In the early morning two days later, in the Old Town of the Capital City, Patriot Avenue.
In the streets of the Old Town, where sanitation was generally substandard, night-time security was in shambles, and garbage trucks visited only once a week on average, Patriot Avenue was absolutely an exception.
It had a garbage truck passing through every day, patrol guards specially assigned by the police department, and walls that were repainted three times a year.
Yes, unlike other streets that nobody cared about even if the paint on the walls completely peeled off—sometimes for twenty or thirty years—Patriot Avenue not only had dedicated sanitation measures, but the walls were even extravagantly repainted frequently, so clean and tidy that it barely resembled a street located in the Old Town.
Patriot Avenue, rebuilt with special funding from the Treasury Department to commemorate the soldiers who bravely fought in the war to defend the homeland, was not only a face for the King and the Parliament but also a residence for a large number of soldiers wounded in the war six years ago. It was only natural that it should receive some preferential treatment, and no one would question this.
Unfortunately, such preferences in public expenditure seemed unable to solve the prevalent poverty among the demobilized soldiers. The glorious experience of fighting for the country did not spare them from violent beatings by the patrol guards when they urinated against the walls after drinking.
"Stop! Damn it! Pull up your pants!"
After hurriedly kicking the drunkard standing by the wall to the ground and watching the fresh urine trickle down the fiery red wall, two patrolling guards were filled with an indescribable sense of frustration.
Damn, how did it happen again in the area they patrolled? Their pay was surely going to be docked!
Seeing the drunkard on the ground, having soiled his pants after being kicked mid-stream, the two guards glanced around the deserted street and couldn't help but gather around, gritting their teeth as they beat the drunkard.
"You bastard! This wall was painted to commemorate the war to defend the homeland!"
"It's already the third time this week! Damn it! Can't you guys go somewhere else to piss?"
After a while of kicking and beating, the drunkard, curled up and silent, still didn't appease the two guards, who were sure to have their pay docked. They dragged him to the urine-stained wall, tossed him a dirty rag, and angrily ordered him to clean up the urine stains.
But as the drunkard shakily stood up, he didn't pick up the urine-scented rag on the ground. Instead, he reached into his pant pocket and grabbed something, swallowed hard, and spat out a thick phlegm, yellow with a tinge of green, toward the freshly painted bright wall.
Accompanying a light "ding," an iron combat commemorative medal, imprinted with the feathers of a Robin and only awarded to those who participated in the war to defend the homeland, was "spat" onto the commemorative wall alongside the phlegm.
"Patriot Avenue? Ha!"
Unfortunately, it still fell short.
Watching the hands on the watch continue to flicker but ultimately stop in the "Human" zone, failing to reach the "Abnormal" zone, the elderly man with drooping corners of his mouth across the street shook his head, then spoke to the middle-aged man across the table:
"This person isn't bad. He has a painful past and intense emotions, nearly meeting the standards for becoming abnormal in every aspect, possessing the potential to let the seed 'germinate.'
But his soul isn't pure enough; there are too many chaotic thoughts. To truly transform into abnormal, he would need to experience a more heart-wrenching pain, completely plunging him into the abyss of despair...
Does he have family?"
The middle-aged man, whose temples showed a few strands of gray hair, looked at the drunkard being beaten by the two guards, paused for a moment, and then replied:
"Old Baskin's wife died of illness, but he has a twenty-year-old son who joined us three years ago and is now responsible for procuring living supplies."
Upon hearing the middle-aged man's words, the old man with a naturally sorrowful face raised his eyelids with interest and asked:
"How's their father-son relationship?"
The middle-aged man, or rather, the Rebel leader, hesitated before shaking his head and saying:
"Old Baskin sustained numerous injuries in the war to defend the homeland six years ago. His right leg was pierced by a Nail gun, and his stomach was wounded by a whale oil bomb dropped from an airship, causing him unbearable numbness and itchiness during rainy or snowy days, so he has been drinking heavily for years to ease his pain.
"The compensation from the Kingdom was not much, most of which he drank away. So when his wife got liver disease, there was no money for treatment, and she died within two years. After that, he drank even more heavily and often beat young Baskin when drunk, whom in turn extremely hated his father."
"That is truly pitiful indeed."
The Aquarius Director glanced at the drunkard across the street with a hint of mercy and sighed:
"It's a pity, if he had a son who was unwilling to give up on him at all costs, continuing to care for him, it would be better.
"In that case, as long as the last person unwilling to abandon him expressed complete disappointment or a slight incident was designed for his son, extinguishing the last bit of light in his heart, the pain that erupted could completely cleanse his soul.
"Under the refinement of despair swelling to its peak, his soul would be stripped of all impurities, at a certain moment existing only in the purest obsession, thus truly stepping out of the ordinary frame, successfully crossing into the threshold of being abnormal, but now..."