They would create more orphans. The orphans would then be taken away to become accomplices. Over and over again! This nation would finally collapse!
Dean patted Holz's shoulder. "Buddy, that woman actually blocked me from saving the United States. Do you think she deserves to die?"
Holz hesitated. "...Although... but..." He sighed. "Alright, Dean. Even though you're bullshitting, I somehow agree with you. I must be insane. I'll handle that woman, but there's still a kid on the fourth floor. I can't deal with that!"
Dean chuckled, his mood light as he walked into the villa's main hall.
Truth be told, the Beast Taming skill, despite being only level one, was quite useful with acquaintances—especially those who held him in awe—when combined with psychological inducement.
If Mike Smith hadn't written in his letter that his son was a genius, Dean would have sent Little Mike to an orphanage long ago.
His son was a deviant. He truly couldn't muster any sympathy. But if he was a genius... Dean grew interested.
He planned to observe him first before deciding how to handle the child.
Of course, if Little Mike showed even the slightest sign of abnormal thoughts, then Holz wouldn't mind wasting another body bag.
The fourth floor of the villa.
Just as when Dean had last seen him, Little Mike was looking down at a book, seemingly unaffected by the events downstairs.
Or rather, Little Mike had heard, but he didn't care.
Dean observed him for a moment, a smile playing on his lips.
The Mind Reading Technique told him Little Mike wasn't as calm as he appeared. The little fellow was acting.
Dean thought for a moment, then approached. "Let me introduce myself. I'm Dean. This is something your father left for you."
Little Mike didn't move.
Dean silently pulled out his gun, feigning helplessness.
"I originally planned to look after you out of pity.
"I didn't expect what Mike Smith said about emotional detachment disorder to be true—that you'd have no reaction to the outside world. Never mind. The human world is too exhausting; I might as well send you to join him."
Little Mike looked up, his voice faint. "You want to kill me?"
Dean's heart stirred. He thought he'd figured out the little guy's cognitive process!
So, Dean said intentionally, "Your father was a pervert. I don't know if you've been affected. To be on the safe side, your family's bloodline doesn't need to continue."
"Then you can castrate me. If you don't know how, I can teach you," Little Mike said, his tone flat, as if he weren't discussing his own castration.
Dean was speechless. So this is the fascinating cognitive process of someone with emotional detachment disorder? Indeed, an unusual angle!
The child's bluntness caught Dean off guard.
"The look in your eyes hasn't changed," Little Mike said after glancing at him and then lowering his head again. "It means you still want to kill me. But that's not worth it for you. There's no enmity between us, and I have no interest in base emotions. You don't need to be wary of me."
Hearing this, Dean smirked.
He'd confirmed it. Key point: the eyes! Because Little Mike couldn't empathize, he was incapable of comprehending the genuineness of sentiments or reactions during interactions. He could only analyze micro-expressions and movements, rigidly applying set interpretations to make his judgments.
"Are you afraid of death?"
Little Mike shook his head. "My world has no fear, and I don't know what fear is. It's just like how I know you killed Ona, yet I can't muster any emotion to avenge her.
"Books say that murderous intent stems from emotions like self-interest, jealousy, or hatred.
"But I'm only twelve. I've never done anything wrong, nor have I harmed anyone else.
"Yet my father's students, you, and even Ona—you've all harbored ill intentions towards me."
Little Mike looked up. "I've compared descriptions in many books with actual psychological reactions, and I know these are essentially variables added by emotional factors. That's why I want to live—to study these things I can't understand."
"What you say is logical, but what does that have to do with me?"
"What if I can offer you benefits?" Little Mike tried an even more direct approach. "Killing me would only waste a bullet. But if you let me go, I can give you some interesting trinkets."
He stood up. His legs, as thin as bamboo poles, wobbled as he made his way to the small table Dean had approached earlier. He tapped lightly twice on a specific spot.
A pile of photographs cascaded down from above like raindrops.