Chapter 463: The Butler Is Always Right (Part 2)

Hal turned his head, looking at Dick's bewildered face and the child in his arms, Aisha; his first thought was that these two children could by no means be called "old enough."

Dick did look a bit older, but Aisha was clearly just a little kid; he curled his lip and looked at Alfred: "Fine, Dick I can accept, but Aisha—"

"Jian Lai"

"Miss must learn how to protect herself—safety education is best started as early as possible."

Hal was about to speak further when Alfred asked him: "Do you mean to wait until one day she encounters some uncouth louts at a banquet, runs back to the estate in tears, and forces Master Wayne to intervene?"

Hal, following Alfred's description, instinctively imagined the scene—he shuddered, then turned to Aisha: "Listen carefully, learn well, and stop troubling your father so much."

"Alright, Young Master and Miss, you've clearly understood the lesson on erasing traces—now, let's begin the practice…"

"Now, we're moving to another location, so all traces left in this room must be completely removed—you may attempt it yourselves; if you fall short, I'll supplement your efforts."

Ten minutes later, following various subtle clues, Benjamin finally reached the fifth floor and stood before the last door at the end of the corridor, looking confused.

He had checked every room on this floor, yet found not a single trace—the trail had gone cold; the seasoned agent he'd imagined seemed to have vanished into thin air.

All clues on the fourth floor pointed to the fifth: friction marks on the floor near the staircase, traces on the railing, faint sounds from above—but once on the fifth floor, silence descended; not a single clue remained for him to follow.

As Benjamin stood bewildered, in a room on the sixth floor, Alfred patted Dick's head and said: "Excellent work, Young Master—I'm truly proud of you both. Next, we'll learn how to guide your enemy along the path you've planned…"

"First, we must assess the enemy's current state. Since your cleanup was flawless, he has no clues left and can only resort to brute-force search— Ditanshisousuo."

"The east side of the fifth floor has six rooms. Based on his skill level, we can estimate he spends no more than three minutes per room—that means in fifteen minutes, he'll stop searching and begin questioning his own logic."

"What if there are many of them?" Dick asked.

"No, there won't be more than three—likely just two: one agent and one assistant."

"How can you tell that?" Hal asked, puzzled.

"The time it took them to find our first hideout gives us their numbers. If, as Young Master Dick says, they're a team of agents, they wouldn't have taken so long to locate us."

"So what do we do now?"

"When his trail goes cold, we must precisely feed him new clues—enough to keep him from abandoning the search."

Alfred explained in great detail, yet simply and clearly; not only did Dick listen intently, but even Hal was absorbed.

Dick tilted his head and asked: "So what method do we use to create new clues for him?"

"It depends on the environment. Right now, we're upstairs, he's downstairs—if we run down to create clues, we're giving him the advantage of rest while we exhaust ourselves; any confrontation would favor him."

"So we can use sound interference—simply put, make some noise on this floor so he realizes we've moved up."

"But note: most agents operate under strict secrecy and stability—they avoid causing major damage. Even if you're not an agent, avoid loud disturbances; it helps preserve your own safety…"

As Alfred spoke, Dick's gaze fell on the shotgun in Alfred's hands; Alfred saw his look, understood his intent, then knelt and patted his head.

"You want to use the gun? But unless absolutely necessary, never reveal your firepower prematurely."

"Experienced agents can identify weapon types by sound alone. If you fire to draw his attention, you give him far too much information."

"Beyond weapon type, it signals you have ample ammunition—even enough to waste shots—and that you're confident, unafraid—this may increase his likelihood of calling for backup."

"True." After thinking it over, Dick agreed Alfred was right; he pondered again, glanced around the room, then walked to the bedside table.

On the table sat a vase filled with cattails; Dick picked it up and smashed it onto the floor.

"Crack!" The sound echoed; Benjamin spun around, raising his gun at empty air; behind him, Kela went on alert. Moments later, both looked up at the ceiling.

"Above!" Kela said.

They raised their guns, looked up, and stepped out of the room.

Benjamin instinctively felt something was off—but the noise upstairs was unmistakable, as if shouting: "We're right here!"

The sound carried a tone of provocation—as if saying: "Even if I give you the answer, you still can't solve it. I told you where I am, yet you still can't catch me."

Benjamin's expression darkened. His earlier assessment of Alfred's skill now clouded his judgment—he thought the opponent was merely competent, not a master agent; to act so brazenly was outright arrogance.

Anger flared. He strode toward the staircase; Kela followed, trying to dissuade him.

"Boss, we don't need to care about this guy—he can't cause much trouble. Even if a few die, we can blame it on Soviet spies. Right now, our priority is monitoring that entrance."

"You return to the tower and command. I'll find and eliminate this annoying fly."

Kela clearly disagreed; her lips moved, but Benjamin ignored her entirely, climbing the stairs without looking back. Kela had no choice but to turn and descend.

As Benjamin ascended alone, he had no idea what awaited him. When his foot touched the sixth-floor corridor, a faint hum buzzed in his ear—he rolled sideways instantly.

"Shuu shuu shuu!"

Sharp whistling filled the air; several wooden spikes shot through the window opposite the staircase. Benjamin stood, glancing dismissively at the crude trap.

Yet his movements remained cautious—he stayed pressed against the wall, not advancing a step, until he confirmed no further sounds, then finally approached the window to inspect the device.

The trap was unprofessional—looked like junk assembled from scraps. The wooden spikes were likely carved from railing planks—more like a child's toy than anything else.

As he moved down the corridor, Benjamin grew even more confused: buckets of ice water pouring from above when doors opened, nails scattered in floor gaps, glue on railings—these childish traps left him utterly baffled about the enemy's intent.

Benjamin remained alert, advancing and checking rooms. When he entered the final room, his vigilance peaked—but found no trap at all. Not even the childish ones.

After leaving the room, he noticed more clues—he realized they were deliberately luring him upward. Yet the more they did so, the more he wanted to confront them.

So, after searching this floor to no avail, he climbed the stairs—only to step onto the first tread when "whoosh!" a sharp iron nail shot up from a floor slat, piercing his foot.

"Ow!"

"!"

Benjamin screamed, hopping on one foot while clutching his wound. He saw a dark shadow flash above—he cursed loudly—but the enemy didn't stop, vanishing instantly.

Aisha ran back, shrieking excitedly at Dick; Dick picked her up and said: "Really? Then he's really unlucky."

"So why make them set up traps so crude even a child could spot them? Why not just use the final move?" Hal asked.

"Those were just teaching them basic physics and where traps can be placed—but they also serve to confuse the enemy psychologically."

"He's no ordinary man—he's an agent. When faced with such childish traps, he won't lower his guard because they're simple; instead, he'll grow increasingly tense."

"Because he thinks those pranks are decoys—deliberate illusions meant to make him doubt his own skills. He'll stay on edge, which drains his mental energy."

"He'll assume the lethal trap is hidden in the final room—but when that room holds nothing, he'll be thrown into confusion. In that moment of sudden relaxation, his mind becomes sluggish."

"So he stepped onto the stairs without thinking—and got caught." Hal sighed: "So agents are really that skilled?"

"Looks like he's about to give up," Alfred said, loading his shotgun. "He's not a frontline agent—he's a decorated veteran. For him to risk himself this long is already pushing his limit; injured, he won't press forward."

He stepped out the door; Hal hesitated, then followed: "You're going to duel him?"

"Can you stop thinking about duels?"

"Then what are you going to do?"

"A mob attack."