Even the air in the lavatory seemed to solidify.
Candle flames danced above, casting the shadows of the two figures onto the ivory-inlaid walls. No. 7 stood at the doorway, the sword in his hand trembling slightly, its blade grooves clogged with dried blood. Around his waist was a blue sash. His eyes, those eyes once judged "half-blind," were now terrifyingly clear, reflecting every detail of the Bishop's bloated form: the snapped threads on his gold-embroidered robe, the seeping stitches on his neck, and the fear gradually magnifying in his one good eye.
The Bishop had never seen such eyes.
It wasn't anger, not hatred, not even killing intent. No. 7's gaze was as calm as a stagnant pool, as if a part of his soul had died along with his companions. This calmness terrified the Bishop more than any roar. His fingers tightened around the gold bar in his lap, its metal edges digging into the soft flesh of his palm.
"You... you are lucky," the Bishop's voice suddenly became fawning, a twisted smile playing on his lips. "You are the most... the most outstanding one here..." Bloody foam seeped from between his teeth; he had to stop to swallow. "Tomorrow... tomorrow you can set off for the capital... Special people will be there to receive you..."
No. 7 didn't move. He was sizing up this Cardinal Sin Bishop who had once made them tremble with fear.
Candlelight flowed along the sword blade, illuminating the intricate patterns. This was the sword he had once used to execute test subjects. The Bishop looked at the dried bloodstains on the blade and suddenly realized whose blood it was. His chin began to tremble, and the fat beneath his gold-embroidered robe rippled like a wave.
"You will become a glorious Holy Knight..." The Bishop's tone suddenly became high-pitched, as if trying to convince himself. "Riding a Menger purebred warhorse... walking down the central avenue..." His speech quickened, as if this could dispel the aura of death. "The Holy Maiden will sing for you, the Pope himself will..."
The Bishop's voice suddenly stopped. He saw No. 7's arm swiftly rise, pointing the sword at him.
"Are you blind?!" The Bishop's one eye bulged, almost popping out of its socket, his vocal cords tearing as he shrieked, "Can't you see your own fut...ure... can't you see..."
No. 7 looked down at the Bishop, his voice ethereal, as if coming from the edge of the sky.
"I see it."
He said softly,
"I can see everything now."
A flash of the sword.
The Bishop's voice stopped abruptly. He saw No. 7's arm move, so fast it was like an illusion, then he felt a coldness on his neck. A warm liquid flowed down, soaking his robe, a strong rusty taste filling his mouth. But it wasn't just blood that was flowing down; there was something else. His vision was constantly sliding downwards, seeming to get closer and closer to his own stomach.
Blood gushed from the headless neck, like a crimson fountain shooting towards the gilded ceiling. The gold-embroidered robe instantly billowed up, countless golden threads shooting out like vipers, entangling the sliding head. The "hissing" sound of threads piercing skin was as dense as rain. The Bishop's head was pulled towards his neck, leaving a broad bloody trail on the robe.
No. 7 watched this scene coldly. The golden threads frantically wove and stitched, rejoining the head and torso, the stitches finer and neater than ever before. When the last golden thread was tied off, the Bishop's body even twitched slightly. The gold-embroidered robe billowed as before, and even the wound on his neck was replaced by a circle of golden stitches.
But the wide-open eyes held no more spirit, only a dead stillness.
The golden threads were still writhing, tirelessly mending a body that was long dead. They burrowed into the Bishop's nostrils, emerged from his ear canals, weaving a new network beneath his skin, as if, with enough effort, they could make this pile of fat and fabric breathe again.
No. 7 raised his arm, wiping the blood from his face with his sleeve. His movements were slow, as if utterly exhausted, or as if he wanted to carve the feeling of this moment into his very marrow.
A gold bar lay askew on the floor, having rolled from the Bishop's lap. No. 7 bent down and picked it up, his fingertips tracing the raised patterns on it. The gold was cold, and heavy, just as he had imagined. Then, he tucked the gold bar back into the Bishop's stiffening embrace.
No. 4's head still rested on the table outside. His eyes reflected No. 7's approaching figure and the Bishop's slumped corpse on the toilet, like a silent witness, even the terror in his eyes having faded considerably. No. 7 picked up No. 4's head, unable to bear looking at it any longer, and gently cradled it in his arms.
No. 7 took one last look at this magnificent, gilded cage. His reflection in the mirror was bathed in blood, yet it looked more human than ever before. He turned, pushed open the secret door of the wardrobe, and his figure disappeared into the darkness of the passage.
The tip of his sword dragged across the stone surface, making a harsh scraping sound. No. 7 walked back along the trail of blood, each step treading through a viscous dream. The Bishop's bloodstains wound across the floor like a dark red path, reflecting the candlelight dripping from the vaulted ceiling, like a river of stars leading to hell.
He continued onward, passing through the silent sacrificial hall. The huge stone disk in the center still reflected a faint firelight. The reliefs on the cave walls seemed to be watching him. No. 7 looked back, and that gaze vanished without a trace.
The iron bars of the prison cells stood silent in the shadows. No. 7's footsteps disturbed the dust, which swirled upwards, turning into countless tiny specks of light in the moonlight.
No. 5's corpse was covered with a white cloth, the blood long since congealed. Beside him lay No. 8's charred body and No. 3's skeleton. No. 7 moved their bodies one by one into an empty room, placing No. 4's head with them on a bed. He sat silently beside them.
In the cells on either side, vague figures seemed to flash by. When they noticed No. 7's gaze, they giggled and hid in the darkness, like a group of children playing hide-and-seek.
"Found you..." No. 7 said softly. His voice startled some sleeping bats in one of the cells. They flapped upwards, the draft from their wings dispersing the illusions.
He smiled, patted No. 3's shoulder with his hand, and slowly got up.
As he passed through the wooden door and onto the huge stone platform, cheerful laughter suddenly exploded by his ear.
"Hahaha, again!" A child-like, clear voice bounced between the stone pillars. No. 7 whirled around and saw, at the foot of the Jupiter statue, hundreds of translucent shadows holding hands and dancing in a circle. They wore the same white uniforms as him, with flower wreaths on their heads. No. 3 stood in the very center, his brown hair flying, the sunburn on his nose clearly visible, waving his arms exaggeratedly. "No. 7! Come quick!"
An uncontrollable smile spread across No. 7's lips. He took a step forward, but the laughter stopped abruptly. The great hall was empty. Only the skeletons' finger bones still maintained their upward-reaching posture, as if trying to grasp the last wisp of dissipating joy.
Cyrus's corpse still lay on the ground, his head turned to one side, watching the direction from which No. 7 approached. His golden braids lay on his shoulders, the huge wound in his chest still open. No. 7 knelt, reaching out to touch his instructor's face. Cyrus's eyelids were cold, like two frozen leaves, closing with a gentle touch. That always tense face was now relaxed, revealing a hint of boyish innocence.
As No. 7's hand brushed against Cyrus's breast pocket, a folded envelope slipped out.
The paper had yellowed somewhat and even had some small tears, clearly having been taken out and read often.
"Dear Papa:
I dreamed you came back again yesterday! Sister Anne said I've made great progress in history class. Can you bring me a cake when you come back? I really miss you, Papa."
A crookedly drawn flower, unidentifiable, was in the bottom right corner of the letter. The return address was: Capital, Saint Clement Steam Corridor Avenue, No. 26, Room 4.
No. 7 stared at the flower in a daze. Some parts of the ink were blurred, as if they had been wet by tears.
This iron-tower of a man, in some corner, was also called "Papa" by someone.
The envelope was refolded. No. 7 tucked it back into the bloodstained uniform, arranging his instructor's hands in a clasped position, so the letter rested close to his heart.
The wind on the cliff edge was very strong. No. 7 stood at the brink, gazing into the distance. The sun was about to rise, the distant horizon tinged with a faint orange-red light. It was beautiful.
Loose stones tumbled from under his boots. The blue sash was whipped by the night wind. Below, the Er River flowed slowly, having long since erased any trace of No. 6's fall.
The magnificent sword glittered in the dawn light. No. 7 raised it and threw it into the chasm. The blade spun as it fell towards the abyss, drawing a silver arc in the air, finally disappearing into the river surface, seemingly without even a splash.
No. 7 took a step forward, falling with the world.