The caravan guard gasped for breath in fear, like prey caught in the jaws of a beast, the searing pain in his cheek stripping him of any courage to struggle.
The soldiers led by Paladin stood frozen, instinctively distancing themselves from Kino.
The lightning-fast sequence of events that had just unfolded was almost imperceptible, and it was hard to believe it had been carried out by the hand of this incompetent officer. This made those who had previously disrespected Kino now shiver with unease.
Kino withdrew his hand, about to speak, when he suddenly noticed a drop of blood on his sleeve, spreading into the shape of a plum blossom. It was from the earlier strike.
Great artists often possess eccentricities—like Salvador Dalí's extreme narcissism, or Leonardo da Vinci's polyphasic sleep.
Kino, too, had his own quirks—rather common, though: an obsession with cleanliness.
In films, the image of a serial killer is often drenched in blood, sticky and viscous like pulp.
But to Kino, such an image was nothing short of the barbaric fantasy of a deranged mind.
He was fastidious, to the point that when he processed someone, he would deliberately avoid the open, blood-spurting wounds.
If blood must be spilled, he would wear gloves, controlling the angle at which the blood flowed. He would never allow his skin or clothes to be stained.
Earlier, when he had stabbed the caravan guard in the cheek, the man instinctively turned his head, and that was when his sleeve was stained.
Kino reflexively pulled out a tissue and wiped the blood away, but as soon as he did, the stain spread and became even more unsightly.
His lips pressed into a thin, straight line, his expression blank—not because he was not angry, but because his rage had reached such an intensity that he could not decide what expression would best convey his emotion.
His gloved fingers came together, and in the air, they twisted like a contorted shadow.
A sharp crack sounded, the sickening crunch of bone splitting as Kino's index finger shattered the guard's throat and trachea in a single, fluid motion.
The guard struggled desperately, blood rising from his throat, his eyeballs marred with broken capillaries, desperately trying to draw breath. Even as the blade cleaved deeper into his cheek, he didn't care—yet, with his throat crushed, there was no rising in his chest, and he slowly ceased to move, succumbing to suffocation.
The corpse was pinned to the side of the carriage, eyes wide in death, never to close, only the faint sound of blood dripping onto the ground.
Kino walked over to one of the soldiers, pointed to the knife at his waist, and the soldier obediently handed it over.
Kino sliced off the bloodied portion of his sleeve and tossed it aside.
The soldier glanced at the carriage's curtain and softly reminded him, "My lord, the civil officer..."
During the earlier attack, before the arrows had even arrived, Milo had already hidden inside the carriage, narrowly escaping death.
Kino gestured, and the soldiers quickly encircled the carriage, dragging Milo and his idiotic son out to await their fate.
Paladin cautiously asked, "Why kill them? Are these men smugglers?"
Kino approached Milo, speaking calmly, "My friend, if you would, please demonstrate."
"Yes... yes..." Milo, utterly panicked, lost all sense of self, complying with whatever was asked of him. He stuck his index and middle fingers into his mouth and began probing his throat, eventually gagging and vomiting.
To the astonished gaze of the soldiers, Milo expelled bag after bag of wrapped items. The bags were made of a transparent, colorless material, and through the acid-coated surface, faint blue crystals could be seen inside—the salt crystals.
Kino extended his knife, lightly tapping the dark scars on Milo's middle finger and the webbing of his hand. "Inducers of vomiting often push their fingers into their throat. Because the medullary vomiting center is beyond control, it causes the jaw to contract, often leading to accidental bites at these two spots."
Seeing the soldiers exchange confused glances, looking as if they had seen a ghost, Kino raised an eyebrow, puzzled. "What? You've never seen the human body process salt before?"
"Never…" Paladin shook his head in bewilderment, swallowing hard. "Why haven't the salt crystals dissolved inside him?"
The question struck Kino, who frowned and looked at the transparent bags containing the salt crystals. Judging by the material, they seemed to be made of plastic.
The question arises: even in the world he once inhabited, after two industrial revolutions, phenolic resin did not make its appearance until 1909, a delayed arrival by any measure.
For an era steeped in feudal traditions, possessing plastic so early in history was an outright violation of the natural course of time.
No wonder the Goland Border Guard, even the royal family, were utterly helpless against the smuggling operations; such methods of transport were entirely foreign to them.
Naturally, the technological landscape of this world could not be comprehended through the lens of modern knowledge.
Kino had once come across an old book while studying by candlelight, one which detailed the myriad bizarre alchemies of this world. Industrial principles, biological taxonomies, chemical philosophies—each differed drastically from the knowledge system of his former life. It was not uncommon to encounter phenomena that diverged from the historical trajectory of his past world.
After all, his transmigration was not a mere return to an ancient version of Earth; he had been cast into a completely alien realm by an omnipotent being, where the very fabric of physics, chemical elements, and even the most fundamental laws could be entirely different.
To put it in the most exaggerated terms, here, 1+1 might not even equal 2.
Yet, the fact that the soldiers could not recognize plastic hinted that it had not yet been invented here, though it was being used by smugglers for transport—a fact that piqued Kino's interest.
Kino turned to Milro and inquired, "Who gave you the bags for the salt crystals?"
Milro trembled, stammering, "I... I don't know. We never directly interacted with the suppliers. It's all done through letters and agreed-upon meeting spots, with the documents burned after reading. No-contact transactions..."
Seeing Milro's terrified expression, Kino knew that he truly knew nothing. Using slow processing to extract answers would only be a waste of time.
At that moment, Milro dropped to his knees, crawling forward like a dog, and bowed his head before Kino. "My lord... I... Can I take my son and leave? I swear I will never engage in any illegal activities again! You... you promised not to kill me or my son..."
"Yes, I promised, 'I will not kill you or your son.'" Kino did not even look at Milro, as if he were merely addressing a corpse. "But my soldiers will."
As his words fell, the soldiers swung their sabers, slashing into Milro's body, leaving deep, grotesque gashes in their wake.
However, mindful of Kino's penchant for cleanliness, the soldiers hesitated to strike at the bleeding arteries, unwilling to stain the area with excessive blood. As a result, Milro was not immediately put to death.
"Ah! Ah!! No... no..." Milro cried out, shielding his dazed son as the blades continued to strike him. He pleaded with a hoarse voice, "My lord! Please, at least spare my son! It was all my fault, I confess! Please, spare him!"
Kino glanced sideways at Milro, mocking him with a question, "Spare him? Will you have him grow up and come after me with a blade to avenge his father?"
"No... no, no, no! He won't! He will never do that!" Milro clung to his son's head desperately, turning his son's vacant, vacant face toward Kino. "He's been cursed by the gods! He often doesn't even recognize me. He will never seek revenge! Please, spare him... He's my only son... I beg you... I beg you..."