Samuel and Falson walked one after another in silence for a while before turning a corner into an alley.
Soon, they found a small tavern and walked inside.
The tavern wasn’t crowded—just a bar counter and a few tables. The counter held so empty bottles of various kinds.
In this era, it was common for taverns and restaurants to share a single space, so eating at a tavern was perfectly normal.
After Samuel and Falson quickly placed their orders, they found a random table and sat down.
Just then, Falson suddenly rembered so common knowledge about the world of Laws that Samuel had shared with him earlier that day.
“Samuel... uh, well, if I want to get stronger, shouldn’t I actively choose a Law and deliberately act according to its behavior?”
“After all, as a Law Seeker, I don’t have my own Law yet. To get stronger, I can only ‘pray’ to the existing twelve fundantal Laws.”
“For example, if I want to choose the Law of Pure, I should act like a true saint—do good deeds, purify my soul. If I want the Law of Ultimate Wisdom, I should act like a scholar, think more...”
Samuel propped his head up with one hand and leaned against the wall. He glanced sideways at Falson, feeling a bit speechless.
He raised his free left hand and used his pinky to pick at his ear.
“You’re not wrong,” Samuel said, wiping his hand on the wall. “But...”
“I already told you to just be yourself. Why do you have to define everything?”
“What’s the deal? Trying to find a function’s domain or sothing?”
“What you really need is to align your thoughts with your actions, not to slap all kinds of labels on yourself just to satisfy those rigid rules.”
“That kind of thing is pointless—completely putting the cart before the horse.”
His gaze fell on the cheap paper cup Falson had been holding the whole ti.
“Take that coffee, for example. If you don’t want to drink it, just throw it away. What’s the point of pretending for my sake?”
“Is that so...”
Falson lowered his head and looked at the paper cup filled with cheap coffee in his hand, thinking for a few seconds.
If you don’t want to drink it, just throw it away. That did sound reasonable, but if he truly followed his inner thoughts...
With that, he brought the cup to his lips, tilted his head back, and downed it in one gulp.
“One sien is still money—can’t waste it,” Falson said, casually placing the empty cup on the corner of the table.
————
East District, a certain corner.
Compared to the filth and squalor of most of the slums, this place looked more like a small garden.
It was a secluded bridge tunnel.
The inner walls of the bridge tunnel were covered in ivy, and the ground was overgrown with various weeds and flowers. The ground wasn’t flat, and in one spot, there was an indistinct, subtle bulge.
Not far from the bridge tunnel grew a tree with a terrifyingly eerie posture.
Its surface was covered in nurous organ-like growths, and the tree itself bent like a man writhing in agony.
No wonder the residents of the East District, who usually hid from patrols, had risked extortion and blackmail to report this.
A man in a trench coat walked in.
He wore a white inner shirt and black shirt underneath a dark gray double-breasted long trench coat. In his right hand, he brandished a revolver, and in his left, he held an oversized chess piece.
It was a white chess piece, about as long as his palm, shaped sowhat like a short tower.
A white rook.
Behind him followed three others dressed similarly.
Counting the leader, the group consisted of three n and one woman. They all wore shirts, trousers, and trench coats. One of the n had a pair of sunglasses on his face, and the remaining man and woman were handcuffed together—one on the left wrist, the other on the right.
They stepped into this slum alley, but it felt more like walking into a tiny prival jungle.
That was nothing unusual.
No matter where you went, you could always find scenes like this.
The slums, the wealthy districts, the wilderness, or even the inside of so building.
From ti to ti, such situations would arise—a small ecological niche completely out of place with its surroundings.
Overgrown with weeds, thick branches, ivy, and shrubs.
It was common knowledge in this world: “A small garden could pop up anywhere, anyti.”
Science struggled to explain it. Geologists, after studying it, could only offer vague answers like, “It’s probably due to special environntal factors.”
The common folk, however, had a more convincing explanation.
Many regarded it as a divine miracle and fabricated religions around the God of Life, the God of Bountiful Harvest, the God of Nature, and so on.
The authorities didn’t bother with it either—as long as there was no large-scale sacrifice, small, informal churches like these were allowed to exist.
The four people in trench coats—three n and one woman—were Calvin’s Branch Three Public Security team.
They were supposed to have handled this yesterday, but the Chief had mysteriously vanished—seemingly eaten by a Containnt Object. They’d spent the whole day studying those Containnt Objects, so the task was delayed until today.
Still, being a day late was probably fine. They couldn’t put off other tasks forever just because one person went missing.
At worst, they’d do the mission today and order a custom wreath with the Chief’s na on it when they got back.
It would be best if they didn’t need it. But if they did, at least they’d save a trip and pick it up on the way back.
Nice.
No one found it unlucky or inauspicious, anyway—Branch Three’s ntal state had always been ahead of its ti.
After all, in a world where “powerful” and “unhinged” were practically synonymous, the pressure on them, the little public security officers, was always imnse.
Whether facing those ferocious wild Law Seekers or their own superiors—
None of them were exactly normal people.
Over ti, they stopped trying to be normal either.
And then they realized this mutual ntal breakdown was actually pretty good—everyone felt relaxed, and the pressure visibly dropped.
As for whether the boss would be pissed if he actually survived and ca back to find he’d been given a grand funeral?
Well, other people could only die once, but he could die twice—wasn’t that a win-win?
Of course, trying to scam the insurance like that was out of the question.
Survivor benefits were only paid out once.
After the first payout, it wouldn’t be revoked, but a second ti was a definite no.
At most, following the principle of “half price for the second tombstone,” they’d send a token amount as a gesture.
Anyway, if it was a second survivor payout, it definitely wouldn’t be much.
The thought was what mattered.
Survivor benefits increased every year, so overall, the later you died, the better the deal.
Though newcors occasionally complained about the system—felt it was too casual, like turning sothing so serious into a New Year’s gift exchange.
But that was actually unfair to headquarters.
This was still much more serious than New Year’s gift-giving.
After all, they never sent gifts to their subordinates during New Year’s.
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