Mr. Hood was here at Hathaway's invitation; running into Jenkins was just a coincidence.
While Mr. Hood was over by the small blackboard, puzzling over how to draw a hood, Jenkins tied up the man who had ambushed him. As he dragged his captive over to Mr. Hood, he saw the man attempting to sketch a hooded robe with a piece of chalk.
"I'm not much of an artist,"
Mr. Hood admitted with a wry expression. Since Jenkins had seen his face before, he wasn't bothering to hide his identity now.
"Thanks for your help, Mr. Hood."
Jenkins nodded a greeting, intending to leave and find a quieter place to interrogate his reckless ambusher. But he hesitated for a mont, then asked:
"Mr. Hood, I know this might be out of line, but I just want to confirm—did you sell that information about the tobacco factory to the Church?"
The last ti the middle-aged man had investigated a human trafficking case on his own, he'd nearly suffocated in a coffin. Jenkins felt he had to ask.
"Of course. I went to find a broker on the black market right after the gathering that day. Oh, damn it, why is there ice everywhere? Why on earth did Skylark Miss choose this godforsaken place?"
Mr. Hood muttered, returning to his "masterpiece."
"He's not lying."
Jenkins concluded, based on the reaction from his divine domain. Only then did he feel at ease.
He dragged his captive through the winding sewer pipes, stopping only when he judged they were far enough away. The middle-aged man, knocked out by Mr. Hood, was still unconscious. He must have hit his head, so Jenkins had no choice but to heal him first.
The interrogation was surprisingly simple. After a few harsh threats from Jenkins, the man spilled everything. He wasn't a mber of any illegal organization, just an ordinary, unregistered Enchanter from Nolan. He had attacked Jenkins simply because he'd accepted a job from the black market: to collect a single strand of Jenkins's hair.
"I t this mysterious guy about half a year ago. He gives jobs regularly, telling to get hair from specific people. Most of them are Enchanters, or suspected Enchanters. He picked because my ability is perfect for this kind of work, and he pays very well..."
So it wasn't a targeted attack on Jenkins; he was just unlucky. From the man's confession, Jenkins learned that they used a special fragrance to mark their targets, a scent that could only be detected after applying a specific magical potion.
"That's how I was able to track you all the way here. Nearly got lost in these tunnels, though."
The bound man explained with an innocent look on his face, and Jenkins knew he was telling the truth for now.
"So, this mysterious man you ntioned, what does he want with all that hair?"
Jenkins asked again.
"How should I know? I just take the money and do the job."
"Then do you know who he is?"
"How should I know? I just take the money and do the job."
"So where do you make the exchange?"
"How should I know? I just take the—"
"Hmm?"
Hearing the threatening tone in Jenkins's voice, the man realized what he'd said and hastily corrected himself:
"We do a drop once a week. Every Tuesday at eleven in the morning, I take the hair I've collected that week to an alley in the east side of the city. I toss the bag in a trash can, and when I go back at midnight, my paynt is there. I rarely see the man himself. He only shows up every few months to give new requests... but at least he pays promptly."
This was also the truth. It ant that besides the man in front of him, there was at least one other person involved—soone who applied the fragrance and handled the paynts.
Of course, it was possible they were the sa person, but that wasn't important.
What mattered was that hair, for both ordinary people and Enchanters, was a perfect material for casting curses. Jenkins's own [Disease Curse], for instance, required a na, appearance, and a strand of hair as ritual components.
"Tuesday, eleven a.m.... isn't that in half an hour?"
Jenkins glanced at his pocket watch, then back at the man he had tied up. He made a decision.
"Last question. Have you ever killed an innocent person? Or rather, have you ever killed an innocent person for your own selfish desires?"
"No, absolutely not."
The man shook his head frantically. The movent was so sharp it made the bump on his head, from when he was knocked into the pipe, throb with pain. He sucked in a sharp breath.
"My ability lets get a target's hair very covertly. It just requires direct line of sight and close proximity. I have no reason to kill anyone for a strand of hair."
"Good. I'll let you go this ti."
Jenkins nodded and glanced at the ropes binding him.
"I won't untie the ropes for you; I know you have your ways. Don't do this kind of thing again. If I run into you next ti, I'll kill you."
He turned as he delivered the threat, stuffing his hands into his pockets and presenting his back to the man.
"Anyone can see this isn't so social survey; it's obviously part of so shady conspiracy. Working for people like that..."
Jenkins was still talking when a rush of air whispered in his ear. Without turning his head, he dodged to the side as a cyan blade of wind grazed his cheek and shot deeper into the tunnel.
The sound of wind behind him grew more frantic. Jenkins spun around to see a dense volley of compressed air hurtling toward him. With a flick of his right wrist, he condensed the moisture in the air into a thick sheet of ice. Raising it as a shield, he leaped forward through the gale and slapped his hand directly onto the forehead of the man, who had just broken free of his ropes.
"Blasphemous Creation!"
At point-blank range, vines plunged directly into his temples. With a grotesque slurping sound, the man was lifted into the air. The chaotic winds whipping through the narrow space died down.
"You're only a level-two Enchanter. Where did you get the courage to attack ?"
To be honest, Jenkins would have been annoyed if the man hadn't attacked. The man, now completely unconscious, had lied. He had killed people—quite a few of them. Jenkins had turned his back simply because he didn't want to be the one to strike first.
"Let's see what we have here."
After the vines vanished, the man's body was dropped to the ground like a sack of trash. Jenkins picked up the small, ethereal, and nearly transparent coin that was left behind. He searched the man's pockets but found no other hair samples.
"As expected... he wasn't carrying them on him."
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