Through the thick felt, the roaring outside became muffled, like thunder transmitted through deep water.
Boom, boom. Wave after wave—whether it was "Long live the Blood Palm" or "Power Chaos" was indistinguishable—just heavily pounding against the felt, making the air inside the shack tremble faintly.
Scar checked again.
The door bolt was in place. No one at the window crack. Those idiots in strange clothes had been sent away to "maintain order"—which really meant telling them to get lost and stay out of sight.
No one.
He exhaled.
How long had he held that breath? Since coming down from the stage? Since that gold-tooth-holding madman appeared? Since seeing the embarrassment Darren couldn't hide behind that mask?
Scar himself couldn't say. He only knew that when this breath finally came out, his shoulders finally dropped half an inch.
"So?"
He casually tossed aside the robe he'd just been wearing. That thing was heavy, stifling, wrapped around him like someone else's skin. The robe fell to the ground, crumpling into a dark heap of shadow, like something shed, no longer needed.
He walked to the water bucket nearby.
The water in the bucket had been drawn that afternoon, now with a thin layer of dust floating on its surface. He didn't care. He picked up the ladle, scooped a cup—"cup" meaning a chipped coarse clay bowl.
"Not scared, were you? Hah."
He took a drink.
An indescribable strange taste. Like rust, like retted grass, with a faint hint of fishiness. Darenz's water was like this; after drinking it for so many years, he should be used to it. Still, he frowned slightly, but didn't stop. He tilted his head back and drained it in one gulp.
The water went down his throat—cool, astringent, with that familiar strange taste—yet oddly let him exhale from the inside out.
Darren had no reaction.
Just stood there. Still that robe, still that mask, motionless, like a piece of standing deadwood.
Scar scooped another cup.
This time he didn't drink it himself. Bowl in hand, he walked to Darren's side.
A few steps. The shack wasn't big; a few steps and he was there. He could see Darren's chest rising and falling, breathing urgently, like he'd just finished running.
He handed the water to Darren.
The bowl's rim touched Darren's finger. That hand trembled once before gripping it.
Scar watched that hand tremble as it took the water cup.
It shook badly. Not from cold—something else. That kind of tremor that seeped from the bone cracks, impossible to suppress. The water in the bowl shook with it, spilling a few drops onto the ground, darkening into spots.
Scar was very satisfied.
He said nothing. Just stood there, watching Darren bring the bowl under the mask—that pure white, featureless mask, in the dim light now like a blank face waiting to be filled.
Water leaked through the gap under the mask's edge, producing faint gulping sounds.
Scar waited.
For Darren to finish drinking. For him to put the bowl down. For him to take off that mask—or not take it off, either way.
Outside, that muffled thunder-like roar continued. Boom, boom, boom.
Scar listened to that sound, then glanced again at Darren's still-slightly-trembling hand.
He suddenly remembered that gold-tooth-holding madman. Remembered those gleaming yellow teeth mixed with blood. Remembered when he'd slammed that head into the ground, how the person had still clutched that thing in their hands, never letting go.
Interesting.
Scar licked his lips. The water's strange taste still lingered on his tongue, but right now he didn't care about that.
He still had something to ask Darren.
Once those people outside had shouted enough, dispersed, once only the two of them remained in this shack—
He'd have a good talk about where those two words "law" had come from on stage.
Just as Scar was figuring out how to start—
A violent fit of coughing shattered the silence.
"Cough cough cough—cough cough cough cough—!"
Darren's hands shook too badly. Most of that bowl of water had gone into his windpipe, choking him so badly he doubled over like a chicken with its throat squeezed. The rest ran down the corner of his mouth, down his neck into his collar, soaking a dark patch on that dark robe.
The little that remained.
Along with that coarse clay bowl.
Smash!
The bowl hit the floor, shattering into several pieces. Shards flew everywhere, one bouncing onto Scar's instep—even through his shoe he could feel that faint sting.
In the instant after that sharp sound—
Darren reacted as if scalded.
He suddenly straightened up, one hand viciously grabbing at his face.
That white mask representing "sacred, unique, unlookable" was roughly torn off.
What was revealed was Darren's ghastly pale, twisted, violently twitching face.
Not a trace of sacredness.
Only the terror of someone nearly drowned.
Scar stood there, looking at that face.
Ghastly pale. Twisted. The muscles around his eyes jumping, lips trembling, even his chin shaking with it. Like someone just pulled from water, like someone just pinned down and choked.
Scar had seen this expression before.
Is it worth it?
"Is it worth it?"
Scar spoke. His tone still carried a trace of mockery not yet dissipated. He tilted his head, looking Darren's terrified face up and down, like examining some rare curiosity.
"Just a few teeth."
He stepped forward. His boot crunched on the broken bowl shards—crack.
"Back in the mining area, I've seen people's legs blown off, and they didn't react like you."
He was telling the truth. Back then he was still a green kid, first time witnessing what real "flesh and blood flying everywhere" meant. The guy next to him was talking one second, reduced to half a body the next, blood spraying all over his face. He froze for three seconds, then continued hauling rocks.
Not that he wasn't scared. He just didn't have time to be scared.
Darren was different. This bastard Darren had probably never truly seen what "misery" meant in his life.
—
"It's not… not the teeth…"
Darren gasped, his voice sounding squeezed from his lungs, broken and intermittent, with that near-death wheezing.
He suddenly straightened up. Too sudden—he nearly stumbled again. He staggered, steadied himself, then his eyes began darting frantically around the room.
Scanning the floor. Scanning the shadows in the corners. Scanning the pile of discarded robes. Scanning Scar's face. Finally—
Locked onto that large wooden bucket Scar had drawn water from earlier.
He lunged toward it like grasping at a lifesaver.
Moving fast, unlike the half-choked person from moments ago. In a few steps he reached the bucket, his knee slamming against its edge without care, then—
Splash!
Splash!
He viciously plunged both hands into the cold water.
"Water… water…"
He didn't want to drink. He didn't want to drink at all.
He just scrubbed frantically. Scrubbed his palms, scrubbed the backs of his hands, scrubbed each finger, scrubbed under his nails. Cold water splashed out, onto his face, onto his neck, onto the floor. He didn't care. He just washed.
Splash. Splash. Splash.
"That madman… that madman…"
Darren muttered incoherently as he washed. His voice trembled, like it was about to shatter.
He suddenly jerked his head up.
Wet hair plastered to his face in strands, water dripping from the ends. His eyes stared straight at Scar, filled with fear—that kind of fear seeping from bone cracks, impossible to suppress.
"That person… he was smiling!"
His voice suddenly pitched high, sharp as if about to break.
"His mouth was full of blood! But he was still smiling! He kept smiling! He—"
He choked. A strange "heh-heh" sound came from his throat, like something stuck there unable to go up or down.
"He wanted to shove that thing into my hands! Shove it into my hands! Those teeth! Still warm! Still with blood on them! He, he—"
Scar stood there, watching this hysterical old partner of his.
That ghastly pale face. Those eyes widened as if about to split. Those hands still scrubbing frantically in the bucket. That shouting, pitch rising each time, about to tear the roof off.
He glanced again at that mask discarded in the corner. Pure white, quiet, in the dim light like a mocking face.
—
"This is life, Darren."
Scar spoke.
His voice turned cold. That bit of "satisfaction" from earlier—seeing Darren tremble—now vanished like smoke scattered by wind.
Replaced by a calmness that made Darren's back feel cold.
Scar stepped forward.
"Even if it's teeth stained with blood."
Another step.
"You have to accept them."
He stopped beside the pile of broken shards, looked down at them briefly, then raised his eyes, staring at Darren.
"That's the rule."
He kicked the broken shards aside.
Pieces flew out, crashing against the wall with another sharp clatter. Darren's hands shook in the bucket, but didn't withdraw.
"But—"
Scar stopped a few steps from Darren.
That intact eye narrowed slightly, like a snake ready to strike. That old scar slashing diagonally from his brow bone looked particularly grotesque in the dim light.
"Since you mentioned it."
His voice dropped lower. Low as if scraped from deep in his throat.
"Just now on stage."
He stared at Darren.
"Who taught you to shout 'law'?"