Footsteps?!
Marvin sat up instantly, alert and listening intently...
Thud thud thud...
Thud thud thud...
There was someone outside the room!
Damn it!
Marvin broke out in a cold sweat; he lived alone, how could there possibly be someone in his house?
Fat Orange and Little Black made no sound when they ran!
Could it be a thief?
"Fat Orange! Fat Orange!"
Instinctively, Marvin tried to wake up the kitties that always slept by his pillow at night, planning to have them 'cover him.'
Why, you ask?
Because Fat Orange was quite the fighter.
A regular cat couldn't come near him; he was the little tyrant of the streets, as they called him!
But he felt nothing.
The two cats that slept by his pillow were nowhere to be seen.
Now, he was the only one left in the room, and outside the ajar door, all was pitch black, and nothing could be seen.
Taking a deep breath, Marvin calmed himself down. Although he was a liberal arts student and not fond of sports in his former life, the original owner of his body was a fleet's vice-commander, an absolute combatant. And Marvin, inheriting all the memories of his original self...
Was not lacking in combat skills.
So, Marvin carefully pulled out a small wooden box from under the bed, unlocked it, and took out an old-fashioned flintlock pistol, embellished with intricate floral patterns and a pure silver finish.
He poured black gunpowder from the powder flask into a measure made of horn, sifted out the right amount, then filled it into the barrel, followed by a 14.7mm bullet along with its wadding into the 15.7mm caliber muzzle. Using a short rod to jam the bullet into the bore, he ensured the bullet was in close contact with the black gunpowder before the gun was fully ready to fire.
It was unclear whether the sound made while pushing in the bullet was too loud and caught the attention of whoever was in the corridor, but the footsteps suddenly stopped, replaced by the creaking of stairs.
The person was going downstairs!
Gleaning this critical piece of information, Marvin picked up the kerosene lamp beside him, unlit, and followed suit.
Creak... creak...
The high humidity in the air from the frequent rainfall increased the rate of decay of the stairs, inevitably making noise with every step.
With one hand holding the kerosene lamp and the other holding the flintlock pistol, Marvin pursued the sounds ahead, calm and unhurried.
The safest approach under the circumstances would be to leave the house and seek the help of the patrolling police. This would ensure Marvin got through the night safely.
But...
What about tomorrow?
Would a thief be afraid of a weak owner?
So Marvin chose the second solution: intimidate the intruder with a show of strength.
He had a gun, even if it was only one bullet, the deterrent was sufficient.
In contrast, if the thief chose to flee upon hearing the gunfire, it signified fear. At this point, Marvin could not back down; he had to continue the relentless pursuit without actually 'catching up,' deepening the intruder's fear.
Confuse their thinking!
Make them feel tense!
Constantly challenge their psychological boundaries!
When these three elements combined, fear was inevitable.
It was like a horror survival game.
In psychological games, Marvin had never lost.
A minute later, Marvin arrived at the church.
The church was eerily quiet, with the moonlight shining through the stained glass windows casting the statues in a brilliant light. There was no one on the long benches, and the floor tiles were splashed with many puddles of water.
The water spread from the baptismal font, puzzling Marvin as to why the thief would scatter Holy Water everywhere.
Lost in thought, an orange shadow leisurely crossed in front of him.
Fat Orange.
Seeing Fat Orange, Marvin was beside himself. Your home was invaded by a thief, and you didn't care, but now you suddenly jump out and startle people, what's going on?
Who's the master here?
But what Fat Orange did next made Marvin's eyelids twitch.
It walked in front of the Confessional Room, sat down, yawned hugely, and then stared intently at the Confessional Room.
There was someone inside!
Marvin narrowed his eyes and looked at the kerosene lamp in his hand.
The Confessional Room was made of pure wood. If he lit the kerosene lamp and threw it at the Confessional Room...
He would hold an unbeatable position.
The person inside was likely observing him through the Confessional's lattice window.
To burn... or not to burn?
But the thought lasted only a moment before Marvin dismissed it.
Fat Orange was squatting right in front of the Confessional Room door. If he threw the kerosene lamp, it might solve the problem of the thief, but Fat Orange would inevitably be burnt as well. In this era, those burned by fire, be they humans or animals...
Usually met a grim fate.
After pondering for a moment, Marvin chose to light the kerosene lamp and put it on one of the long benches.
With the enemy's position confirmed, the light would greatly increase the accuracy of the flintlock pistol.
The advantage was his.
Now was the time to extend that advantage.
With that thought, Marvin pocketed the flintlock pistol and instead picked up the mop hidden behind the statue, beginning to clean up the puddles on the floor.
He grumbled as he mopped, as if complaining about something, until he was close to the Confessional Room...
Suddenly, using the mop to hook the Confessional Room's door, he pulled out the flintlock pistol with his right hand, and without giving the other person any time to react, he flung the door open!
Thud!
In the dull thump, the door solidly slammed to one side, and the faint light from the kerosene lamp illuminated the interior of the Confessional Room.
Inside sat a little girl draped in a white sheet, her face exquisitely sculpted, deep blue eyes brimming with innocence, and Little Black nestled in her arms, looking...
Somehow familiar.
Upon seeing Marvin, she quickly covered her eyes with little hands and giggled, "Ah! Daddy found me!"