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In a room shrouded in darkness, on a shabby wooden table with an old oil lamp at its center, two young men sat side by side facing a man in his thirties, whose face bore serious features.
What is this?
Casper wondered.
How did he end up in a scene straight out of a crime movie?!
Only minutes ago, he and Harold had been dragged into this room. Supposedly, they wanted to take his statement about the incident, but how did he end up in this dimly lit place that looked… hmm… like a medieval criminal interrogation chamber?
Why does such a room even exist in the academy?
This is ridiculous.
Also—wait—is that an oil lamp?!
It was his first time seeing one in person. Seriously, how did they even get hold of such a lamp in this era? No, wait—are oil lamps even still around nowadays? Aren't we… in the modern age?
And what about this man in front of them?!
When he tried to speak or protest, the man across from him would silence him immediately, not allowing him to get a single word out.
Excuse me! You're mistaken about something—we're not the criminals here, we're the victims. A poor, miserable victim… where are the victim's rights?!!!
Casper felt a wave of anger.
As if it wasn't enough that they had dragged him into this dark, strange place without letting him rest for even a moment, or at least change his clothes.
His clothes were torn, filthy, damp, and reeked of blood after the fight they had been through. He hadn't even recovered from the shock of killing someone. His body was stiff, his fingers trembling. He felt an intense nervousness, his mind completely blank—he would even drift off without realizing it.
"Hah."
A sigh slipped from his lips.
He glanced at Harold from the corner of his eye. Harold sat calmly in his chair, his face bearing an indifferent look… hmm… perhaps not indifferent, but rather plain and habitual. He was clearly used to situations like this, unlike Casper, who was experiencing them for the first time. It seemed as though it wasn't even his problem—as if it belonged to someone else entirely. From his composed and arrogant posture, there was no trace of tension on his refined, detached face.
It was the perfect demeanor for a high-ranking noble like him—well, if you ignored the fact that his clothes were in shambles and his hair was a messy, tangled disaster.
Harold casually ran his fingers through his hair, brushing it back, after noticing Casper's foolish stares.
Seriously, why does he look good doing everything?!
Casper turned his gaze away from Harold, baffled by his calmness, and instead looked at the strange man sitting before them.
Are we in some kind of detective movie or something??
He wondered after studying the man.
The man sat with his legs crossed, his face wearing a detached expression. From time to time, he took slow puffs from what looked like… a long-stemmed clay pipe.
Seriously, where did he get that? Did he inherit it from his great-great-great-great-great-grandfather?
And smoking from a clay pipe wasn't the only strange thing about him—he also held a magnifying glass, which he fiddled with occasionally, sometimes setting it down on the table.
Not to mention his clothes, which looked straight out of a late 18th-century detective novel.
Slap—!
"Ouch!!"
The sharp sound of a slap echoed through the room, followed by someone's groan.
At that moment, it felt as though the air in the room had frozen, the very space around them warping—or at least, that's how it felt to Casper. But when he glanced at Harold, he found a complex expression on his face, which meant he had noticed the distortion too.
"I told you to stop with your childish tricks, especially in matters as important as this!!"
They heard a deep voice growl from behind… hmm… let's just call him Mr. Detective.
There was the silhouette of a person standing behind Mr. Detective, but the poor lighting made it impossible to see his face clearly.
"B-but… I was just trying to help…"
Mr. Detective mumbled something incomprehensible as he scratched the spot where he had been slapped.
—Slap.
"!! Ouch."
"Stop mumbling and put everything back the way it was!"
"Hey!! Stop hitting me—in front of the kids!!"
"Then put it back to normal!"
What on earth is going on??
Casper couldn't make sense of it.
Why were they bickering like children?
He didn't understand what was happening, but one thing was certain…
Mr. Detective was taking a lot of painful slaps.
And every time he got slapped, the space in the room warped and distorted—but would quickly return to normal!
"Alright, alright!! You win! I'll put everything back the way it was!"
Mr. Detective cried out in defeat, raising his hands in surrender, clearly accepting his miserable fate.
He snapped his fingers, and at that instant, Casper felt the air freeze, the room suddenly trembling.
Whoosh, whoosh.
Casper heard the sound of something tearing. When he focused on the sound, his eyes widened in shock.
The space in the room itself was being torn apart!!
Literally—everything in the room began to break apart and disintegrate into dust, except for the people inside.
He felt sick.
Casper's stomach churned at the horrifying sight of the room's space being ripped apart. He decided to just shut his eyes until the terrifying process ended. After everything that had happened today, he couldn't even decide which part had been the most traumatic.
Was it when he got caught up in an assassination attempt and nearly died?
Or when he discovered he was inside a novel?
Or when he killed someone?
Or being trapped in this horrific room?
Or…
Never mind—too many horrifying things had happened today for him to process.
Casper felt as though today had shaved five years off his life.
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