Chapter 456: The Beginning of the Confrontation (Part 1)

In a spacious, well-lit doctor's office, Merkel sat in a chair facing Schiller, who was bent over writing a medical record; Merkel frowned and said:

"... So you're saying I'm inside your dream right now?"

"Correct. Now, can you finally explain exactly what happened?"

Merkel frowned; the young butler, usually composed and steady, now radiated an entirely different aura.

When serving Schiller at the estate, he appeared calm and simple-minded, always chatting about the weather with his distinct British wit—anyone seeing him would immediately think of the quintessential British butler.

But now, as he furrowed his brow and narrowed his eyes, a sharpness spread from him, making it hard not to associate him with professions like spies or soldiers.

"If I don't speak, I can't leave here?"

Schiller shook his head. "No. You can't stay here too long. If a person lingers too long in a dream, their bodily functions deteriorate—like a vegetative patient who's slept for years, their muscles atrophy."

"I mean—will you let me leave?"

Schiller nodded again, locking eyes with Merkel. "I want you to understand one thing: I paid money and time to hire a butler who could manage my estate."

"But while I was away, you rummaged through my belongings and ended up here. So don't act like I'm imprisoning you—it's entirely your own mistake, and I'm the victim."

Merkel looked like he wanted to speak, but Schiller continued before he could:

"I don't care what your political stance is or what other motives you have for taking this job—I hired you to do your job well."

"I hope you don't need me to remind you how many things you've messed up during this time."

Merkel kept frowning; seeing him completely clueless, Schiller sighed:

"Merkel, you haven't been here long, but in this short time, you forgot to deliver food to the paperboy, ruined two newspapers, lost a button on a custom suit, nearly damaged the ornament on my desk, and scratched a deep groove into the rosewood bookshelf with your cart—these losses are more than three times your salary."

"I want you to consider: knowing you're a Soviet spy and utterly incompetent, why haven't I fired you yet?"

Merkel's eyes widened—he too had wanted to ask that very question.

If what Schiller said was true—that he'd noticed something wrong the moment Merkel stepped off the train—why hire him at all? And why keep him on despite his constant failures?

It was winter, 1988. Those familiar with history knew the Cold War tensions were at their peak; no normal American would willingly associate with the Soviet Union during this time.

"Are you making a statement to me?" Merkel asked.

Schiller sighed, pressing his palm to his forehead. "I suspect your training was brief—or perhaps you're entirely self-taught."

"I won't even mention how you handled a cigarette in front of a paperboy using classic spy techniques."

"I won't even bring up how, after arriving at my estate, you did nothing for weeks out of fear of taking risks."

"I won't even mention how you opened my private letters without judgment—and gained zero useful intelligence."

"Yet now, under these conditions, you demand I spell everything out clearly? That doesn't pressure me—it only exposes your insecurity."

Schiller sighed. "I suspect you're a pure British man, shaped by certain ideological education into joining some cause."

"Right now, ideals and ambition dominate your mind. I won't say that's wrong—but clearly, you've oversimplified things."

Merkel frowned, staring at Schiller. "No matter how you smear me, I won't waver."

"Fine. Let's change the subject. What mission did you come here to carry out?"

Merkel stayed silent.

Schiller propped his chin on his fingers, tilting his head slightly, locking eyes with Merkel.

"Before, at the estate, you never dared meet my gaze directly—you know it wasn't out of politeness, but because something in your eyes couldn't be hidden."

"It's a curious phenomenon: every Marxist I've ever met has eyes unlike anyone else's."

"You know other Marxists?" Merkel finally spoke up.

Schiller abruptly changed topics again.

"Since you've entered my dream at this moment, you must have started your search on the third floor, worked your way down, and finally touched the bottle on the bookshelf. Did you find anything else?"

"What could possibly be worth finding?"

Schiller gave a weary expression. "Your thinking is entirely trapped in spy work—you don't even realize how forced and clumsy your interrogation tactics sound."

The Five Dynasties and the Wind and Moon of the Rivers and Mountains

"Understand this, Merkel: your doubts now far outnumber mine. The questions you want answered far exceed mine. The things you want to ask are certainly more than I have."

"If you want those answers, you must first answer my questions. Don't you think the answers you seek are worth trading a little information for?"

Merkel stared silently into Schiller's eyes, as if checking whether this was another trap—but finally spoke: "I can't promise to answer every question."

"Fine. One question for one answer. If you can't answer, I'll move to the next."

Schiller twirled his pen in his hand. "What did you find in my estate?"

Merkel paused. His expression twisted, as if recalling something unpleasant.

"I understand the need for security—you locked every door. Fine. If it's for safety, I can accept that each door has a different lock. Different locks mean different keys—that makes sense..."

"But why hide each key in a different location? Why design a riddle for each key? Why plant multiple clues for each riddle? Why force me to decode several passwords just to get those clues? Why make me scour dozens of books in the library just to obtain those passwords..."

Merkel covered his eyes with his fingers, his voice heavy with exhaustion: "That's why I only reached your dream now—I spent half the night solving these damn riddles."

"He... am I insane?" Schiller muttered under his breath.

"What?"

"Nothing. Did you solve it?"

Merkel glared at Schiller with deep resentment.

"I spent hours finally opening the door—and the instant I touched that bottle, I ended up here."

"Don't be upset. I just updated the puzzle library on the second floor—someone recently gifted me a set of beautifully bound Sherlock Holmes detective stories."

"If you opened the doors from south to north, you must've read the first two cases. I think those are the most brilliant ones—what do you think?"

"Is that the second question?"

"Come on, don't be so dull—it's just casual conversation." Schiller waved his pen, lowering his eyes to his medical record.

"You always try to seize control at critical moments with an aggressive stance—probably because you feel insecure in your current weak position."

"Look, every gesture and expression of yours reveals far more than you realize. Simply putting on a cold, domineering face won't work on me."

Merkel kept his eyes fixed on Schiller—he felt something odd. This Schiller was unusually patient.

Merkel knew his own attitude wasn't just insecurity—it bordered on fear. During his time working at Schiller's estate, he'd lived side by side with him and knew exactly what kind of man he was.

Merkel had no psychology training, so he didn't know the clinical terms—he only sensed Schiller was slightly neurotic, with rigid, obsessive habits and an unpredictable temper.

He poured immense time and energy into bizarre, useless tasks: installing unique locks on every door, then setting up thousands of riddles to protect the keys; or spending hours polishing odd collections—umbrellas, globes, telescopes, spectacles.

Yet on real matters, he showed zero patience: every morning, without fail, he read the newspaper over breakfast—if either the food or the paper arrived late, he wouldn't start.

He fiercely resisted any disruption to his routine, yet often slipped out at midnight.

He spoke with brutal precision, never considering the listener's feelings, and turned ordinary conversations into grand revelations—deliberately making others feel he'd seen through their innermost thoughts.

This wildly abnormal temperament made Merkel think Schiller was a little mad.

But the Schiller before him now seemed perfectly normal—too normal.

When Merkel decided to adopt a hardline stance, he'd already resigned himself to dying here. He knew his mysterious employer wouldn't have the patience to listen to standard spy interrogation tactics.

Merkel didn't know how long he could endure this exchange.

Originally, his goal was simple: survive or not, as long as he kept his secrets hidden, it was a success. He never imagined he'd have room to bargain.

Schiller's sudden shift had no logical basis—so Merkel could only assume Schiller was in a good mood, and he relaxed slightly, hoping to seize this chance to gain more time—and perhaps some intelligence.

"Alright. Seems you're not in the mood to chat. Go ahead—ask your first question."

Merkel swallowed, gradually relaxing his body, focusing his mind. He stared into Schiller's eyes and asked:

"How exactly did you do this?"