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The instant she felt his weight press down upon her, Bo Li’s entire body went rigid, her mind turning utterly blank.
What was this?
His last act of mercy before death, or a new method of intimidation?
In this world, he was not only a predator, but a predator who delighted in toying with his prey.
“What on earth do you want…” Bo Li rasped, her voice hoarse, choked with the tremor of near-collapse.
She had not expected him to answer. Yet to her astonishment, he did.
“…Lawrence Boyd,” he murmured against her ear, each word measured, his voice cold and level, without a trace of emotion, “is a fraud.”
It was the most laughable joke she had heard in recent days.
For several nights he had forced his way into her room, closing in on her like a cat stalking a mouse, never revealing himself until her fear had reached its peak.
And after such elaborate torment, all this—only to tell her that Boyd was a fraud?
Bo Li’s voice grew even hoarser, almost numb:
“I know he’s a fraud… I just didn’t dare fall out with him… Still, thank you for telling me… You really are such a kind-hearted man…”
“You knew?”
He asked it in a flat, even tone that plunged her into an ice cave.
Until now, he had never spoken more than a single sentence in succession.
Yes, his voice was beautiful, the kind that sent a current shivering from her ears to the crown of her head.
But to hear him string so many words together did not delight her—only made her feel as though her life was nearing its end.
Bo Li began to long for those times when he kept silent.
Then, all she needed was to give him a hug or a kiss to escape unscathed.
Not, as now, to rack her brains in order to answer his questions.
Who could say if there were even “correct” answers?
If she answered wrongly, would she lose her fingers like Boyd?
Clenching her fists, she struggled to steady the fearful pounding of her heart:
“Once, there was an Austrian doctor named Mesmer. In treating illness, he would first have patients drink a glass of water containing iron filings, then touch them with a magnetic rod… Many of his patients were secluded noblewomen, and even the lightest touch could provoke strong reactions, so they placed great faith in his methods.”
“Boyd’s trickery,” she continued, gradually regaining her composure, “likely borrowed from this Mesmer…”
If this had been a quiz show, she thought, she would have already advanced to the next round.
Alas, this was a madman’s game of questions and answers.
Right or wrong—he alone was judge.
Bo Li hoped that, when he passed judgment, he would not speak.
His silence always frightened her.
He had suddenly become eloquent, and that only made her all the more afraid.
…What had happened in these past few days, that made a mute learn to speak?
Bo Li’s wish was in vain.
He tilted his head slightly, fixing her with a disturbing gaze for a long time before abruptly speaking:
“What else do you know.”
Bo Li did not understand what he meant:
“…About Mesmer? That is all I know. I—I also know he laid the foundation for hypnosis…”
“Anything.”
Bo Li could think of nothing more to say: “…Could you give me an example?”
Erik’s hand clasped her neck, his thumb pressing warningly against her throat, his voice devoid of inflection:
“Do not make me impatient.”
His body was like a massive machine of high energy consumption, ceaselessly radiating heat, yet the black leather glove on his hand was as cold as ice, raising gooseflesh along her neck.
Bo Li understood.
He had grown weary of the hunting game, and had begun to play “One Thousand and One Nights” with her.
Like the heroine of the tale, she must go on recounting things that would keep him intrigued, until he chose not to kill her.
Was this truly a game conceived by a human mind?
Bo Li could only feel fortunate that she was a modern person who loved reading, films, and games.
She dared not imagine—had she been a nineteenth-century local, confined to the home with limited knowledge—what fate he would have dealt her.
“Let me speak of Mesmer still. The reason he is said to have laid the foundation for later hypnosis…” she spoke with a trembling voice, “is because his ‘treatment’ relied on two crucial elements: first, the psychological suggestion delivered through water with iron filings, and second, the use of group effect to amplify the influence of hypnosis…”
In the darkness, Erik watched her from behind, the white mask still waxlike and vacant.
Yet in his eyes stirred an indistinct emotion—both burning and dreadful, as if it could melt the wax itself.
She was timid, greedy, presumptuous; from her eyes to her breath, to her every movement, all provoked within him a violent unease.
It was the unease of knowing she might, at any moment, strip away his mask.
And when he thought of the day she would remove his mask, and with those eyes gaze upon him—her gaze like the moistened tip of a brush gliding, wandering, across his exposed face—
He felt a humiliation he had never before known.
A desire to kill her, to end all future troubles.
And yet, she always managed to slip from his grasp.
It was strange.
He had never once shown mercy to anyone.
His parents had said he was a madman, unsound in mind, prone to sudden frenzy; if he were not confined in an asylum, he would go insane and kill everyone.
After that, he was locked away in the asylum’s ward for severe cases—immersed in water, beaten, subjected to electroshock, taught that he must pray every night.
Even now, when he heard the toll of the hour, the muttering prayers of those lunatics would echo in his ears.
When the attendants discovered that his appearance was unlike that of ordinary men, they would amuse themselves in their idleness—tearing away his mask and forcing him into the full gaze of everyone present.
That sensation was no different from being cut apart inch by inch.
The attendants used every means to compel him to speak, then mocked the sound of his voice.
“If you weren’t a lunatic, how could you look like that—and sound like that—you were born abnormal…”
“You are sick.”
“One day, you will lose control.”
…
But he did not lose control. He plotted with calm precision, advanced step by step, and with clear mind escaped the asylum.
The asylum possessed nothing—but it had many books, all donated by the wealthy.
They, scheming to seize their relatives’ inheritance, exhausted every trick to confine their kin within, then continued to donate money, books, and facilities, imagining this would let them escape judgment after death.
Yet aside from the Bible, all other books lay buried in shadow, gathering dust, untouched by any hand.
The irony was that what he learned in the asylum’s reading room far surpassed anything his parents had ever taught him.
After fleeing the asylum, he traveled to many places, across the breadth of Europe, and acquired countless skills: composition, ventriloquism, sleight of hand, mastery of various instruments.
In India, he learned the art of killing with a rope, known locally as the “Punjab Noose.”
At last, he took up residence in the palace of Mazandaran.
The Persian king regarded him as a confidant, endlessly praising his cold-blooded, ruthless methods of killing, and rewarding him lavishly for his reconstruction of the palace.
He possessed a terrifying talent for architecture, and by his own hand transformed the palace into a labyrinth of devices that struck terror in all who heard of it.
In that palace, the king could move like a ghost—appearing suddenly, vanishing without warning.
Everywhere were mechanisms, hidden passages, and trapdoors; no one knew where the king truly reside.
Those were the days when he lived most like a man—until the king began to fear his intellect, dreading that he might be used by others, and decreed that he and all who had ever worked for him should be executed.
A Persian whom he had once aided saved his life. Yet the man dared not keep him by his side, and handed him over to a circus manager, hoping the troupe could spirit him away.
He ceased to speak, for language was useless, powerless to change anything.
Men only wished to hear what they themselves desired, only wished to see what they themselves chose.
Most of all, whenever he opened his mouth, the voices of the asylum attendants would echo in his ears—
“If you weren’t a lunatic, how could you look like that—and sound like that—you were born abnormal…”
His appearance was shame. His voice was shame.
Though Bo Li had never uttered judgment upon his voice, each time he spoke, gooseflesh rose upon her skin.
She was one who clung greedily to life, who, so long as she could survive, could fawn upon anyone.
There was no need for him to show her mercy.
That day, she had believed he was gone. In truth, he remained in the room, beside her, a sharp dagger in his hand, ready at any moment to plunge into her back.
And then, in the next instant, she suddenly shed her shirt and trousers, donning a dress patterned with flowers.
Though he had long known she was a girl, the shock of that sight far exceeded anything he had imagined.
She was very fair, like a tide of whiteness surging into his eyes.
His first reaction was to avert his gaze.
Yet she was everywhere.
The whiteness of her knees, the whiteness of her calves, the whiteness of her ankles, the whiteness of her toes.
Some indescribable emotion surged up to his throat.
His heartbeat pounded violently, and once again he tasted that familiar discomfort—the tingling of his scalp, the aching of his eyes, the bristling of his hair, as though he had swallowed some dark, viscous fluid, even his heartbeat turning sticky and sluggish.
At first, he believed the reason he had not killed her that day was because he had seen what he ought not to see.
Yet as the days passed, though she never again revealed that whiteness, he still had not made his move.
She was careless, so unguarded that anyone could follow behind her.
When she went to the theatre with Boyd, he had intended to kill her, but for reasons unknown, in the end it was only Boyd’s fingers he severed.
Perhaps there was no reason at all.
He had always loathed those who sought empty fame.
These past days, he had toyed with her as one toys with prey struggling desperately in a trap, pressing in step by step until she had nowhere left to flee.
Always he thought: Tomorrow I will kill her.
And always he delayed until the following day.
At last, after several days, he resolved himself.
—One day she would die by his hand; why not now?
From behind he approached her, coldly watching his own shadow swallow her inch by inch, the blade’s edge gliding lightly across the pale skin of her neck.
Boyd, too, had touched her neck.
She was so defenseless, her fragile throat open to anyone’s touch.
That realization filled him…with rage.
For several seconds, the urge to strike boiled like scalding water in his veins, hissing with restless fury in his ears.
And yet, when he saw her terrified, panicked, cold sweat streaming, the first thought that rose within him—was to embrace her.
Before, whenever she was afraid, she would cling to him in an embrace.
He had thought she was thoroughly tamed, that no matter how extreme the circumstances, she would use embraces and kisses to soothe him.
Who could have known, when he truly wished to kill her, the one to respond first by instinct—was himself.