Chapter 18: Can This Blessing Be Considered Small?

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Tang Ze had been devoid of any artistic sensibility for two lifetimes; he was the perfect antithesis of an art museum enthusiast. He let Sonoko Suzuki tug him along, trailing obediently behind Ran Mouri, who was intently admiring the exhibits. Silently, Tang Ze activated his “Ah, I see now” smile.exe and mentally checked out.

Ran Mouri led the way, marveling at the paintings and artifacts with sparkling eyes that clearly showed her genuine appreciation. Tang Ze pondered whether he should gift her the folding fan that Maruyama Jiro had pilfered. After all, when the museum’s treasured relics returned to reality, the original items remained unaffected; only their forms changed. The inscriptions and artwork on that fan had vanished, leaving behind a finely crafted, precious blank gold fan.

Such an item wasn’t suitable for display—it would only arouse suspicion. Tang Ze had no interest in reselling it, so if not given as a gift, it would just gather dust in his prop collection.

The three high school students had their roles clearly defined: Ran enjoyed the exhibition, Tang Ze managed the slack time, and Sonoko kept an eye on Tang Ze. Meanwhile, the bored Conan stood with his hands behind his back, yawning. He decided to read the visitor’s guide that came with the ticket. This art exhibition was divided into four themed halls: Sky, Ocean, Earth, and Hell. The colorful leaflet featured photos of representative works under each theme.

“Sonoko-nee,” Conan raised the brochure, pointing to the thumbnail under the Hell exhibition. “Is this the armor you mentioned?”

As he held the paper up, his gaze flicked down to the page’s margin, where he caught words that read, “…We regret to inform everyone that the Mihua Art Museum will officially close next month. Thank you for your support over the years…”

“Oh, it’s in the Hell hall. Sounds like it has quite the atmosphere,” Sonoko bent down to peer closely, her eyes lighting up. She immediately grabbed Ran, who stood before a display case. “Ran, let’s go there first. We’ll come back to the rest later, okay?”

Her real aim in visiting the museum was to create the perfect setting to coax Tang Ze into accompanying her through a haunted house—much like dragging a crush to a horror movie, providing a chance for close contact. She had to strike while the iron was hot.

Ran caught Sonoko’s eager expression and glanced at Tang Ze’s somewhat bewildered face, understanding that Sonoko was probably about to deploy another of her “flirting tricks.”

Knowing Sonoko’s character well, Ran decided to indulge her. The four followed the arrows, passing through a corridor to the other side of the hall.

Tang Ze, who had not yet given up on interrupting the case, felt a twinge of unease as they all headed toward the Hell exhibition.

His plan was to wait until the characters connected to the case had appeared, then follow either the victim or the culprit. If he couldn’t interrupt mentally, he’d do it physically.

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Perhaps because Kogoro Mouri had been swapped out for him and Sonoko, events took an unexpected turn. The characters who should have appeared in sequence did not show up.

It seemed truly hopeless. That art-disdaining capitalist was probably already hanged—or rather, hung on the wall...

The hallway’s end was unlit; the entrance to the Hell exhibition was pitch black. Thinking of the legendary walking armor, Ran felt a shiver and instinctively reached out to hold Conan’s hand.

Conan’s small hand was grabbed, and his face flushed instantly from the sudden contact, leaving him speechless.

“Is the light out? A malfunction? Or is it deliberately off for the Hell theme?” Sonoko wasn’t too bothered but seized the moment to pull Tang Ze’s arm around her and hug him tightly. “It’s so dark!”

I knew it—her abacus beads had just bounced off my face. Tang Ze shook his head silently but, anticipating the coming scene, pitied her enough not to pull away.

Let’s just pretend for a bit longer. What comes next will really be terrifying.

“Wow, what a huge piece.” The light filtering through the corridor allowed Ran to vaguely discern the hall’s layout. She turned and noticed a massive oil painting on the wall. Leaning in to read the exhibit’s description, she said softly, “This painting is called ‘Divine Retribution.’”

“‘Divine Retribution,’” Tang Ze echoed, standing beneath the frame and tilting his head up. The painting depicted a demon pierced by a long sword on a rock, while the knight who slew the demon bowed deeply, trudging through a marsh of blood. “Such an oppressive image—truly like a scene from hell…”

Just then, Tang Ze inhaled sharply, his ears catching the rhythmic “drip-drop” of water. Prepared mentally, he turned to look behind him.

A man with a gaping mouth and a ferocious expression was impaled through the throat by the knight’s massive sword, his feet nailed to the wall, suspended above the floor. Blood splattered, staining his light-colored suit, flowing down his body to pool beneath his feet and onto the red carpet in the corridor, like a river merging into a sea of blood.

The corpse was shocking. Even Tang Ze, well-prepared, was momentarily stunned. Then he stepped forward, blocking the two girls behind him and pushing Conan behind his legs. “Step back! Be careful!”

The puzzled schoolgirls turned their heads.

“Ahhh!” Two piercing, high-pitched screams exploded at Tang Ze’s ears—one on each side.

The screams, though delayed, had arrived. He was caught off guard.

The shrieking left his head buzzing. He couldn’t cover his ears even if he wanted to and had to maintain a shocked and serious expression. It was very painful.

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“What’s wrong? What’s happening?” The high-decibel shrill duet echoed through the sparsely populated museum, quickly drawing the attention of security staff and visitors.

Before Conan’s detective instincts could take over to control the scene, Tang Ze blocked the entrance first. “Don’t get close! Go turn on the lights! Call the police—there’s a body here!”

The guards and staff hesitated briefly, then acted immediately. Visitors whispered in alarm, creating a commotion.

Tang Ze’s face grew serious as he scanned the crowd, ready for the culprit to make their appearance. Instead, his eyes caught sight of a masked visitor, and he froze.

The person stood at the outer edge of the crowd, wearing a knit cap with long black hair cascading down the back, gazing steadily toward the darkened inner hall.

Noticing Tang Ze’s gaze, the individual subtly slipped behind other visitors and soon disappeared around a corner.

Though the face was obscured, and the eye color unseen, the knit cap and long hair were as distinctive as blonde hair and dark skin.

Could this be Shuichi Akai?

No—it should be “Black Rye Whiskey.” After his undercover identity was exposed, Shuichi Akai had cut off his conspicuous long hair.

Could it be that he still hadn’t been exposed? Tang Ze’s mind spun in confusion. How many things had this patchwork world altered?

The approaching sirens did not divert Tang Ze’s attention. He recalled Akai’s evasive behavior earlier and remembered the gloomy image of Toru Amuro anxiously rubbing the plates yesterday.

…No wonder Amuro looked like he was about to set the plates on fire. So his other follower is Black Rye Whiskey?

Tang Ze’s mouth twitched. Two major undercover agents watching over me alone—could this luck get any better?