The young Wyatt hid behind the wall, pressing his right eye tightly against a crack between the bricks, peering through the gap at what was happening outside.
Muffled cracking sounds accompanied the bard's suppressed, guttural wheezes forced from the depths of his throat.
They were interrogating him about sothing, their voices rough and cruel, echoing over the ruins mixed with sobbing.
He didn't dare make a single sound. He could only clamp both hands over his own mouth, his fingers pressing so hard that his cheekbones emitted faint clicking noises.
Little Wyatt's body trembled like a sieve, his teeth chattering uncontrollably.
Crack.
A sharp sound of bone breaking rang out abruptly.
Because he was squeezing too hard, his jawbone had been cracked into several pieces by his own palms, only to gradually heal under his extrely strong self-healing ability.
"At this ti, you shouldn't have trouble beating these people outside, should you?" Samuel said softly.
Little Wyatt naturally couldn't hear him, nor did he expect a response.
A faint light glimred in Samuel's eyes. He had now activated his player's field of vision, seeing through Little Wyatt's current strength.
Six Marks. By this world's standards, that should make him a minor superman.
And those bandits outside—even the strongest among them was only at Two Marks.
Samuel compared himself at Six Marks to himself at Two Marks.
Well... the difference was probably like a tiny pistol versus a nuclear bomb.
Because he was squeezing too hard, his jawbone had been cracked into several pieces by his own palms, only to gradually heal under his extrely strong self-healing ability.
"It can't really be cowardice, can it?"
Of course, that was impossible.
Considering the scene at the ti, Samuel believed there should be soone nearby who "had the strength but chose to stand by and watch."
Samuel looked around and soon spotted an upright old butler not far away.
The old butler wore a crisp suit, had a small mustache, and his silver hair was combed immaculately.
He leaned on a cane topped with a matte obsidian orb, standing silently like a gentleman attending a funeral.
This old butler seed utterly out of place in his surroundings.
He was neither an abuser nor a victim.
He just stood there, clean and spotless, saying nothing, doing nothing.
The bandits instinctively avoided looking at the old butler while torturing the bard.
So that was it.
Yes, he was a Law Contemplator.
That ant there might be others who, in his eyes, were not inferior to himself—or even stronger.
There should be corresponding outsiders in the current Liant Town as well.
The outsiders he knew of now numbered six.
Himself, one Sacred Law Knight, Falson, that Pop Rocks guy who just self-destructed, a maid, a sheriff, and soone who had tried to influence him earlier.
Theoretically, there were three more.
Even among the known six—except for Falson, who was purely dragged into this—everyone else's stance was ambiguous.
Including his own.
After all, he didn't know what his future self would do.
So, there might have been more than one person who could make young Wyatt afraid.
As he watched, Samuel's brows suddenly lifted.
"Huh?" He let out a soft exclamation.
He saw sothing familiar in Little Wyatt's "essence."
It was [Royal Blood].
He couldn't really distinguish all the dense information in a person's "essence." But he had copied this Law Rhy before, so it was sowhat familiar.
Wyatt was from the Odius family, so having [Royal Blood] was only natural. What surprised Samuel was that he hadn't seen this innate special Law Rhy in Wyatt from a hundred years later.
"Can this... be discarded later on?" Samuel tilted his head.
The bandits outside didn't notice the wall where he was hiding. They never imagined a half-collapsed wall could conceal a person.
Combined with the "player's" ability to control their own presence, he had managed to hide there without being discovered.
Samuel stroked his chin, looking at the young Mister Pride, then at the bard being tortured nearby.
Hmm, if he truly didn't know, then this bard wouldn't have left such an impression in Wyatt's heart.
So, at the very least, this bard knew where Wyatt was at the ti.
At that mont, the bandits outside seed to have exhausted their patience. They probably realized they couldn't get any useful information and guessed the bard truly knew nothing. One of them kicked viciously at the bard's broken ribs, earning a shrill, distorted scream.
Then, a swing of the blade.
Chop.
The bard's head rolled to the ground.
The bandit spat a thick gob of phlegm, the murky saliva mixed with bloodstains landing on the bard's pale face.
"Old sir, looks like he really didn't know. Your intelligence was wrong," the bandit said, looking at the old butler nearby.
His tone was still rough, but not as aggressive as before.
It seed he still held so respect for this old butler.
"Is that so," the old butler nodded gently, stroking his small mustache. "Then look elsewhere."
His voice was elegant and gentle.
Seeing this, Samuel refocused on young Mister Pride's face, which now showed absolutely no trace of pride.
According to convention, this was the mont for the story's protagonist to have a power-up.
He saw Little Wyatt suddenly stop trembling.
His hands, which had been desperately covering his mouth, released their grip.
"Oh my," Samuel let out a soft exclamation.
Little Wyatt's hands no longer covered his mouth. Instead, they slowly rose, resting on his forehead and threading into his golden hair.
He sobbed, lowering his head, his body trembling slightly as his fingers unconsciously scratched at his hair.
Scratching, scratching...
His nails scraped across his scalp, producing faint "rustling" sounds.
His movents grew faster and more forceful.
The bandits outside had already left, but he kept scratching at himself.
The old butler, however, remained.
This old butler stood with a smile, as if waiting for sothing.
He looked at the sky, pulled out a black umbrella from sowhere, and elegantly opened it.
Inside the wall, Wyatt's behavior continued.
Suddenly, thick, crimson blood began to flow from his forehead.
His nails had pierced his scalp.
Not just a simple scratch, but a complete penetration, flipping his skin outward.
Drops of blood fell, splattering onto his dust-and-sweat-stained collar, blooming into small, dark red flowers.
The old butler nearby suddenly twitched his nose, as if slling the fresh blood.
In this place full of blood, he could detect new blood through a wall.
It seed he had long discovered Wyatt.
Just like Samuel in the current tiline, this old butler from the past remained neutral—neither helping the bandits nor Wyatt, rely existing as an observer.
Wyatt, hiding behind the wall, continued to exert force, oblivious to the old butler's gaze.
His nails, like ten sharp hooks, dug deeply and viciously into the scalp wounds he had just torn open.
"Ah... ah..." He forced out a few hoarse sounds from his throat.
His nails plunged deep into his scalp, pulling downward with force, bit by bit.
In Samuel's player's field of vision, the chaotic lines on Little Wyatt's body suddenly beca orderly.
Three of them converged, combining into sothing entirely new. anwhile, the Law Rhy symbolizing [Royal Blood] began to blur, showing faint cracks.
His once vague outline under the player's field of vision gradually sharpened, taking on a clear human silhouette.
It started raining.
Rain suddenly began to fall from the sky.
Not far away, Falson raised his right hand, trying to catch the falling raindrops.
But those raindrops passed straight through his hand.
He could do nothing about what had happened in the past.
He couldn't help Wyatt back then. He couldn't stop what was happening.
He couldn't even catch a single drop of rain from that ti.
"Ah... it's a necessary process," Samuel said. "That's how it is in novels."
Samuel also raised his hand, and he did catch the raindrops.
He suddenly understood.
This rain wasn't appearing just for atmosphere.
It was manifesting because of Wyatt's emotions.
Just as Ethen had said, Law Seekers were constantly polluting this world.
And if one went further, that pollution would beco even more apparent.
Little Wyatt inside the wall, however, wasn't getting wet from the rain.
The rain fell on the wall above his head, making a pattering sound.
"Enough..."
Samuel heard him muttering to himself.
"I said enough..." Little Wyatt said softly.
"I won't bow my head anymore..."
He was crying, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward.
He seed to have gone mad.
His hands grabbed his face, pulling downward with force, while his head desperately lifted upward.
He was like soone struggling against himself.
"I won't bow my head anymore..."
Because this was a world of mories, Samuel could clearly feel his emotions.
Every brick, every stone, every drop of rain here was infused with his emotions.
He was angry, he was sad, he was regretful, he was in pain...
He loathed the cowardly version of himself from just monts ago, detesting his complete inaction.
But he could do nothing.
If he didn't beco a Law Contemplator, he would have no ability to protect anyone in front of that old butler.
But he couldn't beco a Law Contemplator...
He had never had talent...
He had always been cowardly...
He had always been just a tool, a prisoner...
The rain grew heavier.
Sssss...
Raindrops hit the ground, producing corrosive sounds.
These raindrops were actually highly corrosive.
"I swear..."
"This is my last bow..."
His voice was suppressed with hatred.
"From now on, I will never bow my head again."
"I won't run away anymore... I won't hide anymore... I won't watch anyone's face... I won't be driven by anyone anymore..."
"I am... I am..."
Samuel smiled.
He saw Wyatt smiling silently.
He pulled downward with force, as if it wasn't his own flesh and blood, but a mask he needed to tear off—one he utterly loathed.
"Ah... ah..." He forced out agonized cries from his throat.
It must have been incredibly painful, yet he tore at his face as if facing a mortal enemy.
Samuel leaned in slightly, drawing closer to watch Wyatt's face.
The facial wounds stretched and deford, the injuries widening. More blood gushed out like a fountain, instantly staining his golden hair and flowing down his cheeks and neck, drenching the front of his clothes.
But he kept smiling, his laughter growing louder.
Gradually, he stopped suppressing and concealing.
He even deactivated the "player's" ability to reduce his presence.
He let his presence be fully exposed to everyone.
He showed himself openly and completely.
He would no longer run away, no longer hide.
The old butler's face broke into a smile.
Yes, that was it.
Becoming a Law Contemplator required sufficient stimulation.
The original Wyatt was too ordinary, not obsessive enough.
Soone like that couldn't beco a Law Contemplator.
So, a little push was needed.
"I will not... bow... to anyone... ever again!"
He roared.
Riiip.
Wyatt behind the wall lifted his lowered head completely.
He tore his face off entirely.
In Samuel's eyes, Wyatt's blurry "essence" gained a clear form. The Law Rhy symbolizing [Royal Blood] shattered, and from the fragnts of that broken Law Rhy, a new one was born.
To be precise, two Law Rhys were now being born.
One was the "Absurd Perforr," ford from the combination of "Actor," "Clown," and "Player." The other was the first Law Mark he had obtained, which Samuel rembered was called "Self-Contradictor."
His legs pushed off the ground as he stood up and gave a gentle shove forward.
The wall that Samuel had been holding up like a curtain suddenly shattered inch by inch, bricks flying outward.
Samuel released his grip, ceasing his interference with the mory, and saw that it was young Wyatt who had pushed down the wall in front of him.
Little Wyatt, his face a bloody ss, stepped out from behind the wall, his hands hanging naturally at his sides, his right hand clutching his own face.
Now his bloodied face faced the old butler not far away.
Rain fell on him.
"Congratulations, Young Master Wyatt," the old butler said with a kind smile.
"You've finally beco a Law Contemplator..."
The old butler stepped forward two paces, as if to help Little Wyatt with the umbrella.
Riiip.
The old butler's face was suddenly torn off.
Wyatt hadn't approached the old butler. The old butler's face had left his face on its own.
The old butler's face had betrayed his own body.
It was rough, forceful.
But the old butler still smiled.
Blood began to spurt from the butler's eyes, nose, ears, and mouth.
The umbrella fell from his hand, landing on the ground.
His bones twisted grotesquely, with ligature marks appearing on his neck.
His limbs stretched and twisted like noodles, skin peeling off from the surface of his body bit by bit.
Finally, he died miserably.
But even as he died, he still smiled, gazing at Wyatt with that smile.
Wyatt looked down at the corpse on the ground.
He was also smiling, but he couldn't feel happy.
Yet he wanted to laugh, and he couldn't force the corners of his mouth down no matter what.
"Hehehe... hahahaha..."
Wyatt lifted his head, letting the corrosive rain fall on his face, burning white steam and bringing searing pain.
He loosened his grip, and the face he had personally torn off fell to the ground.
Tears and blood mixed with rain slid down his cheek, dripping onto the ground.
Splashing up crimson droplets.
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