Chapter 727: The Test (2)
Charlie Beasley.
A solemn expression, sharp black hair, glasses that exude intelligence…
In keeping with his role as the owner of a high-end hotel in Landa, he appeared outwardly wealthy and dignified.
However, surprisingly, he had come from the slums, much like the vermin that infested the city.
He had an alcoholic father and a weak mother.
Naturally, his alcoholic father beat his mother daily, which inevitably led her to run away, his father to die miserably on the streets, and him to become an orphan wandering the streets at a young age.
Like many orphans in the streets, he nearly died in a filthy back alley. But instead of succumbing, he eventually became the owner of one of Landa’s prestigious hotels, in a city notorious for its murderous property prices.
His secret? Puppet.
Just as he was on the verge of death, Puppet had taken him in, clothed him, fed him, and educated him.
Perhaps this was why, even after the zombie army had turned to ash and Puppet had fled, Beasley stayed behind at the hotel to guide Oliver.
“It’s here.”
In the middle of the hotel’s fourth-floor corridor, right in front of room 444.
Charlie Beasley spoke, barely suppressing his fear. Yet, he couldn’t completely hide it.
His slightly trembling hands and feet, and his clear urge to leave, all betrayed his fear.
“Well then, I’ll be taking my le—”
“Stay.”
Oliver interrupted curtly, commanding, not asking.
Charlie Beasley froze, as if turned to stone, while Oliver turned to face the entrance of room 444.
The room was surrounded by complex layers of spatial and creation-type black magic, almost like a fortress.
It was so densely guarded that one couldn’t even glimpse inside.
Yet, Oliver’s eyes pierced through the magic barrier, allowing him to see within, where he sensed an unsettling aura.
For instance, the demonic presence he had felt near Kent’s side...
“Is Mr. Kent alright?”
Though Kent was close enough for him to see, Oliver hesitated and asked, as though second-guessing himself.
But in his panic, Beasley failed to notice Oliver’s hesitation and merely responded to the question.
“I’m…not sure.”
“You’re not sure?”
Though Oliver knew the answer was genuine, he asked again.
Honestly, he had little interest in Beasley’s sincerity at this point.
“Yes, I haven’t met him in person…”
“Are you starving him?”
“N-no! I’ve provided food and necessary supplies through spatial magic. I did my best… I was instructed to by my master—”
“You’re brave, Mr. Beasley.”
“…What?”
“You could end up taking the fall for all this, yet you stayed. Was it because of Puppet? A sense of duty for raising you? It’s a noble gesture. Personally, I would have chosen to flee.”
“….”
“Though, I doubt it would’ve helped much.”
Oliver spoke these words sharply, almost mockingly, as he looked at Beasley.
Sensing the tension, Beasley hurriedly spoke.
“I-it’s not certain, but I believe he’s alright.”
“And why is that?”
“A little while ago, I received a request through the communication device.”
“…What was it?”
“He asked for a burner, a pot, vegetables, corned beef, and biscuits. Said he was making stew…”
The ingredients sounded familiar.
Hearing this, Oliver dropped his hesitation and reached for the door handle.
As soon as Oliver’s hand touched the handle, the spatial and creation-type black magic set by Puppet activated.
A violet magical barrier appeared, exerting a powerful pull, like a black hole, trying to compress any intruders.
The door itself transformed into a huge mouth lined with teeth, intent on swallowing the intruder whole.
It was a combined spell of spatial and creation-type black magic meant to completely obliterate the target.
But none of that happened.
As soon as Oliver’s hand made contact, the gravitational force from the magical barrier dissolved like a bubble, and the teeth melted away.
With a quiet creak, the door to room 444—one even the hotel owner couldn’t access—opened effortlessly.
The moment it opened, Oliver caught a familiar scent.
The smell of stew, reminiscent of the time when he first came to Landa after leaving the Joseph Family.
“You’re here?”
Kent greeted Oliver as he stirred a pot of makeshift stew on a burner he had set on the floor.
Kent, who Oliver hadn’t seen in a while, looked thinner, his face pale, and above all, he had a knife lodged in his side.
A familiar knife, at that. Seeing it, Oliver could feel a faint ache in his own side.
After all, it was the knife…
…the one Jane, manipulated by Pan, had thrust into his side in Neverland.
That same knife was now embedded in Kent’s side.
“Thank you for sending what I asked for.”
Just as Oliver unconsciously raised his hand to place it on Beasley’s shoulder, Kent, while stirring the stew, nodded toward the hotel owner.
At Kent’s words, Oliver snapped back to attention and looked at Beasley.
Beasley, with trembling eyes, gazed at Oliver’s hand.
Oliver paused, then placed his hand on Beasley’s shoulder and spoke.
“Could you step outside? I need to have a conversation.”
“…Yes.”
“And please don’t let anyone disturb us. You and the others.”
At these words, not only did Beasley nod, but Puppet’s other disciples, hidden around the hotel room, flinched in unison.
Not only did Oliver know about Puppet’s disciples hiding within the hotel, but he had used telepathic transmission to communicate his wishes, requesting they refrain from taking any unexpected actions.
Hearing this telepathic message, the disciples hidden within the room, along with Beasley, had no choice but to nod in agreement.
Receiving their assent, Oliver entered the room and closed the door behind him.
…
With a prolonged creak, the door to the luxury hotel room, nestled in the heart of Landa, shut with a haunting sound, as if echoing someone’s innermost sentiments.
Once it was closed, only Oliver and Kent remained inside.
Oliver first took in his surroundings. It seemed that Puppet had taken great care in setting it up—it was moderately luxurious and comfortable without being excessive.
After surveying the room, Oliver turned back to Kent.
Compared to the last time he had seen him, Kent looked even paler, thinner, and still had that knife lodged in his side. And his...
“Sit. You look tired.”
Kent, serving a bowl of stew, gestured for Oliver to sit.
Following his suggestion, Oliver took a seat, and Kent placed the bowl of stew in front of him.
“Did you expect me to come?”
As Kent set a bowl of stew for himself as well, Oliver asked.
“I had a feeling.”
Trying to deduce what lay behind this “feeling,” Oliver fixed his gaze on the knife lodged in Kent’s side, particularly the demonic aura emanating from it.
Noticing Oliver’s gaze, Kent broke the silence.
“Are you not going to eat the stew?”
At Kent’s question, Oliver tore his eyes from the knife and looked at the stew, steam gently rising from it.
The smell brought back memories of when he’d first left the Joseph Family and joined Kent’s beggar crew.
The time Kent had first helped him…
When he offered a place in his beggar crew if Oliver had nowhere else to go…
The various people in the crew, some welcoming him, others less so…
The cheerful red-nosed man, Harmonica, the girl pretending to be a boy, the elderly man, and others…
Living with them, Oliver had found his own way of learning about the world.
“Hm…”
In all honesty, they were decent memories. At least, that’s how he remembered them.
Back then, he’d known so little, so everything felt new, and everything was exciting.
Remembering those days, Oliver picked up a spoon to try the stew. But just as soon as he did, he put it down again.
“What’s wrong?”
Kent, who was sitting across from Oliver, eating his stew, asked.
Oliver replied.
“I can’t eat because I’m not hungry.”
“Is that so?”
Kent looked at Oliver, somewhat incredulous.
After all, given Oliver’s haggard appearance, it was hard to believe he wasn’t hungry.
He literally looked as though he hadn’t eaten for days, his bones nearly poking through his skin.
And in truth, he did feel a gnawing hunger—one that hadn’t relented even since he’d tasted the flesh of the flesh-eating chef.
Yet, even in his state, he simply couldn’t bring himself to eat the stew. The act of eating felt overwhelmingly repulsive.
Oliver apologized to Kent.
“Sorry, after you went to the trouble of making it.”
“No need to apologize. I didn’t make it because you asked. I made it because I wanted to.”
“Really?”
“Hotel food is tasty, but sometimes, an old man like me craves the rough dishes of the past. Like the way someone who’s built themselves up from nothing still craves the cheap drinks of their younger days. It’s the taste of memories.”
Oliver understood what he meant.
After all, he’d picked up the spoon just moments ago, lost in his own memories.
“So…how does the taste of memories compare?”
Kent emptied his bowl of stew and grinned.
“Worse than I remembered! Ha ha ha ha!”
...
“Kwahaha!”
Kent burst into laughter, saying that the stew tasted much worse than he remembered.
And he meant it.
“Ah, this is ridiculous… I must have made it too authentic. Just coarsely chopped onions and potatoes, with no proper seasoning, corned beef, and biscuits for flavor. I added too much water to stretch it out… Honestly, it’s bad enough to be a crime.”
“Then perhaps you should have made it a bit differently.”
“Then I wouldn’t have captured the memory. Besides, I was hoping it would taste better this time, this lousy stew… Or maybe too much time has passed for it to still taste good.”
There was some truth to that.
It had been several years since Oliver had last tasted that stew.
The time itself was significant enough, but when considering all that had happened since, it felt like an eternity.
Oliver had become a Fixer, met countless people, reunited with Mari, learned about the organization of the Chosen Ones, and fought numerous figures like Bathory, Seamus, Theodore, and the flesh-eating chef, coming to know things he’d rather not.
Kent had also been busy. Although perhaps less eventful than Oliver’s path, his time was equally intense in its own way. Using the funds Oliver had given him, he had unified the beggar crew, built an information network, established a faction, helped other beggars, and eventually even opened a welfare center. He had led a truly remarkable life.
It was a long enough time for the stew that had once tasted good in ignorance to lose its appeal.
“Or maybe it’s not time that’s the issue.”
Kent gazed at the pot of simmering stew.
“If it’s not time, then what’s wrong?”
“It could be the memories themselves. People aren’t exactly known for their perfect recall. We tend to dress up even our most trivial memories. Take, for instance, the friendships of young men that seem romantic in hindsight, only to reveal themselves as shallow…”
Kent’s gaze drifted from the pot to Oliver.
“Or a first love that turns out to be mere infatuation, or a man you once looked up to who turns out to be just an ordinary guy. People wrap their memories in nice packaging. Then, when they see them again, they realize it’s nothing special and feel disappointed… You get what I mean?”
“…I think I do.”
His answer carried a weight of experience, prompting a bitter smile from Kent.
“What about your memories?”
Oliver looked directly at Kent, taking in his past sins as well.
He thought of the people he’d reconnected with after his journey back to Landa: Paul Carver, the civil servant; the citizens of Landa he had encountered; the members of the Chosen Ones and Fighter Crew, Mari, Forrest, Joe…
Silence filled the hotel room for a moment longer than expected before Oliver finally responded.
“Gladly, it seems I’m the same. I, too, dressed up my memories, and I’m disappointed to see them as they really are.”
He winced as he finished speaking, his face reflecting an expression of pain.