Dưới đây là bản dịch tiếp theo, đảm bảo giãn dòng rõ ràng, không chia part, giữ nguyên tên riêng Quân và dịch chuẩn chất câu từ, ngữ điệu:
"You!"
Quân glared at Ron Irus, resolutely refusing to let go of the man pinned to the ground.
"Tell me, what was the exact date the first spacecraft touched the moon?"
Hearing this, Ron was taken aback. This wasn't like the secret signals they had agreed upon at the beginning.
"I… have no idea."
"Good. It really is you."
Only then did Quân reluctantly release his grip on the other guy's collar. However, probably because he had used too much force pressing down on the throat earlier, the man was dazed and completely speechless.
Quân stood up, looked at Ron, let out a sigh, and sat back down on the chair.
"Originally, the signal was 'The first ship to fly to the moon' and the answer was 'Apollo??', so why did you change the question?"
Essentially, having mismatched questions and answers was meant to create a gap in knowledge and information, which would distort general knowledge if anyone tried to scan their memories.
Accordingly, the correct answer should be Apollo 11, but every time a scan occurred, 1 would be added to the number, making it 12, 13, 14, and so on. This moved it out of the realm of static knowledge and into calculated information, which could be useful at times.
Ron asked as he looked up and scanned their surroundings. This bizarre space could truly drive an ordinary person insane.
"Quân, did you use drugs again?"
Ron asked suspiciously, and Quân hesitated before shaking his head.
"? Why would you think that? I only asked to make sure you weren't an imposter. If you had answered that question correctly, I would have had to kill you on the spot. Never mind that. Why the hell did you just blurt everything out to this guy?"
Ron carefully stepped through the shattered fragments of reality, avoiding the purplish-pink crystalline shards at the boundary lines.
As he paced, his eyes darted around and he said nonchalantly:
"Cover your neck.
Besides, killing someone isn't that easy."
"Thanks for the reminder..."
Ron walked over to the dazed man, extending a hand to help him pull himself up.
"Also, this isn't an enemy. He's my colleague, and soon to be yours too."
"Colleague? Did I just lose my freeloading streak?"
"Ah, thanks."
The man grabbed Ron's hand and slowly stood up, every single movement visibly agonizing.
"This is Moris, a Hound Guard, Level 2 from Branch 5 of One Line. I didn't think you'd know him."
Moris, the stranger, adjusted his aching back, let out a sigh, leaned against the wall, and stamped his feet twice.
Instantly, the surrounding space snapped back together, the layers of crystals now acting like heavy glue sealing broken pictures back into place.
"So what the hell does any of this have to do with you laying a hand on me?" Quân asked with an indifferent face due to lack of sleep, leaning his head back against the wooden chair.
Seeing this, Ron looked toward the girl who was about to be ensnared by the crystal branches. He went over, hoisted her onto his shoulder, and picked up the child with his other hand.
"Handling her here will cause trouble. Let's just follow protocol."
With the targets secured, Ron and Moris prepared to leave. But before departing, Ron handed Quân a piece of paper with a meeting location written on it.
"…Why should I care?"
Quân was about to toss it away when he caught Ron's gaze—an indifferent but chilling look.
"You stole a gold coin from me and have been running away from the mansion for over a week now. I know you squandered that pile of money—worth a whole month's wage of the local butcher—on gambling."
"Tch!"
Quân clicked his tongue, falling into a sullen silence until the torn fragments were completely patched up and the two figures vanished.
"The Hound Guards have arrived."
This time, the voice didn't come from inside him but from old man Keil, whose tone sounded significantly more intrigued.
"Whenever the Hound Guards appear, they vanish in less than a blink of an eye. Truly miraculous. The surprising thing is, they aren't standard security guards, so no one knows their background."
The fat old man then stepped out from behind the counter, bringing a package of food for Quân to enjoy.
"Hey, kid. Hey, brat, are you asleep already??"
Welcoming him wasn't a starving glutton or a drowsy soul, but someone who was genuinely asleep—sleeping with a mindset completely unbothered by the world.
…
"How did you let him outplay you like that? He didn't even use magic."
Inside a splendid and majestic European-style building bathed in golden lights and adorned with exquisite, luxurious interior decorations.
In that drawing room, a boy who looked about fifteen asked a man roughly seven or eight years his senior, who was standing in front of a magnificent painting.
Ron sat up from the sofa. He stared at a painting hanging on the wall; its originally highly intricate and artistic brushstrokes were now splattered with human blood.
The painting depicted a woman holding a black umbrella, wearing a white evening gown, looking up at the high sky through the thin fabric of the umbrella. A man lay on the grass clutching his stomach; he wore peasant clothes but looked incredibly handsome—a pristine white shirt draped in a neat, earth-brown coat. The girl stood on a tiled brick path, while the young man had fallen into the lush green grass. Beside the girl stood an old man in perfectly formal attire, his calm demeanor making him look like a butler.
The sky in the painting was hard to describe because the darkness had long blurred the colors, leaving Ron unsure if it was blue and yellow, sunny sky or twilight; all he knew was that it had very few clouds.
This painting was beautiful, except for the red blood that had splattered onto the girl's dress.
This was a cursed artwork titled "Grief of the Leisurely Eye."
The young man with short black hair, dressed in pitch-black Hound Guard attire, muttered under his breath as he admired the painting.
"That guy, I thought he wanted to buy time, wanted to toy around in a panic. I thought he possessed that insane streak just like you said, but turns out he's just an idiot who happens to be crazy. If you hadn't stopped me, I would have beaten him up already."
Moris lamented. He hadn't expected that out of Ron's three disciples, if they weren't dangerously infatuated, they were extreme radicals—and now this guy had popped up, utterly dismissing the value of staying alive.
"Calm down. This matter is actually quite simple."
Hearing Ron's words, Moris burst out laughing. He couldn't comprehend what part of this was simple. Looking at Ron, he asked curiously:
"Then how did you handle that Level 9 drug dealer?"
"Want to meet him?"
"Hmm."
"Later. I need to meet someone first.
It's time..."