn't see him, however, and passersby walked straight through "Rasma" without the slightest obstruction. The gray tones on Roth were considerably lighter than those on others, touched even with faint traces of color. Though these colors were slowly fading and would soon blend into the drabness of the ordinary people around him, Rasma reached out and caught hold of the "color" clinging to Roth. The next instant, while the real Roth continued to haggle over the price of the repair, before "Rasma" appeared the vision of an ashen-faced Roth speaking. ... "He should have died of poison." "What did you say?" the woman asked in confusion, continuing to knit her sweater. ... "All right, all right, don't you worry. Just come pick up your shoes tomorrow." Roth closed the deal. Just then, he saw his wife walking over, supporting his mother. He immediately asked, "What did the doctor say?" His wife replied, "The doctor said it was just an upset stomach and prescribed some anti-diarrhea medicine." Roth immediately scolded his mother, "You're getting old and your stomach is weak. You can't be eating those leftovers anymore. You're not allowed to touch them next time." The elderly mother retorted, "If I eat more, you two can eat less. Your health is what's truly precious. I told you it wasn't a big deal; going to the clinic for medicine just cost another chunk of money." "Hey, isn't making money meant for things like this? Dear, take Mother back to rest and brew her a cup of milk tea." "Mm." "Rasma" looked at the wife. She also bore traces of color. Reaching out to gently "pull" at it, he saw a face that should have been smashed to pieces. The elderly grandmother carried color as well. He drew it out the same way, and the kindly old woman suddenly revealed a grotesque expression, her tongue protruding far from her mouth. ... "She should have fallen face-first to her death." "Huh?" "And she should have died by hanging." The woman chimed in at once. "Are you talking about Siso's family who died last time? Heavens, that was huge news! A perfectly fine family: the man poisoned himself, his mother hanged herself, and the wife jumped from the tenement building with their daughter. The whole family committed suicide in a single night. "A crowd of reporters came to cover it; it caused quite a stir in the papers. A massive demonstration even broke out in the East District over it." ... "Papa!" A lovely young girl ran up to Roth. Roth took a five-lubi note he had just received from the previous customer from his pocket and handed it to Sarah. "Father, I don't need money. Mina and Brother Karen invited me along for a picnic." "Take it. Buy some candy for Mina and the others. You can't go without spending a single coin, or you won't stay friends." "All right, Father." Sarah took the money, stepped forward, and kissed her father's forehead. "Go have fun. You've already lost time because of your grandmother's clinic visit. Don't worry, your grandmother is fine." "All right, Father." "Rasma" noticed that this girl also bore colors that hadn't yet completely faded. Reaching out to pull them, he saw a horribly mangled face. Then, the girl ran up to a handsome young man and called out warmly, "Brother Karen!" Roth stood up and said to the young man, "I'm sorry, we held you up because of her grandmother's condition." "An elder's health comes first. It's only natural; no trouble at all." "Thank you for taking Sarah out to play. You know her mother and I are busy with work and usually can't spare the time." "Of course. But business always has its slow and busy seasons; unluckily, my family hit a slow season again recently." "Oh, that won't do. Busy seasons are always better!" "Rasma's" gaze fell upon the speaking youth. He was remarkably handsome. Even against the monochrome backdrop, the delicacy of his features remained unmistakable, giving off a distinct sense of detachment from the people around him. Yet "Rasma" had no interest in such things. After confirming that this young man had nothing unusual about him other than his good looks, he moved his gaze away, letting this "utterly ordinary" youth pass by. ... At the same time, lying on the bed inside the pastry shop, Rasma sat up and gripped the dagger in his hand. "That girl died from a fall, too." "Yes! Didn't I just say? Their whole family died—a man, his elderly mother, and a wife with their only daughter, all committing suicide in a single night. Sigh, what a pitiful family." Listening to the woman's chatter, Rasma looked down at the knife in his grip and murmured, "Originally... it shouldn't have been their family."