Chapter 167: Imitation

For a moment, Yin Feng actually followed Brimmer's line of thought.

She knew that Dr. Kraft had come from Comfort Port to Westmin Bao solely for this so-called "academic gathering."

The phrase "free trip with meals and travel expenses covered" didn't obscure the real value of the matter—even without understanding its specifics, it was obvious that only something far more important could make someone abandon their focused work and waste precious time on a journey lasting months.

Undoubtedly, the smooth progress of this matter must be guaranteed; unfortunately, given Yin Feng's still-limited vocabulary, she truly couldn't comprehend their world or make any judgment.

This once again filled her with frustration—her efforts were useless in the short term, unlike tangible strength that could directly wield weapons and produce immediate results.

It seemed the best course now was to let this man who claimed he could help take over; there was only one chance. But a strange sense of familiarity kept reminding her that something might be wrong.

This was a clearly suggestive timed multiple-choice question—she'd encountered similar situations often when her father first fell ill: claims of grave illness requiring immediate treatment, with the healer or medicine available only for a limited time, making people easily agree under pressure.

But they hadn't succeeded often, because those demanding money couldn't extract anything from a life of hardship, and those chasing clues from the mute inevitably returned empty-handed; she soon learned this pattern by necessity.

So was the same thing happening here?

She wasn't sure. The man before her wore fine fabric, his chest adorned with a precious metal badge similar to the one Kraft had brought back, and his gift was exquisitely wrapped—he clearly held status.

In her hesitation, her silence may have been mistaken for naivety; Brimmer himself felt his earlier words had been too difficult for a child to grasp.

"Young Lady, you've surely seen operas, right? Those performances in theaters. We need to know which act is being staged to properly arrange the stage. A small wooden platform can't hold 'The Sacred Wedding.'" To bridge the gap, he chose a classic emotional drama he assumed a girl her age would have seen, hoping to open the conversation.

Yin Feng blinked. She hadn't seen any—but she understood one thing: this man claimed he needed to help Kraft with an urgent matter, and thus wanted to borrow something normally not lent out.

"I'm sorry… I can't decide." She lifted her face, expression as flat as ever.

She refused—but not truly refused; she watched the black-robed man's reaction. If he showed no hesitation and turned away, the chance of deception would be lower.

Then she would retract her refusal before he vanished from sight—after all, no one would hold her accountable, would they?

"Alright." Brimmer straightened his spine and shoved the gift into the girl's hands, looking down at her. "Then Kraft's report will have to be postponed. I truly hope he returns soon."

He was meant to appear regretful, but in Yin Feng's eyes, this behavior was less regret and more a subtle threat, growing more obvious as progress stalled.

She'd seen enough of this before—it wasn't even among the more subtle types. And when dealing with children, they tended toward stronger expressions, especially with young girls, making their intentions harder to hide.

He turned to leave—one step, two steps—Yin Feng guessed he was wondering why the girl hadn't yet panicked and changed her mind to accept his suggestion.

Life truly is the best teacher: throw a person into the ocean of life, and as long as they don't drown, they'll learn things with astonishing efficiency, whether they want to or not; children, moreover, are particularly adept and fond of imitation.

"Mr. Brimmer." When he'd walked farther and unconsciously slowed his pace, she called out to stop him.

He seemed to exhale in relief, thinking his small trick had finally worked.

"Don't worry too much—Dr. Kraft said if they don't find what they need there, they'll return in about a week." Yin Feng leaned out from the half-open door, counting on her fingers. "So… tomorrow or the day after?"

"Huh?"

She got exactly what she wanted: Brimmer's unnatural emotional shift—from feigned calm as he turned, to a moment of stunned silence, then back to his patient, communicative facade. Just as she'd expected.

"That's… wonderful," he said, pressing a hand to his chest as if patting himself to calm his breath. But his tone revealed nothing "wonderful."

Brimmer forced a smile he thought was kind, quickly recovering. "I'll wait here two more days, but it's best if you let us know Professor Kraft's needs soon—time waits for no one."

"I understand." Yin Feng nodded, but made no move to open the door, watching him disappear around the staircase corner.

This so-called "professor" clearly didn't want Kraft to return—he was eager to obtain the manuscript beforehand, and stubbornly so. Yin Feng didn't understand or care why; she only needed to confirm this was just another routine, no different from the past.

Now that it was confirmed, all she had to do was refuse.

It was almost boring, after the disgust—exploiting someone's cherished person or thing, then creating an artificial sense of urgency to force mistakes and achieve their goal. It seemed nothing was different here.

Thinking this, she left the exquisitely wrapped box untouched on the table, glanced again at the booklet, but couldn't focus after the interruption—so she decided to visit the workshop during noon, when the fully armored patrols were fewer, to check on the progress of what Kraft had requested.

It was a legitimate errand, and she could also listen for new gossip.

Finding a valid reason, and with the hidden thought of rewarding herself, she locked the door and left, following the route she'd memorized to the workshop.

The jeweler still refused to open his door; rumors said he had barely managed to roll and fuse thin silver sheets into a hollow tube prototype, but it was still far from meeting craftsmanship requirements. Other craftsmen and apprentices, whose tasks didn't require such precision, continued working on their duties while chatting endlessly.

Knights and squires unable to endure the midday sun hid under eaves, joining the conversation.

The lunch menu, who'd eaten something strange; the fat distribution of the new young cook; why the nobleman with a rich private life had no heirs—due to an undisclosed battle wound long ago; speculation about the identity of the knight's secret lover; and the ever-present, indispensable ghost stories from every corner.

Upon noticing Yin Feng's presence, the knights deliberately steered the conversation away from topics unsuitable for a young lady.

Then they realized that if they avoided anything below the waist, there was very little that could interest everyone.

The atmosphere cooled for a moment, until someone finally thought of the perfect idea: ghost stories.

Like horror movies, this was a way to lure curiosity while displaying bravery and gaining favor.

Cemetery ghosts, headless corpses, shadows wandering corridors—in their tales, the castle and surrounding hills at night became a living hell, where ghosts outnumbered people, all aimed at frightening Yin Feng.

But when they finished their vivid storytelling and looked at the girl, she merely listened, entranced, her eyes urging them to tell another.

The old legends were exhausted; the usual night-watchmen had to dig into daily experiences for tales—like hearing noises in an abandoned storage area.

Oddly, among those who had just been competing to impress and undercut each other, someone actually agreed with this dull, unscary story.

It was a knight leaning against the wall; upon hearing the mention, he confirmed its truth, saying he'd heard similar noises during night patrols on the same stretch, initially thinking it was auditory illusion.

Westmin Bao, as a fortress, had many empty areas when not under military mobilization; it was normal for small animals to take up residence. Someone immediately jeered, mocking them for being scared by rats and never even going inside to check.

But the one who got corroboration insisted it couldn't be rats; after several rounds of debate with no resolution, he reluctantly admitted he'd never actually searched for the source.

"Strange, isn't it? By the way, Miss, aren't you afraid?"

"No, not at all. Could I borrow a lamp? It's getting dark—I need to hurry back."

"Of course, beautiful lady, I'd be honored to serve."