OBS Chapter 107 The Boring Old Deng's Fear
Chapter 107 The Boring Old Deng's Fear
Chapter 107 The Boring Old Deng's Fear
Atlanta, downtown, top floor of a century-old building.
The Thanksgiving dinner was only halfway through.
The long table was covered with a white linen tablecloth, on which were set silver cutlery and crystal wine glasses.
There was a lot of food left over; Alice's turkey was only cut into a few pieces, and the cranberry sauce had solidified on the edge of the plate.
But no one touched the knife and fork anymore.
There were thirteen people sitting at the table.
Seven men and six women, all over fifty years old, were dressed in custom-made suits and evening gowns.
The main course plates in front of them had been removed and replaced with new desserts.
The children were small, no more than ten years old, and were very clean. They wore uniform white cotton robes and knelt on low stools in front of each person.
There is a sound coming from the room.
The soft clatter of knives and forks across the porcelain plate, the sounds of chewing, swallowing, and very soft, suppressed sobs.
Lucien Alden sat at the end of the long table.
He also had a pastry in front of him, a brown-haired male futures premium.
His hands were bound behind his back with thin ropes, and a leather collar was around his neck with a silver chain attached to it, the other end of which was held in Lucien's hand.
Lucien didn't touch his knife and fork.
He just watched, his left hand supporting his face, his right fingers casually twirling the silver chain.
His eyes swept across the room, moving from one face to another.
The man sitting in the main seat was a bald old man named Michael Vanderbilt, Georgia's largest lumber merchant and the owner of this building.
He was slowly and carefully cutting the flesh of his arm with a small silver knife, as if he were enjoying some kind of ritual.
Next to him was a blonde woman named Elizabeth Capote, from an old-money family in Boston.
She didn't use a knife; instead, she bent down and bit the pastry's shoulder, leaving two rows of deep teeth marks.
The snacks were trembling, but I dared not touch them.
Next to him was a man wearing glasses named Thomas Jefferson Lee, a judge.
He poked the pastry in the chest with his fork, drawing out a drop of blood with each poke, then licked the tip of the fork off.
Everyone is doing something similar.
Everyone has an expression on their face.
Excitement, pleasure, conquest, control.
But Lucien saw more than that.
He saw something else.
fear.
It's very faint, hidden deep in the pupils, hidden in the subtle twitches of the muscles, hidden in the rolling of the Adam's apple with each swallow.
The perpetrator's fear.
Lucien tilted his head.
interesting.
He loosened the silver chain in his hand and leaned back in his chair.
He feels very calm right now.
It's not satisfaction, it's not pleasure, it's peace.
An emptiness where you can't feel anything.
That's not right.
He is the chosen one of the "joys of art".
His power lies in breaking through thresholds and pursuing the ultimate, ever-evolving, and novel experiences.
The Salt Lake City bombing once gave him a thrill.
However, the threshold will increase.
Just like taking medicine, the dosage needs to be increased over time.
Now, this dinner party in front of him is like watching an old movie on repeat.
I already knew the plot, I'd seen the scenes before, and even the tone of the screams was exactly the same.
He's entered a state of enlightenment.
The atmosphere in the room only amplified the boredom.
fear.
The fear and apprehension of the young Gundam is novel, but simplistic.
The perpetrator's fear and pleasure are mixed, but cheap.
What are they afraid of?
Lucien closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
The air smelled of blood, perfume, and the wax of burning candles, and also—
A more fundamental, lingering flavor.
The smell of death.
It wasn't the death of the desserts.
It was the perpetrator's own death.
They are afraid of death.
They fear getting old, getting sick, losing power, being replaced, and eventually turning themselves into snacks.
I fear the utter despair that comes after death.
So they use this method to prove that they are still alive, still powerful, and still able to control the life and death of others.
Tsk.
uninteresting.
Lucien opened his eyes and threw the silver chain on the table.
The chain struck the silver plate, producing a crisp sound.
The people at the table looked up at him.
Michael Vanderbilt stopped cutting the meat, the tip of his knife hovering in mid-air.
"Lucien, not to your liking?"
He asked in a gentle voice, like an elder who cares about a younger person.
I'm full.
Lucien said, "Stand up."
He was wearing a black silk shirt with the collar open.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.
He said there was no emotion in his tone.
He turned to leave.
My phone vibrated in my pocket.
"Feeding? It's you~"
"Latin?"
Then he laughed.
It wasn't a lazy laugh; it was a genuine laugh that rolled out of the throat.
"Oh ho~"
He said in a low voice.
"OK."
He put away his phone and looked towards the end of the long table.
Michael was still watching him; the knife tip had been lowered, but his hand was still gripping the hilt.
"Father, elder brother."
Lucien said he raised his voice so that the whole room could hear him.
"I have to go now."
Michael nodded without saying anything.
Sitting to Michael's left is Lucien's older brother, also named Michael.
He looked up, his face still stained with a little blood.
"Where to?"
"South."
Lucien said.
"Find some new fun."
Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked towards the door.
The waiter opened the door for him.
Outside the door was a corridor, carpeted with thick carpets and adorned with oil paintings on the walls. An elevator was located at the end of the corridor.
Lucien didn't take the elevator.
He pushed open a fire door at the end of the corridor, entered the stairwell, and began to descend the stairs.
Footsteps echoed in the empty stairwell.
He was in a good mood.
The boredom was washed away, and new expectations arose.
Latin America, Cuba.
Densely populated areas.
A divine punishment-level event.
What is he going to do?
Plague? Massacre? Explosion? Or—something else?
He walked out of the building, and the night breeze carried the coolness unique to Atlanta in November.
A black sedan was parked on the side of the street. The driver was standing next to the car. When he saw him get out, he opened the back door.
Lucien sat down.
"Airport."
He said.
The car started moving.
He took out his phone, opened an encrypted folder containing several video files.
He clicked on the first one.
The image is shaky, and the angle makes it look like it was shot from a very far distance.
The background is the sky over Detroit, then a small dot appears, grows larger, followed by white light, blinding white light, and then a mushroom cloud rises.
Video of the nuclear explosion in Michigan.
He watched very carefully, his eyes fixed on the screen, his fingers unconsciously swiping to adjust the playback speed.
Slow down, pause, rewind.
The second video contained internal US military documents, which were highly declassified, but that wasn't a problem for him.
The footage shows a nuclear test in a desert, on the sea, and on an island. At the moment of the explosion, the fireball expands, the shockwave spreads, the ground melts, and buildings vaporize.
The third video is a documentary clip from Hiroshima and Nagasaki, in black and white, featuring interviews with survivors, charred corpses, and twisted steel bars.
Lucien watched, his breathing gradually slowing down.
His finger hovered over the screen, the image frozen on a photograph:
A human-shaped shadow, instantly carbonized by a nuclear explosion, is imprinted on the wall.
The shadow remained in the running posture.
He stared at the shadow for a long time.
Then he looked up at the street scene rushing past the car window.
The lights of Atlanta blend together in the night, warm, bright, and unreal.
He said softly, his voice so low that only he could hear, "Ah... I wonder what it feels like to be roasted to a crisp?"
pause.
A smile curved his lips.
"Alice-chan~"
The car drove towards the airport.
On the private helipad, the engines of the Gulfstream G650 were already running.
Lucien got off the bus without any luggage, only his phone.
He walked up the gangway and entered the cabin.
The flight attendant handed him a glass of champagne.
He took it, but didn't drink it; he put it aside.
The plane began to taxi, accelerate, lift off, and soar into the night sky.
Lucien leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
The image that remains in my mind is still frozen in time: the human-shaped shadow on the wall.
run.
But they didn't escape.
he thinks.
If I were the one standing there.
If I could sense it.
The temperature of the flames, the pressure of the shockwave, the instant the skin carbonizes, the process of the bones vaporizing.
What would that feel like?
Threshold.
New threshold.
He opened his eyes and looked out the porthole.
Below, the lights of Atlanta gradually shrank, becoming a blurry patch of light.
Ahead lay darkness, and further south, a sky waiting to be painted over.
He raised his champagne glass and gestured towards the void.
"Lord."
He said.
"For the next performance, I want to try something—hotter."