Chapter 11: Punishment Just to Hear These Words

As the warm spring drew to its end, summer gradually began unleashing its scorching intensity upon the city.

Shortly past morning, the sun hanging at the horizon already shone dazzlingly bright, glaring off the white tin roof of this abandoned factory until even the large rust stains became indistinct.

Before the war broke out, such fine weather would have prompted many to take a few days off heading to beaches with beautiful shells and crystal-clear seas, to the magnificent Royal Place des Vosges, to those lush and graceful rose gardens, luxury boutiques, and cafés… Everywhere would be crowded with shoulder-to-shoulder crowds, each face wearing relaxed and cheerful smiles.

Not like now, where bustling footsteps could no longer be heard on the streets. Everyone hunched their backs in coats some even pulling their hat brims low enough to avoid eye contact hurrying along countless cobblestone paths, each scrambling to survive.

The squares no longer hosted residents leisurely reading newspapers or pushing strollers for a stroll, leaving only the rustling sounds of white pigeons flapping their wings as they took off or landed.

How much longer would this war last?

No one knew the answer.

But it was certain that nations showed no intention of stopping yet not only recruiting troops extensively for combat domestically, but intelligence-related mission demands also piled up like snowflakes.

On the gravel path not far from this abandoned factory, an elderly, ordinary-looking man dressed in extremely plain old clothes and a crumpled flat cap walked unhurriedly toward the building, as if taking advantage of the rare good weather for a stroll.

Hidden cameras in every corner had long captured his figure with perfect clarity, yet immediately granted clearance identifiers after scanning.

“Mr. Gao.”

When he stepped into the factory, Rimbaud standing at the entrance bowed slightly in greeting, accurately identifying the visitor.

From what Rimbaud understood of Mr. Gao, occasions like last time when he wore a military uniform to observe Verlaine’s tests were exceedingly rare. He preferred dressing ordinarily, indistinguishable from any elderly person living a common life on the streets.

“Still so perceptive, my child.”

The identified Mr. Gao laughed cheerfully. “I see Verlaine standing in the clearing is that part of your training requirements for him?”

The open ground before the factory lay completely barren, sun-baked sandy soil covering everywhere visible; when the wind rose, one could even see fine dust swirling up, forming thin layers around their feet before being swiftly blown away.

And right at the center of this exposed clearing, Verlaine stood perfectly motionless in an impeccably standard one-handed pistol-holding stance.

Today’s sunlight was too intense, leaving him wearing only a black sleeveless turtleneck tank top and matching tactical pants, his jacket draped over Rimbaud’s arm. Even so, his pale golden hair was already thoroughly soaked with sweat, clinging in damp strands to his neck, with tiny beads of moisture even trembling on his eyelashes.

One glance made it clear he had maintained this position for a long time, yet without a single complaint not even the arrival of his superior Mr. Gao could divert a fraction of his focus.

He continued to maintain tension in his core muscles, keeping the hand holding the gun steadily parallel to the ground without noticeable shaking.

Even without close observation, one could see the fine layer of sweat covering the exposed skin on Verlaine’s body, trembling subtly.

“Yes,”

Rimbaud replied, “This is specialized training targeting Verlaine’s ability-based combat methods. I’m supervising his aiming precision drills.”

Although Verlaine’s method of killing Pan in the 【May Revolution】base was compressing gravity to its limit to form a “black hole,” he was under the control of a command program in his “Liberated State” at that time completely different from his usual rational state.

In his ordinary state, Verlaine’s combat style involves manipulating the gravity of objects he touches, altering their direction or density, even to the extent of launching a button from his hand at near-bullet velocity to shatter an enemy’s bones.

This was a technique Verlaine devised when dealing with that Besan Tobila, and it proved highly effective.

When Rimbaud asked him what weapon he preferred, Verlaine unhesitatingly chose a handgun.

He could even use the firearm to shoot bullets enhanced by his gravity manipulation, with the gun itself serving as perfect camouflage enemies would never expect a mere handgun to deliver force far surpassing armor-piercing rounds.

However, this combat style demands extreme shooting accuracy, as Verlaine’s gravity control cannot make bullets curve mid-flight or automatically track targets.

Based on Verlaine’s choice, Rimbaud developed a series of related training requirements such as the current stability drill for strengthening upper body control.

“Is that so?”

Mr. Gao smiled without blinking after hearing Rimbaud’s explanation, “But judging by his current physical feedback, he’s already lasted longer than most rookies’ limits in this training.”

It was their first time entrusting training responsibilities to Rimbaud, and they hadn’t expected him to be such a strict disciplinarian with Verlaine.

“He’s paying for his own mistakes,”

Rimbaud glanced at his watch and stated calmly, “Had it not been for our bit of ‘luck’ those repeated ‘coincidences’ and ‘accidents’ during the mission we would have already failed and returned to Paris in disgrace for debriefing.”

He deliberately emphasized certain words with lowered tones.

Aside from minor errors, the most severe issue was his failure to detach emotions during the mission, causing at least two major loss of control incidents the second one directly resulting in Besan Tobila’s death.

Had he not coincidentally found a way to transmit intelligence at that moment, it was hard to imagine how much effort would have been needed to cover it up.

Fortunately, Verlaine remembered to command the target to jump from the building, making the fall-induced comminuted fractures sufficient to conceal the artificially inflicted injuries. This allowed the police to process the case as a suicide despite numerous witnesses, preventing more intense public backlash.

Although headlines like [“Religious Academy Dean and Supervisors Commit Suicide in Succession Is There a Shocking Mystery Behind It?”] were certainly eye-catching, they remained nothing more than media speculation.

In any case, Rimbaud absolutely refused to allow their mission to rely solely on praying for some elusive luck.

Verlaine accepted all the punitive training Rimbaud imposed on him, persisting silently even when exhausted to the point of near-collapse, never stopping until Rimbaud called an end.

He too possessed an unyielding competitive spirit and severe self-discipline. Whatever goal Rimbaud set, Verlaine always ensured he achieved it one hundred percent.

Even in areas he had never touched before like vocal skills and singing he began squeezing time for rigorous practice, improving faster than he had during Choir classes at the Academy.

Even Verlaine himself didn’t understand why he felt such a powerful desire, driving him like a tireless Sisyphus to push the heavy boulder up the mountain again and again.

“But this is Verlaine’s first mission,”

Mr. Gao remarked with a sudden laugh, “I’ve read your report he performed remarkably well, far better than expected. Why not let him rest a little?”

He deliberately raised his voice slightly in the latter half so Verlaine could hear.

Yet the latter paid no attention to his superior’s praise or the suggestion of rest, remaining wholly focused on maintaining his posture without the slightest relaxation.

Only when Rimbaud spoke “Time’s up. Rest for half an hour.”

and after a pause added,

“Well done.”

…Perhaps all that relentless effort was just to hear those words.

At that, the steadily raised muzzle of the gun finally lowered obediently to the ground.

Verlaine blinked wearily, his damp, pale gold strands clinging to his forehead and temples as he looked toward them.

“Who is he?”

Having gone a long time without water and exhausted from exertion, his voice came out hoarse and weak.

It was perfectly normal that he didn’t recognize Mr. Gao whether during earlier assessments or later mission assignments, Mr. Gao had never appeared before Verlaine, and this wasn’t even the main office.

“Our superior,”

Rimbaud introduced succinctly, “Just call him Mr. Gao.”

Verlaine nodded to show he understood.

Then, slowly, he walked over to a shaded spot under the factory eaves, sat on a low stool, closed his eyes to rest, and drank some lightly salted water he’d brought from home.

He needed to recover his strength quickly and had no time for small talk with his so-called “superior.”

Mr. Gao watched all this with an amused smile. Instead of saying more to Verlaine, he turned to Rimbaud and remarked lightly, “Seems I’ve ended up taking some of your time my apologies.”

“Not at all. We’re always glad to serve the country.”

Rimbaud replied cautiously, and after telling Verlaine he’d be back soon, followed Mr. Gao deep into the underground secret base to an empty conference room.

“The spy who stole intelligence from within the government and collaborated with that musician to send it abroad has been found. It was a high-ranking official turned by the Germans, and they’ve already been sent to a military tribunal.”

Instead of stating his purpose directly, Mr. Gao first brought up the follow-up to their previous mission.

“That’s excellent news,” Rimbaud nodded.

France, Germany, and Britain were the three nations fighting most fiercely on the European battlefield, all having blood in their eyes.

“This is largely thanks to your quick-witted response, Rimbaud.”

Mr. Gao smiled slightly. “Verlaine’s evaluation has also concluded. While still not entirely satisfactory, it meets the commitment you made to me at the time. We’ll maintain the current arrangement for now. After all, recruiting Espers as agents is something the government has only begun attempting in recent years. Those above are quite optimistic about your future potential.”

Such praise felt like polite conversation before getting down to business not to be taken completely seriously, yet requiring acknowledgment. At least there was some good news.

“I won’t disappoint your expectations.”

After exchanging similar pleasantries, Rimbaud straightforwardly asked Mr. Gao, “Is there a new mission?”

“Haha, no need to rush that. You may finish enjoying your vacation before setting out.”

Mr. Gao waved a hand slightly. When he looked up at Rimbaud again, his finely wrinkled eyes suddenly turned wise and profound.

“However, there is indeed something I’d like to confirm with you.”

He spoke clearly and unhurriedly.

“When you found the research materials left by Verlaine and Pan at the May Revolution base, are you certain that the special device used to control Verlaine, along with the command sequence to remove the seal within his body, were completely destroyed?”