I'm fighting Kal'tsit? Really?

The reason he would use Robin to initiate the conversation was twofold: firstly, she seemed to be the only normal person he could communicate with, and he needed to use her to extract information about the person behind the scenes; secondly, she was not directly involved in the assassination of Anthony.

It's obvious he's hesitant, and he's not really an assassin. I'd guess he's only killed one or two people, and those were in retaliation.

As for gathering intelligence, the other party had basically told him everything they needed to know. The level of stupidity of the mastermind behind it was among the top three in his experience, which truly opened his eyes.

No matter the reason, it's impossible to allow someone with no relevant experience, only knowledge of security technology and mechanical manufacturing, to commit an assassination in prison without providing sufficient information; that would be insane.

Moreover, the targets are too easy to eliminate and filter.

The warden doesn't do the work himself; he needs to monitor the entire process at all times. Only prison guards have the relevant authority, so the selection process involves screening out the guards one by one.

If you show Saria today's shift schedule and she finds the target accurately, then this farcical situation should be coming to an end.

As for the girl, Gerald was actually somewhat pleased when he asked her for the dagger at the first opportunity.

He likes people who can resist according to their own will, even if he knows the chances of winning are slim.

After all, he was that kind of person himself. Now, Robin's situation is the same as when he fought General Felin for the first time: almost a dead end, his chest cavity was directly pierced, and he didn't know if his last move would be able to harm the other party.

But he would still choose to deliver the final blow to his enemy with dignity.

If the other party wants to prove their ability to him and uses all their skills and experience to attack him, then he doesn't mind lowering his standards for them, even if he never intended to really kill the child from the beginning—what he fears is a hidden danger that is impossible to communicate with and cannot understand the pros and cons.

Neither choice is wrong; Gerald cannot impose his own standards on others.

However, surrendering to the other party through self-harm is something that Colombian gangs would prefer to see.

He didn't like it very much.

"Go to the infirmary and let the doctor there treat you."

Gerald glanced at Robin's wound indifferently, then secretly cast one of his Originium Arts on her: "You're lucky. It was just venous bleeding, not the femoral artery. Otherwise, you would have died before you could even bandage it... Of course, that doesn't stop some people here from choosing to meddle."

Then, he didn't look at Robin again, and she suddenly deflated, plopping down on the ground.

His attention is now on someone else.

“Gerald…”

Anthony wanted to say something, but he couldn't put his words into a sentence for a moment, after all, everything the other party did was for his friend.

Even if others have countless reasons to criticize Gerald from a moral high ground, he must stand firmly on the same side as those who are protecting him.

So, in silence, Anthony watched helplessly as the other man walked towards him.

While he was still wondering what the other person was up to, Gerald walked past him and went to the other cell.

"Alright, stop pretending. If you keep pretending, you'll end up like those three people."

Gerald crouched down, startling Kafka, who was curled up in a ball by the bedside, eyes tightly shut, trembling with fear.

Her face paled, and she hurriedly opened her eyes, giving an awkward smile.

"B-Big brother, I just protected that big oaf."

"Can't you refrain from stabbing yourself in the thigh?"

Chapter 18 You're exhausted, it's time to sleep.

The indigo-colored Originium Arts blossomed in the infirmary.

The indigo that symbolizes the Mansfield Medical Center belongs exclusively to its owner, Duma.

She was currently using her staff to heal the wound on Robin's thigh. With each sliver of blue light emanating from the tip of the staff, the pain that constantly plagued Robin's head would lessen.

"That's enough." After cleaning and treating the wound, Duma put down his staff and turned to write something on a piece of paper beside him:

"After that, you will need to come to the infirmary every other day. If you have symptoms of fever or inflammation, just tell the prison guards and they will bring you here. This injury... may take at least two months to heal. The dagger went in a bit too deep, and some of the torn muscles will have to wait for it to heal slowly."

Robin nodded hesitantly, using the cabinet beside him to help himself to his feet: "I understand, thank you."

When Gerald's expression turned grim, she truly thought she was going to die.

However, the other party doesn't seem to be planning to hold her accountable now. Although there are still many problems, such as how to escape from this prison, she has already done the best she could by surviving.

The atmosphere in the room improved considerably after she slowly walked past the remaining three people and closed the door to the infirmary.

“Ah, haha…” Kafka, who had helped Robin in the corridor, now had a complicated expression on his face. “That person, how should I put it, I didn’t really feel any malice from her.”

"But it's also true that she wanted to kill Anthony."

The first to voice strong opinions on this was Duma, who was usually the most taciturn: "...I don't want my friend to get hurt, so she must fail."

"No, if there's an opportunity, arranging for her to stay with us might be the simplest way."

Anthony pondered for a moment, then shook his head: "The biggest problem remains that the enemy cannot be seen. If we bring Robin into our conversation, despite the considerable risks, we can directly use this intermediary to find the mastermind behind the enemy. It's like turning what was originally a hypothesis with countless possibilities into a high-risk gamble."

After saying that, Anthony looked in Gerald's direction: "What do you think?"

"The assassination attempt was targeted at you; you can deal with it however you want."

However, Gerald is now already thinking about when to expose the other side. It's too late today; it'll be about time to talk to Seria tomorrow: "I can't be your babysitter for life, Anthony. If you think you can take care of Duma while doing this, then you can do whatever you want."

“I…” Duma raised his hand and said weakly, “I don’t need Anthony’s protection.”

Oh yes.

Since he came to the prison, Duma's Originium Arts have improved by several levels—mainly because he would often come to Duma for treatment, bearing the wounds he had inflicted himself.

Over time, the power and soporific abilities of Duma Originium Arts have become incomparable to what they used to be.

If he takes a sneaky trick, Anthony might suffer a big loss.

……

As the three of them were chatting about their opinions on Robin and why the mastermind behind it all had made such a foolish move.

Kafka now felt like an outsider in front of these three people.

She even had a fleeting thought of crying out to Hermer, who had sent her.

Does this big tiger in front of me really need my help to escape from prison?

Just look at Kuranta next to him; she just sent Barton flying with a single sentence. When those three assassins started attacking Anthony, she didn't even see him move; he simply slashed their necks.

The rumors in the prison were true; even if the Colombian army were sent to kill Anthony, she figured Kuranta could wipe them out.

The issue is.

Why is it that this monster, who was just casually discussing murder, is now suddenly talking about everyday matters?!

“I was sent from outside to rescue Anthony, you know,” Kafka quickly interjected when the small group fell silent. “Isn’t it a bit much to ignore me like this?”

"Oh, sorry." Gerald, who had inexplicably steered the conversation from assassins to Kafka's cuisine, snapped out of his reverie and gave Kafka an apologetic look.

"It seems we can't get any Kazimierz dishes right now, since we're in prison. Next time I go to the canteen, I'll see if I have any ingredients and make you some to try. Would you like some too?"

"No—no!!" Kafka felt like she was about to cry. She looked pitifully at Anthony, the only one who was listening to her attentively: "Big guy, you're the one who was supposed to be assassinated, you still want to know why you were supposed to be assassinated, right?"

"...I do want to."

The atmosphere in the room quickly returned to its heavy and sticky state. Even someone as naive as Duma knew that what they were about to hear might not be good news.

Anthony felt his hands trembling slightly, but he quickly forced them back down: "My father has received more than a dozen charges, but I don't have the time to look into the details of each one. All I know is that if I end up in jail... the only possibility is that the other side has already dealt with everything that needed to be dealt with."

"Therefore, they have the leeway to deal with a final risk and eliminate the root of the problem."

He said, word by word, "I have only one question: Who are they?"

Kafka hadn't expected the other person to have thought of this. She cautiously glanced around, making sure everyone was trustworthy, before nodding.

"Hemer said they were called the Hyde Brothers."

------

night.

The rooms in Zone C have never been so cold and damp.

The body was moved away by the prison guards, and the pool of blood on the ground was wiped up haphazardly with a mop, but some heavy stones and rubble were still difficult to clean up. Even when they returned to their cells, the pungent smell of disinfectant mixed with blood lingered.

Gerald didn't bring his usual professional book that he reads before bed today; instead, he took down the photograph on the wall.

The wind could penetrate even the smallest, most minute corners, but the glue on it had long since shown signs of peeling off. He didn't know whether the reason the wind hadn't blown the photo down this morning was due to luck, or because the wind had sensed his emotions.

Through the large hole, he could see Anthony casually lying on the bed, his usually sleek hair looking as if it had been washed repeatedly, each strand covered in a look of decay.

Gerald.

"I'm here."

“I will seek revenge.” Anthony did not ask any questions or seek his opinion. He simply held his will firmly in his mouth, under his tongue, waiting for the day it would break through the soil: “This is not over yet. I will make the Hyde brothers pay for their crimes in blood.”

"What Kafka said, I've thought about before too."

He rested his head on the pillow, feeling the coldness of the shackles and the bloodstains they had left: "My family, the Simon family, once shared 50% of the profits with the Hyde brothers. At this point, it wouldn't be a mistake for either of us to swallow the other up."

"Just to survive and for more profit, we had to destroy the other side. I just unfortunately became one of the losers."

"But what should I do about this hatred in my heart, this hatred that has weighed on me for six years?!"

Anthony roared wildly, baring his fangs to reveal his beastly side: "I know that even revenge can't bring my family back! Columbia has far too many ways to torture the living, but no matter what I do, I can't go back to the past!"

“I know.” Gerald looked calmly at the figure in the photograph. “I know, Anthony.”

"How did you know?! Gerald? This pain in my heart—"

“Because my father met the same end.” Gerald interrupted Anthony directly, “My father who mistakenly thought he had lost everything and was determined to destroy everything.”

The sound disappeared from the cell.

There are two silver-haired Pegasus figures in the photo.

Still a young boy, he stood beside his tall father, whose face always wore a gentle and refined smile that seemed to never get angry.

“My experience may not be of much use to you, but that’s how I did it.”

"The cycle of hatred must be broken with me."

"—By killing all the enemies, we can sever ties."

Chapter Nineteen: The Valley of the Banshees

Gerald closed his eyes.

It was a busy day. I regained my Originium Arts, encountered unexpected events, met some unpleasant people, and reminisced about the pain of two years ago.

The smell of blood in the air was still pungent, but his mood gradually calmed down, and he drifted into a new dream.

There won't be so many twists and turns there, only simple and brutal conflicts and suffering.

That's how it should be.

When the soft, velvety touch gently enveloped his body, the instant comfort momentarily dulled even his incredibly keen sense of smell, as if the whole world was being gently wrapped in that soft touch.

This was something he hadn't dreamed of in a long time. From the day he was born, he had been wrapped in similar luxury, as if all the warmth and love in the world had already woven an endless velvet embrace for him.

However, when this long-lost touch reappeared, he only felt a strange sense of disorientation.

He suddenly opened his eyes and took deep breaths of the excessively sweet air.

An unfamiliar room.

He got up, checked his physical condition, found his sword, and made sure that Originium Arts were still usable. In just a second, Pegasus transformed from sleep into a fighting stance.

The fragrance that filled the air was quickly dispersed by the uncontrolled wind and drifted out through the room's air vents.

Gerald could feel the calming effect of the fragrances, but he couldn't understand the current situation at all.

The room he was in wasn't exactly opulent, but it was faintly lit everywhere.

Soft candlelight danced from the wrought-iron candlesticks on the wall, casting shadows on the slightly darkened wooden paneling. In one corner of the room stood a small wooden cabinet, its surface bearing scratches of varying depths, as if weathered by time. On top of the cabinet were several ceramic jars, their bodies appearing quite rough, yet their glazes possessed a simple, unadorned sheen, faintly emanating the scents of spices and herbs.

However, upon closer inspection, it becomes clear that it is not a candle flame at all, and the shadow on the bottle is not a reflection of light.

They were slender incantations composed of flowing characters.

“A banshee,” Gerald murmured. “What a pity.”

The book that Saria had given him contained accounts of the deeds of the banshee race.

Not closely associated with Kazdel, the vast majority of their tribe members live in a place called "River Valley". As one of the most mysterious and representative races in Sarkaz, there are almost no cases of male banshees in their race. Correspondingly, almost every banshee is a master of Word of Power.

In their hands, words can become physical entities, transforming into another special form of existence.