Chapter 60: The Homeless and the Klein
Tingen City slums, Lower Street of Iron Cross Street.
This place seemed like the other side of the city, a corner completely abandoned by prosperity and order.
The narrow alleys never saw sunlight year-round, and the walls on both sides looked like they had a skin disease, oozing large patches of damp, cold mold.
The air was filled with an indescribable, complex odor—the acid rot of sewers, the sour smell of cheap, low-quality ale, the metallic scent of blood coughed up by the sick, and a sense of despair from life slowly decaying.
Klein wore an inconspicuous old coat, his top hat pressed low, as he walked through this oppressive maze.
He wasn't in a hurry to find clues; instead, he slowed his pace, using all his senses to experience the atmosphere here.
Intermittent coughing came from a distance, sounding as if lungs were being coughed out.
Nearby, a child in rags huddled in a corner, staring numbly at passersby with hollow eyes.
There was no clamor here, only a deathly silence and heaviness. Everyone was like a drowning person struggling in a quagmire, every breath exhausting all their strength.
Klein activated Spirit Vision.
The world in his vision changed instantly.
Against a background of black, white, and gray, the etheric light representing the aura of life appeared exceptionally dim here.
Most people's auras showed a sickly, grayish-white hue, mixed with dark blue representing depression and suffering.
He found no large-scale spiritual residue belonging to evil rituals, nor did he sense the frenzied aura of an out-of-control Monster.
Everything seemed "normal"—heart-chillingly normal.
Just as he was about to head deeper into the next alley, his spiritual intuition suddenly felt a slight prickling pain.
He stopped abruptly and cast his gaze toward an even darker and narrower dead-end alley to his front-left.
There was a spiritual trace there.
The trace was very faint and cold, like frost flowers on a window in winter. It wasn't evil, nor did it have any sense of madness, but the meanings of "end" and "extinction" contained within it made Klein's scalp tingle.
He calmly adjusted his breathing and quietly reached for his waist, where his revolver was hidden.
Like a stalking leopard, he moved noiselessly toward that dead-end alley.
The alley was deep, and the light was almost completely swallowed.
Reaching the end, he heard a faint groan, as if something were blocking the throat.
The sound was filled with endless suffering and torment.
Klein's heart leaped into his throat. He cautiously peeked half his head out and looked deep into the alley.
Then, he saw it.
At the deepest part of the alley, a figure huddled by a pile of trash was twitching violently, making a raspy "he-he" sound in their throat, as if enduring unimaginable suffering.
And in front of that figure stood another person.
A woman.
Klein's pupils contracted sharply.
In this filthy, damp, and stench-filled alley, the woman's presence itself was an extreme dissonance.
She wore a simple but exceptionally clean long gray dress; there wasn't a single wrinkle or stain on the fabric, as if the surrounding filth would automatically avoid her.
Her figure was tall and slender, her smooth black hair simply tied back, revealing a clean neck and a perfect profile.
The dim light outlined her pert nose and slightly pursed lips; that face was breathtakingly beautiful, an inhuman beauty.
But what caught Klein's attention wasn't her beauty, but her actions.
She was slowly and gracefully raising a hand, which was so pale it was almost transparent, with long, slender fingers like a perfect work of art.
She gently placed this hand on the forehead of the person struggling in suffering.
The body that had been twitching violently suddenly stiffened, as if a pause button had been pressed.
Then came an even more violent convulsion; the person's body arched like a shrimp, limbs twisting unnaturally as if fighting some invisible force.
But all this lasted for less than two seconds.
Afterward, all struggling ceased.
The person's body went limp and collapsed, completely losing all signs of life.
Dead.
Klein's heart felt as if it were being squeezed by a cold hand.
Murder!
This was undoubtedly a murder committed using Beyonder powers!
Countless thoughts flashed through his mind in an instant. A cultist? Someone who had lost control? Or a Lunatic who enjoyed killing?
No matter who she was, she had crossed the Nighthawks' bottom line.
A cold anger rose from the depths of Klein's heart. Protecting ordinary people from the harm of Beyonder powers was the oath he took when he became a Nighthawk.
He no longer hesitated.
"Don't move!"
A low shout broke the deathly silence of the alley.
Klein stepped out from the shadows, his body sinking slightly into a standard shooting stance.
The black revolver pointed steadily at the woman's back, its cold muzzle seemingly condensing the chill of the entire alley.
"Nighthawk! Raise your hands and turn around slowly!" His voice wasn't loud, but it was filled with unquestionable authority.
However, to his surprise, the woman didn't show any panic at being caught in the act.
She didn't even raise her hands immediately.
She just stood there quietly, as if admiring her masterpiece. After a few seconds, she slowly withdrew her "murderous" hand, then turned around with an almost languid posture.
When her face was fully exposed to Klein, he couldn't help but catch his breath.
What a face it was.
Beautiful enough to captivate all living beings, beautiful enough to be otherworldly.
Her eyes were as deep as a cold pool, without any emotional fluctuations—neither fear of being caught nor the pleasure of killing, only a bottomless calm and a hint of... indescribable weariness.
She just looked at Klein quietly, at the lethal revolver in his hand, her gaze even carrying a hint of faint curiosity.
Klein was somewhat at a loss by her reaction.
This wasn't right.
A murderer, when pointed at with a gun by a Nighthawk, shouldn't react like this. She was too calm, as calm as an outsider.
This extreme calm, in Klein's view, had only two possibilities. Either she had absolute confidence in her superb acting skills, or her strength was so great that she didn't care about an official Beyonder at all.
Either way, it meant the woman before him was extremely dangerous.
Klein forced himself to calm down, his hand holding the gun becoming even steadier.
"I'll say it again, raise your hands!" He emphasized his tone.
The woman finally reacted; she tilted her head slightly, seemingly considering Klein's words.
Then, she spoke in a soft tone, as if discussing the weather.
Her voice was pleasant, cold with a hint of magnetism, but the words she spoke made Klein's anger flare up again.
"Murder?"
She softly repeated the word, the corners of her mouth curling into a very faint, almost invisible arc—not of mockery, but more like a helpless self-deprecation.
"Sir, do you always trust your eyes so much?"
This counter-question was like a stone thrown into a calm lake, creating ripples in Klein's heart.
Did he trust his eyes?
Of course! He saw her strike with his own eyes, saw that person die with his own eyes! The evidence was conclusive!
"I saw everything you did," Klein's voice was cold. "You killed him with Beyonder powers."
"Killed?" The woman shook her head, her gaze passing over Klein's shoulder toward the gray sky at the alley entrance. "No, I just... set him free."
"Free?" Klein almost laughed out of anger. "You call this setting him free? What right do you have to decide the way someone else is set free!"
As he spoke, he remained vigilant, slowly approaching the fallen "victim."
He needed to confirm the situation and gather evidence.
He crouched down and reached out a finger to the man's carotid artery.
No pulse.
He then placed his hand on the man's chest.
No heartbeat, no breathing.
The body had already begun to grow cold.
He activated Spirit Vision to observe the spiritual residue on the corpse.
Then, he froze.
The spiritual residue he expected—filled with resentment, suffering, and unwillingness—didn't appear at all.
On the contrary.
The aura around the corpse showed an unprecedented calm and peace. It was a kind of... complete relaxation after shedding a thousand-pound burden.
He could even feel that the soul which had just left the body left behind a hint of faint... gratitude before dissipating.
Gratitude?
How could that be!
How could a murdered person be grateful to the killer who took their life?
Klein was completely bewildered.
Everything happening before him was completely beyond his scope of understanding.
His mind was in a mess, and for the first time, his hand holding the gun showed an imperceptible tremor.
Just as Klein fell into great confusion because of what he saw through Spirit Vision, the mysterious woman made another move.
She completely ignored the gun in Klein's hand that could fire at any moment, stepping toward the shadows on the other side of the alley.
There, another person was huddled.
An old-looking homeless man was leaning against the wall, coughing violently and with suffering; every cough made his body shake like a sieve, as if he would fall apart the next second.
He was so thin he was just a bag of bones, and in his sunken eye sockets were eyes devoid of any spirit, tormented by illness.
Seeing the woman's movement, Klein's nerves instantly tightened.
"Stop!" he shouted sternly, his muzzle locking onto her firmly again. "Don't move! What are you trying to do?"
The woman stopped but didn't look back.
She only turned her face sideways, her half-profile looking somewhat distant and unreal in the dim light.
"What am I doing?" she asked softly, her voice carrying a clear weariness. "Can't you hear it? Every breath he takes is like swallowing broken glass."
Klein was stunned for a moment.
He focused his mind to listen, and sure enough, the homeless man's breathing was exceptionally heavy; every inhalation and exhalation was accompanied by a grating "hissing" sound, like a worn-out bellows full of noise and obstruction.
"His lungs are already filled with stones—a'souvenir' the factory left him. No medicine can cure him, and he doesn't even have the money to buy a piece of black bread. Living, for him, is just endlessly repeating the torture of swallowing glass."
The woman's voice was flat, without a single ripple, as if stating a fact that had nothing to do with her.
"So, I intend to give him a painless, peaceful sleep."
She turned her head, her deep eyes looking directly at Klein, her gaze calm and frank, as if waiting for his judgment.
"Is this the 'evil act' you intend to stop?"
This question was like a heavy hammer, striking Klein's heart.
Evil act?
Is it Justice to prevent a person in suffering from finding peace?
But what is it to let her take others' lives at will?
Klein felt his head turn into mush. The clear-cut standards of Justice he believed in were, at this moment, stained with a layer of impenetrable gray.
He was a Nighthawk; his duty was to protect.
But when life itself had become an inescapable suffering, what did protection mean?
Was it protecting their right to live, or protecting their right to be tormented by suffering?
His hand, the one holding the gun, felt as heavy as a thousand pounds.
The cold metal, for the first time, felt burning hot.
"Who... who exactly are you?" Klein's voice was a bit dry; he tried to make his tone sound firm, but even he could hear the wavering within. "What right do you have to decide their life and death on your own?"
This was his final question as a Nighthawk.
It was also the last line of defense in his internal struggle.
If she couldn't answer this question, if she was just a Lunatic using "mercy" as an excuse, then he would pull the trigger without hesitation.
However, the woman's answer once again exceeded his expectations.
She didn't bring up some divine decree or profound philosophical theory to defend herself, as Klein had imagined.
She just fell silent for a moment, then asked a seemingly unrelated question in an even more weary and calm voice.
"Do you believe there is a 'line' in this world?"
"A line?" Klein frowned, completely unable to follow her train of thought.
"Yes, an invisible, untouchable, but very real 'Kill Line'."
The woman's voice was very soft, yet it seemed to carry some magic, making the air in the entire alley feel frozen.
"It isn't drawn with swords, but woven by poverty, disease, oblivion, and despair."
"When a person's life, everything they own, their value, their hope, and their social connections all fall below this line..."
She paused, her gaze sweeping over the figures struggling in the shadows of the alley, a deep sense of compassion showing in her eyes.
"...society will default to them being 'dead.' Their physical body might still be alive, but that in itself is just a delayed, meaningless cruelty."
"Kill Line?"
Klein chewed on this unfamiliar term, an inexplicable chill rising from his heart.
He felt as if he were touching an extremely dangerous yet incredibly real dark law hidden beneath the surface of this world.
His brain worked rapidly, trying to understand this subversive concept.
And the woman didn't give him much time to think.
She raised her hand, pointing to another worker in the corner who had fainted from coughing up blood; from his pocket, a corner of a crumpled pay stub, soaked with sweat and filth, peeked out.
Her voice sounded again, this time with an almost mechanical coldness: "Do you see the numbers in that man's pocket?"
Klein looked instinctively; it was a thin piece of paper with a few blurred numbers printed on it.
"That's not just his wage."
The woman's voice seemed to come from another world.
"That is the'steam pressure value' in his 'boiler'."