#088. The Missing Children (2)
"You dropped your book, young gentleman."
A clear voice resonated through the space.
Philip, wearing a dazed expression, accepted the book without tearing his gaze from the noblewoman’s neck.
"Ah... th-thank you..."
"Remarkable. You seem so young, yet you’re reading such advanced material."
"Uh, yes."
The noblewoman smiled faintly and turned to return to her spot.
Philip’s lips twitched.
As if he wanted to speak.
But hesitation sealed his mouth shut.
"Do you live in this sector?"
The question came from Ray.
The noblewoman paused.
She spun gracefully to meet Ray’s eyes and answered with her customary gentle smile:
"Indeed. I originally resided in a lower-numbered sector but retired here after concluding my affairs. Such inquisitive young gentlemen. Anything else you wish to know?"
"No. Thank you for answering."
A brief exchange of nods followed.
The noblewoman selected another book from her aisle and vanished between the shelves.
Seconds later, Ray asked:
"Could she be your mother?"
"......"
Philip’s mind remained blank.
He had lost his mother at six—ten years ago now.
Layers of time had blurred his childhood memories, obscuring much about her.
Including her face.
Philip couldn’t recall his mother’s face.
That was the heart of it.
Mid-to-late 30s. Brown hair.
Every woman matching that description held latent possibility.
After a long silence, Philip shook his head fiercely.
"If she were Mom, she’d have recognized me. Even if I didn’t recognize her first. And it’s absurd to think she’d be here like this anyway."
Given all factors, the odds were infinitesimal.
How could a mother lost to life’s currents reappear so easily?
"......"
Yet the dormant unease in his heart had stirred:
What if she started a new life?
What if she ignored me... or truly didn’t know me?
That fear.
"Right. I doubt she’s your mother too. For starters—she’s a mage."
"Huh?"
"A Second-Circle mage. Your mother wasn’t one, correct?"
"...No. I’m not certain, but I never saw her use magic."
Ray flipped through Philip’s books, lowering his voice:
"She might also be with Merkred’s group. She wore a necklace with a red gem."
"Necklace? Oh!"
Philip’s delayed realization hit—he’d been too fixated on her hair and neck scar to notice.
"True. We should investigate. I’ll add it to the informants’ task list."
"Shouldn’t be hard. She said she lives here."
As Philip hefted his book pile again:
"Ugh. I’ll take these to the counter first. Look around slowly."
He wobbled toward the register.
Ray checked for the noblewoman’s absence and cast a reinforcement spell on him.
"Whoa! Oh! Oho!"
With steadier posture and quicker steps, Philip sped off.
Ray turned toward where the noblewoman had stood.
That look she gave us earlier…
He’d sensed dissonance in her gaze.
If his intuition held, her gentle smile had concealed another layer—a scrutiny he’d seen before.
During his years obsessing over human behavior, in Sector 50 residents.
The same look as...
A blacksmith or carpenter appraising raw materials.
Ray drifted to the shelf she’d browsed.
Positive Discipline
Becoming an Admired Mother
Empathy: A Guide to Rightful Parenting
All books on child-rearing.
●
"No texts on Black Rain. As the old man said, research seems scarce."
The group approached the counter with their selections:
Veronica held soil studies.
Ray carried psychology texts on human behavior.
Philip chose finance and capital theory.
"Never read a book before, but I should start learning," Philip said awkwardly.
Multiple reasons:
"We’ll visit the bank soon, and I manage our funds."
Responsibility.
"And Ray’s cool—always studying something."
Motivation.
As they packed their books:
"Kids. Look."
Veronica nodded toward the bookstore’s glass entrance.
Ragged boys loitered outside, peering in.
Philip snorted.
"Impatient. We told them to come to the inn."
"......"
Ray counted visible foes:
One… two… three… Seven at the glass alone.
More lurked in alleys and benches.
Over twenty total.
A show of numerical force from a large gang.
Perfect.
With numbers like these, there's definitely a boss mixed in there.
The more you crush them in front of numerous underlings, the easier it'll be to give orders later.
The group left the bookstore and immediately turned into an alleyway.
Street kids brazenly tailed them without any attempt to hide or be subtle.
Their destination was a pre-scouted vacant lot.
Philip and Veronica perched atop a stack of concrete cylinders on one side.
Like spectators taking their seats.
By now, they seemed accustomed to this routine.
Seeing protective barriers forming around them, Ray glanced back.
“Hey, hey. Stop pushing.”
“Dumbasses walked right into their own graves.”
The gang came pouring through the lot’s narrow entrance—RUMBLE—twenty-five strong in total.
One stepped forward from the crowd:
“Heard you’ve been roughing up our boys. Even dared us to come get our money back.”
“You the boss?”
“That’s right. I’m the famous Denain-sir—”
“Weird.”
“Huh?”
“You look way too old to be a gang leader.”
Denain. Age 16.
Leader of the Denain faction controlling half of Sector 47.
This boy’s advanced physical development had peaked years prior—standing over six feet tall with strength surpassing most grown men.
But his rapid maturation wasn’t limited to height and muscle alone.
His face looked significantly more mature than his peers’ too.
And furthermore—
“Bald spot’s showing.”
It meant his hairline had begun its premature retreat.
From Ray’s perspective, this was genuine curiosity—in Sector 50, even the youngest bald guys were in their thirties.
But the reaction was nuclear:
“...Oh shit. He touched on Denain’s complex.”
“That’s completely off-limits.”
“That guy’s gonna get his spine twisted seven ways into a drum barrel.”
As the gang whispered behind them.
Denain’s face turned volcanic red, veins bulging:
“You! You! You! Fucking retard!”
WHOOSH—!
A bear-sized fist cleaved air toward Ray’s face.
Gasps erupted at the unexpectedly vicious move from his frame, but Ray dodged with a slight sidestep, sending Denain staggering off-balance.
“You little—!”
Assuming Ray got lucky, Denain reset his stance to swing again—only to freeze when another voice called:
“Wait—is that actually Denain?”
A second force emerged from the opposite entrance—RUMBLE—a rival gang of similar size poured in through another narrow passage, both groups equally shocked at encountering each other here.
Denain spoke first:
“Melom, stay down. Don’t know why you’re here, but I’ve got business with this bastard first.”
Melom—leader of another gang Ray had dismantled recently—snorted from within his crew:
“Sorry, but I’ve got business with him too. Maybe you should back off?”
Tension crackled between them.
Both leaders glared like mortal enemies, yet neither made aggressive moves.
Too busy eyeing each other to notice Ray anymore:
“Melom, wanna live? Then stay fucking down. Lost your damn mind? You used to piss yourself just meeting my eyes!”
“When was that? Only bringing up old shit ’cause you’re scared now. The real retard here is you. Wait—my bad. Can’t call you retarded when there’s nothing left to retard!”
The air grew thick with tension—one spark and all hell would break loose.
But Ray knew neither would actually attack.
Not enough anger.
Both leaders harbored resentment toward each other. Objectively not insignificant, yet far from overwhelming volumes.
In fact, the dominant emotions in their vessels were hesitation and uncertainty.
“Say one more word. I’ll rip your fucking jaw off.”
“Try it then. Cowardly little shit. Fucking baldy.”
Meaning neither truly wanted conflict.
Just waiting for the other to back down.
Pent-up emotions need release…that’s how people stay mentally healthy.
Ray recalled something he’d read:
『Pent-up emotions that aren’t released will eventually make a person sick at heart.』
While not fully understanding it, he grasped the concept of emotional catharsis.
Human vessels accumulate emotion.
Emotions either: volatilize or accumulate.
The latter inevitably disrupts vessel equilibrium past certain thresholds.
Broken balance breeds unstable behavior.
Upon reaching critical mass, emotions erupt into action—vanishing instantly or gradually over time.
Thresholds vary by person and emotion type.
But one constant remains: after eruption, vessel equilibrium restores itself.
Emotional catharsis likely referred to this entire process.
It struck him then—this eruption and release resembled maintenance work, something like bloodletting for purging bodily toxins.
Ray studied the crimson anger swirling in Melom and Denain’s vessels.
Not enough for full detonation…
But stagnant blood still needed purging.
Couldn’t have future informants acting unpredictably because of this.
After consideration, Ray decided: he’d tend to their mental health himself.
WHOOMPH—
Red mana surged from his palm, swirling toward both gang leaders’ vessels.
